The Golden One

12

Sped on by every assistance the military could provide, we reached Cairo in less than two days. Selim left us off at Shepheard’s just in time for tea. He was to take the motorcar on to a prearranged location and leave it. What would become of it after that I did not know and did not ask; I was only happy to be rid of the thing, for I had feared Emerson – and Selim – would want to keep it. They did want to, very badly; but Emerson admitted it might be a trifle difficult to explain how we had acquired it.

The terrace was crowded, and our appearance aroused a certain amount of ill-bred attention, even from acquaintances who ought not have been surprised at anything we did. I heard Mrs. Pettigrew’s trumpeting voice address her husband: “There are the Emersons again, Hector, looking even more disreputable than usual. It is positively embarrassing to be acquainted with them.” I waved my parasol at her in a conspicuous manner.

There was some justice in her description; two days’ motoring on military roads does not improve an individual’s appearance, and our wardrobes had been deficient to start with. However, Ramses and Emerson in Arab dress, Nefret and I in sadly crumpled European attire, and Esin, enveloped in veils, as Nefret’s maidservant, occasioned no comment from the well-trained staff of Shepheard’s, and I was not surprised to learn our old rooms had been reserved for us. The luggage we had left was brought to us, so for the first time in days we were able to clean up and dress in proper clothing. There were a number of messages, most of them from Cyrus or Katherine, asking when we would return to Luxor. They had no news to report, except that Jumana was still sulking (Katherine’s word) or grieving (Cyrus’s).

“We had better take the train tomorrow night,” I said.

Emerson grunted. He had not found the message he hoped for.

“What’s your hurry, Peabody? I thought you’d want to shop and do your usual social round.”

“Replenishment of certain supplies would be expedient,” I agreed. “But I can accomplish that tomorrow. What do you say, Nefret? Do you want to spend some time at the hospital?”

Nefret was watching Ramses, who had taken up the latest issue of the Egyptian Gazette. “I may run in for an hour or so, Mother, but I would just as soon go on to Luxor at once. Ramses?”

“I am ready whenever you are” was the reply.

“Is Ramses concealing something?” Emerson asked, when he and I were alone. “I expected he would be anxious to get back to work, but he sounded almost indifferent.”

“I am pleased to find you more sensitive to your son’s feelings, Emerson. In this case I can interpret them for you.”

“Pray do,” said Emerson coldly.

“He was only exhibiting his usual consideration for the opinions of others, particularly those of Nefret. In fact I believe he would like to put this whole business behind him. You know,” I continued, sorting garments that required washing, “that when he is in the thick of the action, he rather enjoys it. He doesn’t have time to think about what he is doing. Later, when there is leisure for introspection, his overly active conscience reproaches him for employing and even enjoying violence. He is -”

“I’m sorry I asked,” Emerson snarled. “I might have known you’d start talking psychology. When are you going to deliver the girl? I’m not sure I like that part of it. How do we know those bastards won’t bully or mistreat her?”

“That is another thing that is bothering Ramses,” I said. “And do not berate me for talking psychology – you are as sentimental about the girl as he is. As for me, I shall be glad to be rid of the responsibility. You may rest assured, however, that I will not leave her until I am certain she will be treated kindly. I will take her to Ismailiya first thing tomorrow morning.”

Emerson did not accompany us. He was afraid Esin would cry and plead. I thought she might too, so I did not attempt to change his mind. I could not dissuade Ramses from coming, however. He had that stubborn set to his mouth.

Esin was wearing one of Nefret’s frocks. She was somewhat stouter than Nefret, but this dress had a loose fit and an adjustable belt. It did not become her. I had not told her what was in store for her, in part because I do not believe in anticipating trouble and in part because I wasn’t certain myself. It all depended on what, and whom, we found at that address in Ismailiya.

It looked respectable, at any rate – a house set in its own gardens, built in the European style of the previous century. Esin let Ramses help her out of the cab and looked admiringly at the house.

“It is very modern. Are we paying a visit?”

“Yes,” I said.

The door was opened by a manservant, who led us into a nicely furnished sitting room. We were expected, it seemed; he had not asked our names, and we had only been waiting a few minutes before a lady entered the room – the lady Smith had introduced as his sister.

“Mrs. Bayes!” I exclaimed. “So you are -”

“Very pleased to see you again,” the lady cut in smoothly. “Mr. Emerson, a pleasure. And this is Miss Sahin? Welcome, my dear. Did Mrs. Emerson tell you you are to stay with me for a while?”

“Am I? Must I?” She gave Ramses an imploring look. “Am I a prisoner of war too?”

“Not in the least,” Mrs. Bayes said heartily. “You are an honored guest. Come along and I will show you your room. I think you will like it. I know you came away in a hurry, so perhaps later we can shop for some new clothes. There are many fine shops in the Muski.”

“I saw them,” Esin said slowly. She looked from Mrs. Bayes, who was holding out her hand and smiling sweetly, to me – I bared my teeth, not nearly so sweetly – and then to Ramses. “I am to go with her? Will I see you again?”

He had known it would be easier for her, and for me, if he was there to reassure her. I saw him brace himself for a round of comforting clichés.

“You must have known you could not stay with us, Esin. Mrs. Bayes will take good care of you, and one day… one day… uh…”

“We will meet again? You will not forget me?”

“Never,” Ramses assured her.

“I will never forget you.” She extended her hand at an awkward angle. Resignedly, Ramses kissed it. “One never knows what the future will bring, Esin,” he said. “We will think of you often, and if you ever need our help, you have only to ask.”

Her black eyes took on a dreamy look. “I read a book, an English book, where the lady sent a red rose to the man she loved, the man she had given up for duty. If I send you a rose, will you come?”

Ramses gathered himself for a final, valiant effort. “From the ends of the earth, Esin.”

Mrs. Bayes had followed the exchange with poorly concealed amusement. “Well done,” she murmured, and put a friendly arm round Esin. “Do not prolong the pain of farewell, my dear. Will you two wait here, please? Someone wishes to speak with you.”

She led the girl out. Ramses blew out his breath. “Is it all right, do you think? Mrs. Bayes seems kind.”

“And she has a sense of humor. That is a good sign. You did splendidly, Ramses.”

The servant entered with a tray and poured coffee. “Very conventional,” I said, accepting the cup he handed me. “Do you want to guess the identity of the person who wishes to speak to us?”

“No need to guess,” Ramses said. “He’s been behind this all along.”

It was indeed the Honorable Algernon Bracegirdle-Boisdragon whom the servant ushered in. He came straight to me, his hands extended, his thin lips stretched in a smile. “Mrs. Emerson. What can I say?”

“A great deal, I trust. I do not know that I care to take your hand.”

“I cannot say I blame you.” He turned to Ramses, who had risen, and his smile faded. “Sit down, please. I heard of your injury. You may not want to take my hand either, but I must express my thanks and admiration. You accomplished everything we hoped, and more.”

“It wasn’t I, as you are well aware,” Ramses said. “You knew when you sent me after Ismail Pasha that he was no traitor. He was acting with your knowledge and under your orders.”

“The danger to him was real,” the other man said soberly. “Military intelligence knew nothing of our plans. Call it interservice rivalry if you like, but they can’t be trusted, and they disapprove of what they consider our unorthodox methods.”

“So,” I said, “your group is distinct from all those departments with confusing initials and meaningless numbers?”

“They are confusing, aren’t they?” Smith agreed with a sardonic smile. “MO, EMSIB, MIa, b, and c… We don’t go in for that sort of thing, Mrs. Emerson. Ours is a long and honorable history, going all the way to the sixteenth century. Cardinal Wolsey and Thomas Cromwell -”

“The Tudors, of course,” I said with a sniff. “They would be the ones to foster spying and subterfuge. Spare us the history lesson, please.”

“As you like. You are correct in assuming that our mutual friend was following our agenda. He had several purposes; removing Sahin Pasha was only one of them. Another was to investigate the network in Constantinople. We had warned Ml that the man running that group was a double agent. They didn’t believe us. Sethos got rid of the fellow by persuading the Turks that he had betrayed them – which was true. The trouble with him is that he plays his roles too well! I learned that my bumble-headed counterparts in military intelligence were planning to assassinate him. The only way of preventing that was to persuade you to go after him. If I had told them who he was and what he was doing, the word would have spread, and sooner or later it would have reached the ears of the enemy.”

Ramses shook his head doubtfully. “Your solution was somewhat chancy. What if they hadn’t accepted me?”

Smith leaned forward, his hands clasped. “You continue to astonish me. Surely you know that your reputation is second only to that of your – that of Sethos. There’s not an intelligence officer in Egypt who wouldn’t give his right hand to enlist you. Cartright is an ass – military to the core, and he’s held a grudge against you since you fooled him several years ago, but he knew you were the only man who could get into Gaza undetected.”

“And get Lieutenant Chetwode in. I did wonder,” Ramses said deliberately, “whether the whole point of that operation was to convince the Turks of the genuineness of Ismail’s conversion.”

Under his steady gaze, Smith shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t trust any of us, do you? The only way that scheme could have succeeded was to have the Turks identify you and/or Chetwode as British agents. Believe it or not, we don’t risk our people so callously.”

“Not when they are as valuable as my son,” I said.

“Touché, Mrs. Emerson. You are correct, of course. Cartright’s group isn’t especially subtle; they wanted Ismail dead, and they were willing to hazard two men to accomplish it. To do them justice, none of them has the least idea of the difficulties involved in operating behind enemy lines; they still think of Johnny Turk as incompetent and cowardly.”

“But you knew,” I snapped. “And you let them send Ramses -”

“I had every confidence in his ability to get in and out undetected.”

“I’m flattered,” said Ramses, his lip curling.

“Easy for me to say, you mean? You have every right to feel that way. But the last I heard, Cartright had agreed to your proposal of a reconnaissance and nothing more. It never occurred to me that even Cartright would be stupid enough to go ahead with his little assassination attempt. And, naturally, I assumed you would come back with information that would prove Ismail wasn’t Sethos, even if you had to invent it. The last thing we wanted was to have you fall into the hands of the Turks – particularly those of Sahin. He’d been suspicious of Ismail from the start, and he hoped that Ismail would betray himself by trying to free you.”

Ramses’s tight lips relaxed into a faint smile. “He’s a clever man, but trying to stay one step ahead of Sethos is a hopeless job. Using the girl was brilliant.”

“If that hadn’t worked, he’d have got you out some other way,” Smith said brusquely. “Whatever it took.”

“He told you that?” I asked.

“He didn’t have to tell me. I know him rather well. So. Is there anything else you want to know?”

He had already said more than he had meant to say, and Ramses was looking decidedly uncomfortable. I rose. “Only your assurance that the young woman will be treated well.”

“We don’t war on women, Mrs. Emerson. She’ll be questioned courteously but intensively, and I expect we will get quite a lot out of her; she’s an inquisitive creature, I understand. I imagine she’ll enjoy being the center of attention.” After a moment he added, “I cannot insist that you refrain from mentioning her to Ml – or any of those other confusing numbers – but I assure you she will be happier with us than she would be with them.”

“They will find out eventually, won’t they? Her father knows she is with us.”

“If Sahin Pasha is as intelligent a man as I believe him to be, he will not volunteer any more information than is necessary to keep them from hanging him.” He added, with a rather attractive smile, “With any luck, he should be able to hold them off until the war is over.”

“May that day be soon in coming,” I said with a sigh.

“Amen,” said Mr. Smith.

“One more thing,” I said, drawing on my gloves.

“Yes, of course. He asked me to give you his regards and tell you he will ‘turn up,’ as he put it, before long.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.” He himself showed us to the door. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, or any member of your family -”

“The kindest thing you can do for us is leave us strictly alone.” I swept past him in my best style.

“All the same,” I said to Ramses, when we were again in the cab, “I don’t think as badly of him as I do of some of the others. Cartright lied to us. Chetwode did not act without his authorization, did he?”

“Chetwode is another military pedant; he wouldn’t dare act without orders. They don’t think of it as lying, you know. Expediency, necessity, ‘whatever it takes to get the job done.’ Chetwode fooled me, though,” Ramses added, in chagrin. “That air of inept innocence was put on. He couldn’t have escaped from Gaza so handily if he had been as incompetent as he seemed.”

“He counted on your sense of decency and loyalty to assist him,” I said.

“Naïveté, rather. Sahin was right, I’ll never get the hang of the business.”

I took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Decency and loyalty have not prevented you from succeeding.”

Ramses shrugged the compliment away. “It’s over, anyhow, thank God. I’m looking forward to seeing the family again.”

“There is one thing I didn’t ask,” I said.

“Only one? And what is that?”

“Sethos’s real name. Bracegirdle-Boisdragon must know.”

The lines furrowing Ramses’s brow disappeared. “I suppose he must, he admitted having examined various records, which would presumably include a birth certificate. I hadn’t given the matter much thought.”

“Hadn’t you wondered at all? I have. It couldn’t be Thomas, could it? After his father?”

“It doesn’t suit him.”

“Well, but when one gives a newborn infant a name, one cannot predict how it will turn out.”

Ramses gave me a curious look.

“As in my case,” he suggested.

“Walter doesn’t suit you,” I agreed. “But no one ever calls you that. William? Frederick? Albert?”

“Robert,” said Ramses, entering into the spirit of the thing. “No, something more distinctive. Perhaps his mother was fond of poetry. Byron? Wordsworth?”

The subject entertained us for the rest of the drive. I was happy to see I had got Ramses’s mind off the recent unpleasantness. He had done his duty with regard to Esin, not even flinching at that appalling promise – “from the ends of the earth” indeed! – and was more at ease about her. Getting back to Luxor and to the dig would complete the cure.

When we returned to the hotel we found both Nefret and Emerson missing. She had left a message for Ramses, telling him she had gone to the hospital and promising to be back in time for luncheon. There was no message from Emerson.

“Where do you suppose he has gone?” I asked, in considerable irritation.

“To the railroad station, perhaps,” Ramses suggested. “I believe he wants to take the train this evening.”

“I trust that is agreeable to you and Nefret, Ramses. Did he do you the courtesy of asking?”

“So far as I am concerned, the sooner we leave Cairo, the better.”

True to her word, Nefret turned up in good time, to report that all was well at the hospital and that she was perfectly agreeable to a departure that evening. I suspected her motives were the same as mine; I wanted no more encounters with General Murray or any of his lot. We had done our duty and more, we had handed over a very important prisoner to the military, and we had reported (some of) our activities to General Chetwode. They could ask no more of us; but they probably would, if we stayed in Cairo.

“Isn’t Father back yet?” she asked. “I made him go with me to the hospital so that I could X-ray his arm and replace the cast, but that was hours ago.”

Another hour passed with no sign of Emerson. Nefret suggested we order coffee and biscuits, adding with a rueful smile, “My appetite has become outrageous since Gaza. I suppose it’s because we ate such peculiar things at such peculiar hours.”

“No doubt,” I said.

The minutes dragged by. Finally I heard the unmistakable thud of Emerson’s heavy steps, and the door was flung open. A cry of indignation burst from my lips.

“Emerson, how many times must I tell you not to use that cast like a battering ram? And why aren’t you wearing your coat? And your cravat? And -”

Emerson glanced in mild surprise at his arm. “Forgot,” he said, tossing his crumpled coat onto the floor. “Coffee? Good. How did it go?”

“How did what…? Oh, Esin. It is all settled and she is in good hands. Where the devil have you been?”

Emerson sipped his coffee. Ramses leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Shall I hazard a guess?”

“If you like,” said Emerson, rolling his eyes at me.

“Hilmiya.”

“Oh, Emerson, you didn’t!” I cried.

“I had to, didn’t I? What the devil, the crafty bastard did me a favor – two favors, in fact.”

“How did you get into the camp?” Ramses asked curiously.

“Walked up to the gate and announced myself,” said his father, holding out his cup for me to refill it. “El-Gharbi was not surprised to see me – he had heard of our return. He seems to hear everything. He wanted me to pay him for the damage to the motorcar.”

“Did you?” Nefret asked, torn between amusement and disgust.

“No. His people had stolen the thing, hadn’t they? I assured him,” said Emerson, with another wary glance at me, “that I would speak on his behalf. Exile, to his village in Upper Egypt, would satisfy him and settle my debt.”

“Oh, dear,” I murmured. “Well, Emerson, you acted according to your lights, I suppose. Go and clean up, it is past time for luncheon.”

I followed him into our room, for I knew that if I did not assist his ablutions he would get the cast wet.

“I trust el-Gharbi was properly appreciative,” I said, assisting him to remove his shirt.

“In his fashion. He said something rather strange.”

“What? Let me do that, Emerson.”

I took the dripping washcloth from his hand.

“ ‘The young serpent also has poisoned fangs.’ ”

“I beg your pardon, Emerson?”

“Those were his precise words, Peabody. I haven’t the vaguest idea what they mean, but it has the ring of a warning, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm. Perhaps he was referring to Jamil.” I put the washcloth down and picked up a towel.

“The warning comes a bit late,” said Emerson. “But that is how soothsayers and fortune-tellers and such individuals make their reputations, by predicting what has already happened. The devil with it, and el-Gharbi. I stopped by the railroad station and made reservations. We will take the train tonight.”

I did not wire ahead. We would probably arrive before the telegram was delivered, and Fatima always kept the house in perfect order. The happy surprise I had planned for her and the others was spoiled, however, by the network of gossip that encompasses Luxor. By the time we reached the house, the whole family was on the veranda waiting for us. Sennia darted at Ramses, shouting, “See how much taller and stronger I am?”

Before any of us could stop her, she had thrown her arms round him in one of her gigantic hugs. We always pretended to be left breathless by her strength, but she knew at once that his gasp of pain was not feigned, and began fussing and apologizing. She made him sit down and lifted both his feet onto a stool.

“You’ve been and got yourselves into trouble again,” said Gargery sternly. “Was it that Master Criminal chap? I trust, sir and madam, that he isn’t going to turn up here. We’ve got enough problems without that.”

“What sort of problems?” I asked.

“There is no trouble, Sitt,” said Fatima, with a reproachful glance at Gargery. “Rest and I will bring tea.”

Gargery would not be silenced. “It’s mostly these young women, madam. That girl that was working for Miss Nefret has been round saying you promised to find her a husband. She’s got a chap in mind and wants you to pin him down before he can get away.”

We all laughed except Sennia, who was still fussing over Ramses. “She didn’t put it that way, surely,” Nefret said.

“She keeps coming round,” said Gargery gloomily. “And then there’s Jumana. Won’t eat, won’t talk, won’t work. It puts a person off, madam, just seeing that gloomy face. And Mrs. Vandergelt -”

“Enough, Gargery,” Emerson snarled. “Can’t we have a single day of peace and quiet? No one is desperately ill, no one is dead, no one is missing? Good. Mrs. Emerson will deal with these minor difficulties in due time.”

“Thank you, my dear,” I said.

The sarcasm was wasted on Emerson. “Good to be back,” he declared with great satisfaction. “No use asking Gargery how things are going at Deir el Medina, but I expect Vandergelt will be here before long, with his own list of complaints. Never a dull moment, eh? Sennia, you haven’t given me a kiss. My arm is bothering me quite a lot.”

Cyrus was courteous enough not to disturb us for the greater part of the day. We were sitting on the veranda admiring the lovely sunset colors, as the calls of the muezzins drifted across the desert in a melodious medley, when he turned up, riding Queenie.

“Figured I’d arrive in time for drinks,” he remarked, handing the reins to the stableman. “Sure good to have you folks back. I hear Ramses has had another little – er – accident. I don’t suppose I should ask where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”

“No,” said Emerson. He handed Cyrus a glass.

It was the answer Cyrus had expected. He accepted it, and the glass of whiskey, with a smile. “Sure have missed you. Maybe you can do something with Jumana. She’s just wasting away, poor little girl.”

“No, she is not,” I assured him. “Nefret and I both examined her this afternoon. She is somewhat off-color, since she hasn’t left the house for days, but she hasn’t lost an ounce.”

“But Fatima said -”

“She has only picked at her meals. That means she is eating on the sly. I prescribed a particularly nasty-tasting tonic.”

“She’s been putting it on?” Cyrus demanded.

“It’s not that simple, Cyrus,” Nefret said thoughtfully. “Her unhappiness is genuine. She isn’t deliberately deceiving us, but I think – and Heaven knows I am no expert – that her natural youthful optimism is engaged in a mental struggle with her sense of guilt. I honestly don’t know whether to slap her or coddle her.”

“Put her to work,”said Emerson. “Always the best medicine. How are things going at Deir el Medina, Vandergelt?”

“ ’Bout the same. Found two more tombs. Empty.”

“You haven’t broken your promise to me, I hope,” I said.

“I haven’t been in the southwest wadis, if that’s what you mean. But if you think I’ve forgotten what that young villain said, you’re wrong. I haven’t been able to sleep, wondering what he meant. ‘The hand of the god.’ What god? Where?” Cyrus held out his empty glass. In silent sympathy, Emerson refilled it. He had no patience with psychology, but this distress he could understand.

Cyrus went on, in mounting passion, “I even went back into that darned shrine – the one where we found the statue of Amon last year. Well, he’s a god, isn’t he? Bertie and I examined every inch of the darned room. The walls and floor are solid.”

“Bah,” said Emerson. “Stop wasting time on fantasies, Vandergelt.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Emerson,” I said. “We have all been speculating and guessing and theorizing. It is a pretty little problem. Supposing Jamil was not trying to mislead or tantalize us, which may well have been the case, there are a good many gods shown on a good many wall surfaces in Thebes. Deir el Bahri, Medinet Habu, every tomb on the West Bank – What is it, Cyrus?”

“Excuse me, Amelia, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You just reminded me. This little piece of news ought to get your attention, Emerson,” he added, with a grimace at my husband. “Give you three guesses who has started an excavation in the Valley of the Kings.”

Emerson’s look of lofty indifference turned to a scowl. “Without official permission? Confound it, Vandergelt -”

“Not the Albions?” I exclaimed.

“Might have known you’d hit it on the head first time,” said Cyrus. “You’re both right. It’s Joe and his family, and they don’t have official permission.”

“And you let them?” Emerson demanded.

“I notified Cairo. That was all I could do, as Joe gleefully pointed out to me. I haven’t got the authority to stop them.”

“Where in the Valley?” Ramses asked.

“In that southern branch of the wadi near Number Twenty – Hatshepsut’s tomb.”

“Why there, I wonder?” Ramses said.

“Dunno. It’s off the regular tourist track, so maybe they hoped they wouldn’t be spotted right away. Can’t think of any other reason why they would pick that area.”

“Damnation,” muttered Emerson. “I had intended to start work first thing tomorrow morning. Now I will have to waste several hours expelling the Albions.”

“How do you propose to do that?” I inquired. “You haven’t the authority either, and if you lay violent hands on any one of them – especially Mrs. Albion -”

“Good Gad, Peabody, have you ever known me to lay violent hands on a woman? There are ways,” said Emerson, stroking his chin. “There are ways.”

“Well, I sure don’t want to miss that,” Cyrus declared. “I’ll be waiting for you in the morning. You’ll all dine with us tomorrow evening, I hope. Katherine is anxious to see you.”

Ramses and Nefret decided they did not want to miss it either. I went along to make certain Emerson behaved himself. Jumana went along because I insisted. Nefret’s diagnosis might be correct – it was in keeping with the principles of psychology I favored – but she had confessed herself uncertain as to the appropriate treatment. I had my own ideas on that subject. If my methods were not effective, at least they could do no harm.

Jumana ate very little at breakfast, but I had checked the larder before retiring and again when I arose, and was not surprised to find that half a loaf of bread and a chicken breast had disappeared overnight. It was no wonder Fatima had not noticed anything amiss. The larder was open to everyone in the house, and Sennia had an appetite quite out of proportion to her little frame.

Cyrus and Bertie had been looking out for us and joined us at the end of the track that led up to the Castle. It was a bright, beautiful morning with clear skies; after the fog of Cairo and the rainy weather of Palestine, I appreciated Luxor even more.

“How well you look, Bertie,” I said. “The foot is completely healed?”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you. I need not ask if you are in good health; you are blooming, as usual. We had heard that Ramses -”

“The reports were exaggerated,” Ramses said with a smile. “As you can see.”

“And your arm, Professor?” Bertie asked.

“A confounded nuisance,” said Emerson. “Can we get on now? I want to finish this little job, so I can start work.”

Bertie was not given the opportunity to ask after the person who interested him most. Jumana had not spoken to him or to Cyrus. She sat slumped in the saddle, her head bowed and her pretty mouth twisted. The taste of the medicine I had insisted she take lingered on the tongue.

We left the horses in the donkey park and proceeded on foot, along paths long familiar to us. I should explain that the Valley of the Kings is not a single long canyon. From above it resembles a lobed leaf, like that of an oak or maple, with side wadis branching off to left and right. The tomb of Hatshepsut was at the far end of one of these branches. We had worked in that area before and knew it well.

The tourists had come early to the Valley in order to avoid the heat of midday. We were not so early as Emerson would have liked, but in part it was his own fault; he had wasted some time playing with the Great Cat of Re, who had come to breakfast with Ramses and Nefret. It had grown quite fat, through overfeeding (by Sennia – she claimed to have been training it, to do what I could not imagine). She had also combed and brushed it every day, so that its fur had become long and silky. Emerson was highly entertained by its antics. As it leaped at the bit of chicken he dangled above it, it looked like a bouncing ball of fluff. (Horus’s look of contempt as he watched this degrading performance was equally entertaining.) However, when we left the house it declined to ride on his shoulder and climbed onto that of Ramses.

“Must we take it?” he asked. “You rather overdid the grooming, Sennia, its fur is all over my face.”

“His,” said Sennia. “Yes, you must take him. What if you were attacked by a snake? I am coming too.”

So that caused another delay. I did not want her to see – or hear – Emerson evicting the Albions. He was bound to lose his temper and employ bad language. We pacified her by promising to stop back at the house and take her to Deir el Medina, and distracted her by asking her to help Fatima prepare a very elaborate picnic basket.

Draped over Ramses’s shoulder, with his tail hanging down behind, the Great Cat of Re resembled a luxuriant fur piece. Several ladies wanted to stroke him; several gentlemen stared and laughed. Among the latter was Mr. Lubancic, whom I had met at Cyrus’s soiree. “Still here, are you?” I called, as we passed.

“Yes, ma’am. What on earth -”

“Another time.” I waved. Emerson had not slowed his pace.

The signs of energetic activity were visible some distance off; a cloud of dust blurred the brilliant blue of the sky, and voices rose in one of the chants with which Egyptians lighten their work. The sight we beheld when we reached the spot was unusual enough to bring us all to a halt.

In the background a group of men were digging and hauling away debris. In the foreground, some distance from the dust and racket, was a little kiosk, a sturdy wooden frame with a roof and sides of canvas. Two of the canvas side pieces had been rolled up, and under the canopy, comfortably seated in armchairs, were the three Albions. Oriental rugs covered the ground; a table was spread with various articles of food and drink, over which a turbaned servant stood guard with a fly whisk. Another servant waved a fan over Mrs. Albion. She wore a frock that would have been suitable for tea at Buckingham Palace, and a hat wreathed with chiffon veiling. Mr. Albion had adopted what he believed to be proper archaeologist’s attire: riding breeches and boots, a tweed coat, and a very large solar topee. His son was similarly attired, but since he was a good deal taller than Mr. Albion, he did not so closely resemble a mushroom.

One of the workmen came trotting up to Mr. Albion with a bit of stone in his hand. Albion took it, glanced at it, and tossed it away. He then condescended to notice us.

“Morning, folks. Out bright and early, are you?”

“Not so early as you,” said Emerson, advancing with shoulders squared and brows thunderous. “You have been told, I believe, that you are in violation of Lord Carnarvon’s firman. Close down your excavation at once.”

“Who’s gonna make us?” Mr. Albion inquired. He looked even more cherubic, his eyes twinkling and his lips pursed. “You?”

“Yes,” said Emerson. “Oh, yes.”

“Father, if I may?” Sebastian Albion had got to his feet. “Not everyone appreciates your sense of humor. Won’t you sit down, ladies and gentlemen, and discuss the situation? Mrs. Emerson, please take my chair. I’m afraid the rest of you will have to – er -”

“Squat,” said Nefret, doing so. “Let’s hear what they have to say, Father. It won’t cause much of a delay and it might be amusing.”

“I agree,” said Ramses, subsiding with boneless ease onto the rug beside Nefret and crossing his legs.

“Amusing,” Mr. Albion repeated. “Yes, sirree, that’s our aim in life, to amuse people and be polite. Here, young lady, take my chair. We heard you’ve been ailing.”

Jumana started, and so, I believe, did we all. Such gallantry was not only unexpected but was, in my opinion, highly suspicious.

“No, thank you,” she stammered. “Sir.”

“I insist.” He was on his feet, his face wreathed in smiles. “Sebastian, you persuade her.”

“With pleasure.” The young man offered his hand. Jumana blushed and ducked her head.

“Sit down, Jumana,” I ordered. “Since Mr. Albion is kind enough to offer.”

Mrs. Albion ignored this little byplay. She was leaning forward with the first sign of amiable interest I had seen her display. “What a beautiful cat. What is its name?”

“The Great Cat of Re,” I replied. “You would call it Fluffy, I suppose.”

Mr. Albion chuckled. “No, she gives her cats names like Grand Duchess Olga of Albion. Fond of the creatures. I put up with ‘em because she’s fond of ’em.”

“Now see here,” Emerson exclaimed. “I will be cursed if I will spend the morning talking about cats. What do you people think you are doing?”

Sebastian Albion removed his eyeglasses, wiped them on a handkerchief, and replaced them. “As you have no doubt observed, sir, we are clearing the tomb of Prince Mentuherkhepshef. It was found by Belzoni and reexamined in 1905 by -”

“Don’t tell me facts I know better than you,” Emerson interrupted. Curiosity had weakened his wrath, however; the Albions were so blandly outrageous, it was difficult to remain angry with them. And Sebastian had pronounced the prince’s name correctly. He knew more about Egyptology than we had supposed.

“What do you hope to find?” Emerson went on. “The tomb is empty. Ayrton, who was here in 1905, found only a few scraps. The paintings… oh, good Gad!”

He whirled round and ran toward the workmen. A stentorian bellow stopped diggers and basket men, and as the cloud of dust subsided, Emerson vanished into the dark opening of the tomb. He was out again in ten seconds, waving his fists. “Someone has been hacking at the walls. There was a painting of the prince offering to Khonsu -”

“Defaced or missing?” Ramses asked.

“Missing. Completely cut out, leaving a great hole. Probably in pieces. Curse it!”

“We didn’t do it,” Sebastian hastened to say. “We haven’t touched the paintings.”

“You aren’t doing them any good,” Emerson retorted furiously. “All that dust and debris floating about… My patience is at an end. Stop work at once.”

“What are you going to do, carry us out of here bodily?” Mr. Albion inquired. “There’s nothing to stop us from coming back.”

“Your workmen won’t come back. I am about to put a curse on the place. They won’t dare go near it after that, and neither will any of the other men on the West Bank.”

“You better listen, Joe,” Cyrus advised. “The Professor’s curses are famous around here.”

“That so?” Mr. Albion’s eyes narrowed until they virtually disappeared. Then they resumed their normal appearance and a smile fattened his cheeks. “Well, I guess we know how to give in gracefully, eh, Sebastian? It’s a shame about those fellows, they really need the work.”

That aspect of the matter had not occurred to Emerson. It did not affect his decision, but I could see he was moved by it. He stood for a moment in thought, fingering the cleft in his chin. “It’s a new tomb you’re after, I presume? That’s what every dilettante wants. There are one or two areas I’ve been meaning to explore for some time. Very promising sites.”

Mrs. Albion had been stroking the Great Cat of Re, who politely permitted the liberty. (I had hoped it would hiss or scratch.) She looked up at Emerson. “Where are these sites, Professor?”

We delayed long enough to see the men begin to dismantle the comfortable little tent, and Mrs. Albion lifted, armchair and all, onto the shoulders of the servants. She was extremely gracious, though not to me; she thanked Emerson for his advice, spared a frosty smile for Jumana, and shook a playful finger at Ramses when he rose and settled the Great Cat of Re more securely onto his shoulder. “You really ought to select a more appropriate name for that charming creature, Mr. Emerson. The name of a lovely Egyptian goddess, perhaps? Hathor or Isis.”

“I fear that would not be appropriate, ma’am,” Ramses replied. “The cat is not of the female sex – uh – gender.”

“I may have been mistaken about Mrs. Albion,” I admitted, as we walked away. “Cats are generally good judges of character. Playfulness does not become her, however. What on earth were you thinking of, Emerson, proposing other sites for them? You have no right to do anything of the sort.”

“Good Gad, Peabody, I expected you would approve of my mild methods.” Striding along, hands in his pockets, Emerson glanced at me in feigned surprise. “I am familiar with men of Albion’s character; if I had not offered them alternatives, they would simply have moved to some other forbidden area. I can’t put curses on every site on the West Bank.”

“But the southwest wadis? The Valley of the Queens?”

“The entrance to the Valley of the Queens,” Emerson corrected. “There’s nothing of interest there. If they mount an expedition to the southwest wadis I will be surprised; it’s too far and too uncomfortable. Besides, you heard my condition. They will hire Soleiman Hassan as their reis. I will make sure he reports to me the instant they find anything – which is, in my opinion, unlikely. Why are you looking so glum, Vandergelt?”

“I kinda hoped for more fireworks,” Cyrus admitted. “Don’t count on Joe doing what you told him, Emerson. He holds a grudge against people who try to order him around.”

“Bah,” said Emerson.

“They were very polite,” Jumana murmured.

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully.

We collected Sennia and the picnic basket – and a reluctant but dogged Gargery – and went on to Deir el Medina, where we were forced to listen to another lecture, this one from Daoud. Selim had regaled him and a select audience with an edited version of our recent adventures, and Daoud was vibrating with indignation.

We had to apologize for leaving him behind and promise never to do it again.

“So Daoud knows all about it,” Cyrus remarked. His voice was mild but his expression was severe. The same look of reproach marked Bertie’s features.

“You promised me, ma’am,” he began.

“My dear boy, you must not take it personally. We don’t plan these things, you know; most of them just – well, they just happen.”

“This one didn’t,” Cyrus said. “You were in the war zone, I got that much from what Daoud said. Do you have less confidence in us than you do in him?”

“My sentiments exactly, ma’am,” said Bertie.

“Of course not,” I said heartily. “We will tell you all about it this evening; how’s that?”

“Precisely what are we going to tell them?” demanded Emerson, after he had succeeded in drawing me aside.

I had had a little chat with Selim before we left Cairo. I knew Ramses had told him part of the story, and I felt fairly certain he had worked the rest of it out. He had known Sir Edward Washington; he had known a great deal about Sethos; he had been present on several occasions when we had discussed matters that would enable a clever man, which Selim was, to put the pieces together. So I took him into my confidence, holding nothing back. If any man deserved that confidence, it was he.

“Ah,” said Selim, unsurprised. “I knew when I saw him clean-shaven that he must be a kinsman of the Father of Curses. They are very much alike. We do not speak of this to others, Sitt?”

“Except for Ramses and Nefret, you are the only one who knows. We do not speak of it, even to Vandergelt Effendi.”

His face brightened with gratified pride. “You can trust me, Sitt Hakim.”

“I am sure I can. But now we must work out what we are to tell the others, including Daoud.”

I repeated the conversation to Emerson, adding, “You may be sure Selim produced a thrilling narrative without giving anything important away. Anyhow, I am tired of all this confounded secrecy. The more tight-lipped and mysterious we are, the more suspicious people will be. A partial truth will put them off the track far better than silence.”

“You may be right,” Emerson agreed. “I will leave it to you, then, my dear. What have you done with my field notes?”

I found his notebook in the pile of papers he had brought, and set about erecting my little shelter.

“I must say it looks rather pitiful compared with the Albions’s arrangement,” I remarked to Nefret, who was helping me.

Nefret chuckled. “Did you ever see anything more ridiculous than Mrs. Albion in her armchair being hoisted aloft by those two poor fellows? God help either of them if he stumbles and spills her out. Mr. Albion would probably have him beheaded.”

“What did you think of their excessive courtesy to Jumana? That young man is not still under the impression that he can – er – win her over, surely.”

“Surely not,” Nefret said. “They were only trying to ingratiate themselves with us, Mother. And they succeeded. I’m like Cyrus; I was rather hoping Father would blow them to bits and perform one of his famous curses.”

“Oh, were you?” said Emerson, appearing upon the scene. “I cannot imagine why everyone in this family is under the false impression that I am a violent and unreasonable man. Bring the camera, Nefret; we are about to start on a new section.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Emerson stood staring up at the hillside, his hand shading his eyes. He was, as usual, without a hat.

“May I have a moment of your time, Father?” Ramses asked.

“What the devil is Bertie doing up there?”

“Continuing his survey, I suppose. May I -”

“Certainly, my boy, certainly. Something about that new section?”

“No, sir. Something about the Albions. I would be happy to assist in whatever you’re planning, if you care to let me in on it.”

Emerson’s eyes shifted warily from side to side, around, and behind. “Promise you won’t tell your mother?”

“I’ll try not to. But you know how she -”

“Yes, yes, I do know. But this time, by Gad, I think I’m one step ahead of her. Come over here where she can’t hear us.”

His mother was two hundred feet away but Ramses let his father draw him aside. “Well, sir?”

Emerson took out his pipe. “It struck me as somewhat strange that the Albions would select that particular part of the valley. There is no more reason to expect a big find there than anywhere else. Unless they had a hint from someone.”

He lit a match and puffed. “A hint such as the fragment of wall painting?” Ramses asked. “Khonsu. He is a god and he has human hands.”

“As do many other gods,” Emerson said. “But the Albions, for all Sebastian’s book learning, haven’t much experience, and at the moment they are at a loss as to where to look.”

“For Jamil’s tomb?”

“I see the idea does not surprise you. What made you think of it?”

“I don’t like the Albions,” Ramses said. “Any of them.”

“I am glad to see you are beginning to trust your instincts,” his father said approvingly.

“As Mother would say -” Emerson’s scowl made him abandon that thought. “I don’t like their behavior toward Jumana,” Ramses elaborated. “Their attitude toward Egyptians is characteristic of their class and nationality – bigoted and prejudiced, in other words. After his initial blunder Sebastian has leaned over backward to be polite to her. Nefret thinks it is because they hope to ingratiate themselves with us, but there could be another reason.”

His father nodded. “Go on.”

“Let’s go at it from another direction. Jamil was getting financial support from someone. We assumed it was Yusuf, but there were those interesting items of European manufacture among his supplies. The Albions asked you to introduce them to a few tomb robbers. I don’t believe it was a joke. They had been asking around Gurneh, and Albion mentioned that ‘Mohammed’ had put them on to someone. What if that someone was Jamil?”

“Mohassib’s first name is Mohammed,” Emerson said.

“It might have been Mohassib, or Mohammed Hassan – or any one of several other Mohammeds. Those two are the most likely, however. Both had spoken with Jamil, both were afraid of him. What better way of conciliating him than to introduce him to a wealthy patron? Then Jamil was inconsiderate enough to get himself killed before he disclosed the location of the tomb. The Albions believe there’s a chance he confided in Jumana. An outside chance, but that’s what they have been reduced to.”

“And Jamil promised that in exchange for their support he would sell them the objects from the tomb once he’d cleared it. My thought exactly.”

“If I know Albion, he’d insist on more than promises,” Ramses said.

“Oh, well done,” Emerson said approvingly. “Yes, he’d want proof of the find, and – a little something on account? Something as fine as the cosmetic jar?”

“Possibly. It’s all conjecture, and we can’t… Father, no!”

“Can’t do what?” said Emerson, fumbling with his pipe. He was too late; his face had betrayed him.

“Search their rooms. Don’t deny it, Father, that is what you were thinking.”

“You thought of it, too, or you wouldn’t have been so quick to read my mind.”

The accusation was accurate, the grin conspiratorial, but Ramses tried to look stern. “That sort of thing is more in Mother’s line.”

“We can’t have her doing something like that,” Emerson said. “It’s against the law.”

Ramses couldn’t resist the grin. He began to laugh. “It’s a tempting thought, but not really practical. Even if we found illegal antiquities, we couldn’t confiscate them or prove where they came from. Jamil may have dropped enticing hints to the Albions, but they don’t seem to know any more than we do.”

His father’s abstracted expression told him he hadn’t got the point across. “This is all conjecture,” he insisted. “Logical and consistent, but without substantiating evidence. We can’t even be certain that Jamil told the Albions about the hand of the god. It may have been pure coincidence that they chose to dig in that spot.”

“Well, we will soon find out.”

“Ah. Those alternate sites you suggested?”

“Mmmm.” Emerson sucked on his pipe. “None of them has any connection with a divine representation. If the Albions are solely interested in excavation -”

“Ramses!” His mother’s voice had considerable carrying power. Emerson twitched guiltily and Ramses turned. She was on her feet, waving some object at him. It appeared to be a large piece of pottery – an ostracon.

Ramses waved back. “We may as well stop for lunch,” he said. “Sennia has told me twice already that she’s faint with hunger.”

“Where is she?” Emerson turned, scanning the terrain.

“Probably in the shelter, investigating the basket, which would explain why the Great Cat of Re has also abandoned us. I must speak to her about overfeeding the creature, it’s getting absolutely obese.”

“He,” Emerson corrected.

Sennia, and the cat, were where he expected. The others joined them in time to save most of the chicken. Ramses’s lecture was not as forceful as he had intended it to be; the hurt looks he got from two pairs of eyes, one pair big and black, the other pair round and clear-green as peridots, had a softening effect. Apologetically he offered the cat a piece of chicken.

Sennia had collected a few ostraca too, but the one his mother had found was outstanding – larger than most, the hieratic clearly preserved. He was touched to see how her face brightened when he expressed his appreciation.

“Was this in the fill?” he asked, holding it carefully by the edges. “I’m surprised that any of our fellows would overlook something so large.”

“Curse it, Peabody,” Emerson mumbled through a bite of cheese, “have you been digging illicitly?”

“How could you suppose I would do such a thing, Emerson? Ali brought it to me. It has been properly recorded.”

“Oh. All right, then.”

“What does it say?” Nefret asked, leaning over Ramses’s shoulder. A loosened lock of hair brushed his cheek. He twisted it around his finger and smiled at her. “It appears to be a prayer – to Hathor, Divine Mother, Lady of Fragrance.”

“You can translate it later,” Emerson declared, wiping his fingers on his trousers. “I want to finish that section today.”

“I trust you have not forgotten we are dining with Cyrus this evening,” his wife reminded him.

Emerson groaned. Cyrus grinned. “I asked Selim too,” he said significantly.

“Hmmm,” said Ramses’s mother.

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Bertie, you haven’t told me how you are getting on. Not that I have any right to ask, I suppose.”

“Don’t be a dog in the manger,” his wife said.

“You have every right to ask, sir,” Bertie said earnestly. “It’s going well, I think. I’ve got most of the known tombs located now. This is a working copy, of course; I keep the master copy at home and add to it every night.”

“Well done.” Emerson slapped him on the back. “Now – back to work, eh?”

Not until later that day was Ramses able to arrange a private conversation with his mother.

“Do you really intend to tell Cyrus about Khan Yunus? You know, Mother, that the Official Secrets Act -”

“I do not consider myself bound by any document to which I did not agree in advance,” said his mother. Her chin protruded even more than usual. “We must tell Cyrus something. It isn’t fair to him to keep him wholly in the dark. Ramses… dear…” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I know you would rather not talk or think of the affair again, but if you will brace yourself, one more time… You have my word that Selim’s narrative will not get me in trouble with the War Office!”

“All right, Mother. Dear,” he added, with a smile that brought a faint flush to her cheeks.

It had taken Katherine Vandergelt a while to become comfortable with their Egyptian friends. She had had to come to terms with her prejudices, or at least conceal them – his mother hadn’t left her any choice! No one but a boor could have treated Selim with less than the courtesy his fine manners and inherent dignity deserved; Katherine’s greeting was warm and friendly. She displayed even more warmth toward Jumana, whose pallor and morose expression obviously shocked her, and kept pressing delicacies on her. Jumana, who had not wanted to come, but had been made to, pushed the food around her plate and looked wistful. Cyrus’s majordomo had outdone himself – “to welcome them home.” The table glittered with crystal, and the silverware shone.

After dinner they retired to the sitting room for coffee. Selim knew what was on the agenda. He had been perfectly at ease up till that time; now he began to fidget and tug at his beard. Stage fright? Or fear that he would forget the lines in which he had been coached by the great Sitt Hakim?

“All right now, Amelia, we’re ready,” Cyrus said, settling himself comfortably in a deep armchair. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

She smiled complacently and sipped her coffee. “Selim will tell it. Go ahead, Selim.”

All eyes turned toward Selim, completing his discomfiture. As he confessed later to Ramses, he would rather have faced a horde of assailants, armed to the teeth, than those focused stares. He cleared his throat.

“I am no storyteller,” he began in a voice several tones higher than his usual baritone. “Not like Daoud.”

“All the better,” Cyrus said with a smile. “We know Daoud’s tendency to – er – embroider.”

“Start with the motorcar,” Emerson suggested, seeing that Selim needed encouragement. “It was a fine motorcar, and you drove magnificently.”

Once launched, Selim described the charms of the motorcar in loving detail and dwelled with excessive but pardonable enthusiasm on the perils of the long journey and his skill as a driver. “Khan Yunus is an ugly town, not like Luxor,” he declared. “There were many soldiers. The house of the friend of the Father of Curses was where we stayed; it was very dirty. It was there that the real adventure began!”

“About time,” muttered Cyrus. “Khan Yunus, eh? What did you go there for?”

Selim glanced at Ramses’s mother, who gave him an encouraging nod. He had got over his self-consciousness and was enjoying himself – as well he might, Ramses thought. Never, not even from his mother or Daoud, had he heard such a wild story.

They had been summoned to Khan Yunus to rescue a beautiful maiden – the daughter of a Bedouin sheikh, their friend and ally – from the evil old man who had carried her off, with designs on her fortune and her virtue. It was Ramses who had gone after the maiden and succeeded, after many dangers, in rescuing her. Selim described some of the dangers, which included a duel with scimitars. Ramses covered his face with his hand.

“He does not like to have his courage praised,” said Selim. “But it was not over. The evil old man sent men to take her back, and we had to fight them off and escape, in the night, with enemies pursuing us and the town in flames. We stole horses from under the very noses of the Australians! But I have not told you about the ragged beggar, who was a policeman in disguise – and a good disguise it was; he had fleas and smelled bad. The evil old man was a thief, you see, who had stolen jewels from many rich ladies and important antiquities from the Cairo Museum. The beggar was trying to catch him and bring him to justice, but in the end it was not he who captured the villain, it was Ramses.”

“It was not,” Ramses exclaimed, driven beyond endurance. “It was Father, with -”

“Hmph,” said Emerson loudly. “Very well told, Selim. You see, Vandergelt, it was just another of our attempts to assist the police. It is the duty of every citizen.”

“How about the maiden?” Cyrus inquired. “You didn’t bring her home with you?”

Selim sighed and looked soulful.

“The – er – policeman took her away,” Ramses said. He’d had as much as he could stand.

“He was her lover, I think,” Selim added.

“Oh, I see. You mind if I ask a few questions, Selim?”

Selim had enjoyed himself, once he got well under way, but he knew better than to risk an interrogation by Cyrus Vandergelt. He got hastily to his feet. “I must go. It is late. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”

“Now see here, Amelia,” Cyrus exclaimed.

“We mustn’t detain him, Cyrus, he has other responsibilities. Jumana, you are excused as well. Selim will take you home.”

“But I want -”

“You have been ill. You need your rest.”

“I feel much better!”

She looked almost her old self, eyes bright, cheeks pink. The eyes were fixed on Ramses, with an expression that made him want to run for cover. His mother snapped, “Do as you are told.”

Ramses went to the door with Selim while Jumana was collecting her wrap. “I owe you for that, Selim,” he murmured.

“I only said what the Sitt Hakim told me to. But why are you angry? I know what you did, and if I had done such things I would tell everyone. But,” Selim said, struck by a new idea, “we do it to make the men fear us and the women admire us, yes? All men fear the Brother of Demons, and you have won the heart of the only woman you want. When Nur Misur looks at you, it is as if the sun were shining in her eyes.”

“I’m not angry, Selim.” Ramses embraced him in the Egyptian manner. “You are a good friend – and a shameless romantic.”

“And what is wrong with that?”

Selim’s grin faded into a scowl when Jumana came out of the house. He mounted his horse and hauled her up in front of him with no more ceremony than if she had been a sack of grain. Ramses heard them exchanging insults as they rode off. Serves them both right, he thought.

When he returned to the drawing room, his mother had taken charge of the proceedings. “Unbelievable or not, that story is what Selim told Daoud. By the time Daoud finishes embellishing it, it will bear little resemblance to fact.”

“And I’ll sound like even more of a posturing ass,” Ramses said sourly.

“Stop complaining,” his mother said. “Goodness gracious, I did the best I could! It was necessary to account for our absence in some way. Our friends at Atiyeh saw the motorcar and realized we were preparing for a long desert trip. By the time we left Khan Yunus, everyone knew who we were; they will pass the story on, and sooner or later our activities will be gossiped about throughout Egypt and Palestine.”

“It was a pretty good yarn,” Cyrus admitted. He lit one of his cheroots and leaned back. “And no wilder than a lot of your adventures. I’m sorry, though, I can’t believe in the beautiful maiden. Khan Yunus is only ten miles from Gaza. Need I say more?”

His knowing smile brought a responsive twinkle to her eyes. “Oddly enough, Cyrus, the beautiful maiden is one of the true facts. However, there is no use denying that our mission involved more serious matters. You’ve known for some time that we have had dealings with the secret service, haven’t you?”

“A fellow would have to be pretty durned stupid not to have strong suspicions, Amelia. With a war on, and the way you keep appearing and disappearing without explanation, and your expertise in certain areas…” His eyes moved to Ramses. “Well, I’m not asking for details. I just hope to God the filthy business is over soon. You can’t keep on taking chances without something bad happening, and we couldn’t spare you. Any of you.”

“Amen,” Katherine said.

“Er – quite,” Bertie added.

“It is over,” declared Emerson, squirming a little in the warm flood of friendship. “A bloo – - excuse me, Katherine – a blooming nuisance too. Now we can -”

“Just one more question,” Cyrus interrupted. “You don’t have to answer it, but I’m real curious. Was that so-called beggar anybody I know?”

Caught off-guard and at a loss as to how to answer, Emerson turned for help to his wife. “You have met the gentleman,” she said smoothly.

“And he’s on our side now?”

“Oh, yes. Cyrus, would you think me rude if I asked for a whiskey and soda?”

She looked so smug, her son had to fight to keep from laughing. Trust his mother – she never lied “unless it was absolutely necessary,” and this time she had spoken the literal truth. Cyrus had been well acquainted with Sir Edward Washington, but it had not been that gentleman he meant.

Naturally, Emerson felt obliged to criticize me for encouraging Selim to tell a pack of lies and, with typical inconsistency, for telling Cyrus more than he deemed advisable. We had quite a refreshing little argument about it on the drive home. I had always felt somewhat guilty about keeping Cyrus in the dark – if he was in the dark. He was too intelligent and he knew us too well to overlook certain happenings. I had told him no more than he already suspected, and it pleased him to be taken into our confidence.

He was even happier next day, when he found a new tomb. It wasn’t much of a tomb; the offering chapel had been completely destroyed and the burial chamber was empty of all but scraps, but there were several well-preserved paintings.

“That will keep him out of mischief for a while,” remarked Emerson to me. “It will take several days to carry out a meticulous excavation and make plans. He can have Jumana to help him.”

“Kind of you,” I said. “She gets on your nerves, doesn’t she?”

“She talks too much. I almost preferred her moping. What did you do to get her out of it?”

“Nothing – unless it was that nasty medicine. I hope there is not a sinister -”

“Sinister, bah! There you go again, borrowing trouble.”

“You are right, Emerson,” I admitted. “I am so accustomed to having some worry on my mind that it is difficult to realize our enemies have been vanquished and our problems solved.”

“Except for one,” Emerson muttered. “ ‘The hand of the god.’ What god? Where?”

Sennia joined us for tea that afternoon, so full of exciting news, she neglected the biscuits. “The Great Cat of Re has caught a snake!”

We all looked at the cat, who had assumed one of those Yoga-like positions necessary for the proper cleaning of feline underparts. It looked so silly, with one leg in the air and the other behind its ear, we all burst out laughing.

“A very large snake?” Emerson inquired.

“No larger than this,” said Fatima, measuring approximately five inches with finger and thumb. “But it was still alive, Father of Curses, and I do not know whether there will be any dinner tonight, because it is still somewhere in the kitchen and Maaman says -”

“It has probably escaped long ago,” Emerson said comfortably.

“Then you tell Maaman,” said Fatima, thumping the teapot down on the table. “He says he will not cook.”

“Oh, curse it,” said Emerson. “I suppose I’ll have to do something or we won’t get any dinner.”

“Take the Great Cat of Re,” Sennia suggested.

“Not a bad idea,” said Emerson, scooping the cat up. Sennia crammed two biscuits into her mouth and went with them.

“Let’s go and watch,” Nefret suggested. “Jumana, have you ever seen the Father of Curses perform an exorcism? It will be even more entertaining if he works the cat into it.”

Jumana shuddered. “I am afraid of snakes. I hope it does not go into my room.”

I also declined the treat. I am not afraid of snakes, but I see no point in cultivating them.

One of the men had gone to the post office that morning, so there was quite a stack of letters and messages and newspapers. By the time the others came back I had had a nice leisurely time, sorting the mail and reading the more interesting missives.

“Did you find it?” I inquired.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Emerson said. He deposited the cat on the floor, where it resumed its interrupted bath. “I hadn’t supposed we would, and was preparing an exorcism specifically designed for serpents, but the cat fished it out almost at once from behind one of the water jars. A perfectly harmless Clifford’s snake. Ramses took it outside and let it loose.”

“I told you I have been training the Great Cat of Re,” Sennia said triumphantly. “Someday it will catch an even bigger snake and save Ramses’s life at the last second.”

“Pure chance,” said Emerson – but he said it under his breath. “Anything in the post, Peabody?”

“A nice long letter from Evelyn, and one for Nefret from Lia, and one for Ramses from David…” I distributed the missives as I spoke.

“What about me?” Sennia demanded.

“Three for you.” They were from the family. They knew she loved getting mail.

“Nothing else?”

I handed Emerson the rest of his letters. “Two telegrams from Cairo. I took the liberty -”

“Yes, of course you did,” Emerson muttered. “Well, what do you think of that? Wingate and General Murray request my presence at my earliest convenience.”

“I presume it will not be convenient early or late,” I said.

Emerson emitted a wicked chuckle. “Why do you suppose I made a quick departure from Cairo? We reported to General Chetwode, handed over our prisoner, and assured him and his intelligence staff that they’d seen the last of Ismail Pasha – which is true, since Sethos won’t use that disguise again. If they have any further questions they can come to us, but they will get damned few answers. Nothing from Carter or – er -”

I shook my head. “Here is an interesting invitation, however. The Albions are giving a dinner party and dance on Friday. The honor of our presence is requested. There is a little note penned by Mrs. Albion herself, hoping that Jumana will also honor her.”

“Me?” Jumana’s eyes opened very wide.

“Her?” Emerson exclaimed. “What the devil for?”

“She is one of the family,” Nefret said. “I expect they are trying to make up for… for any inadvertent rudeness in the past.”

“They have not been rude,” Jumana said. “They sent me flowers, when I was sick.”

“They did? You didn’t tell me.”

“Many people sent me presents,” Jumana said proudly. “Bertie, and Mr. Vandergelt, and Daoud, and an American gentleman I met at Mr. Vandergelt’s party. Will we go? There will be dancing. I like to dance.”

“I believe not,” I said.

“Why not?” Emerson inquired. “It should be a – er – enjoyable outing.”

“Emerson!” I exclaimed. “What are you up to now?”

Emerson’s sapphirine-blue eyes met my own with a wholly unconvincing look of candor. “I only wish to give you pleasure, my dear. You like such things. It is the least a fellow can do.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Ramses knew perfectly well what his father was “up to.” Deny it as he might, he was as obsessed as Cyrus with Jamil’s tomb. In a way, Ramses couldn’t blame him. The words ran through his own head like a litany: The hand of the god. What god? Where? It was beginning to interfere with his personal life. Nefret shook him awake that night, complaining that he had been muttering the words in his sleep. “If you must talk in your sleep, you might at least mumble about me!”

After he had apologized by reciting the epithets of Hathor – “Golden One, Lady of Fragrance, Mistress of All the Gods” – and acted upon them – she settled down with her head on his shoulder and admitted she couldn’t get that enigmatic clue out of her head either.

“I’ve been wondering whether we ought not question Jumana again,” she said. “She has a fantastic memory and almost total recall, even for accents. Wasn’t it enchanting to hear her imitate Cyrus?”

“It was rather uncanny hearing her imitate Jamil the day we found Mother and Father,” Ramses said. “Are you suggesting that if we asked the right questions she might remember something Jamil said about the tomb?”

“That’s how her memory seems to operate.”

“It’s worth a try, I suppose. We might even be able to talk Father out of breaking into the Albions’ suite.”

“You’re joking. No, damn it, you aren’t!”

He had told her of his conversation with Emerson. She had scoffed at the time, but now…

“That’s why he agreed to go to their party!” she groaned. “What are we going to do?”

“Make sure they don’t catch him in the act. He’s dead set on this, Nefret. I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t believe it will do any harm.”

She relaxed against him and let out a breath of laughter. “Well, maybe not. Even if the worst happened – if someone found him in their rooms – he’d talk his way out of it.”

“Shout, not talk,” Ramses corrected. “What could they do to him, after all? There isn’t a man in Luxor who would dare interfere with him.”

All the same, he was a little on edge the night of the party. His father had readily admitted he meant to search the Albions’ rooms; he had raised the subject himself, overruling Ramses’s half-hearted protests and requesting his assistance.

“I will signal you when I’m ready to act. Keep an eye on the Albions. If one of them starts to leave the ballroom – well, you will know what to do.”

“Start a fight with Sebastian, for example? All right, Father, I’ll think of something. I hope. You will be in disguise, I suppose.”

His father grinned happily. “Just the usual, my boy, just the usual. Er – might I borrow a beard? Your mother must have done something with mine, I can’t find it. Oh, and if she asks where I am, put her off somehow.”

It wouldn’t be easy, keeping tabs on three people and fending his mother off, but Ramses thought he could manage it with Nefret’s assistance. He only hoped his mother didn’t have ideas of her own. She looked very handsome that evening, in a gown of her favorite crimson, the diamonds in her ears sparkling. Nefret was radiant in amber satin, and Jumana looked like any young girl on her way to a dance – eyes shining, cheeks flushed.

The Albions had hired the entire hotel, or at least the public rooms, including the dining saloon. That presented no problem to the management, since the convalescent officers who occupied part of the hotel had all been invited. Everyone in Luxor seemed to be there, including the Vandergelts. Mr. Albion’s money and his wife’s good taste made it quite a splendid affair; the wine flowed freely and the food was excellent. After dinner, when the dancing was about to begin, Ramses edged up to his father.

“Is there any way I can persuade you not to do this?”

“Now, now, my boy, it will be all right, you’ll see.” Emerson plucked irritably at his tie. It looked wilted. “I am going to dance with your mother and Katherine, and then give our hostess a whirl, and after that I will quietly steal away.”

“Have you asked Mrs. Albion? The ladies have dance cards. You’re supposed to put your name down for a particular dance.”

“Absurd. Dancing should be spontaneous. Joie de vivre and that sort of thing.”

He strolled away, his hands in his pockets.

Ramses also approved of joie de vivre, but he had been lectured by his mother and his wife about proper procedure. He’d never been able to see the point of the little cards – appointment slips, one might call them – unless it was to give popular ladies a sense of power, and make unpopular ladies squirm when they saw all the blank spaces.

Jumana was loving every moment of it – the flowers, the fancy dresses, the little booklet and pencil attached to her slim wrist by a golden cord. When Ramses asked for a dance she presented the booklet with an air of great importance and an irrepressible giggle. He needn’t have worried about her being neglected; Bertie and Cyrus had signed on, and so had both the Albions. There were several other names Ramses didn’t know. She had attracted quite a lot of attention, with her exotic looks and exquisite little figure.

He had allowed himself the pleasure of engaging his wife for the second dance; as they circled the floor, he warned her of his father’s intentions. Emerson was waltzing with Katherine, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“How are we supposed to watch three people at once?” Nefret grumbled. “With everything else that’s going on? I promised Mother I’d make sure Jumana is enjoying herself.”

“Obviously she is.” White skirts flaring, Jumana was light as thistledown in the respectful grasp of a tall American Ramses remembered having met at Cyrus’s soiree.

“Mr. Lubancic,” Nefret said, following his gaze. “He’s very nice. I’ve got Mr. Albion for the third dance and you for the fourth; suppose I corner Sebastian for that one instead, and you ask Mrs. Albion.”

“I suppose I can’t very well dance with Mr. Albion. We’ll just have to be prepared for emergency action. Be ready to faint or pretend you’ve seen a mouse if I give a distress signal.”

She laughed and nestled closer.

The third dance ended only too soon. As he had promised, Emerson had got hold of his hostess, whose frozen features kept cracking in pain as he spun her vigorously round in waltz time. (The tune was a fox-trot.) When the music ended he led her, limping, to a chair and then turned to give Ramses an exaggerated wink and nod.

Mrs. Albion declined Ramses’s invitation to dance. She looked as if she did not intend to move for some time. Nefret had worked her wiles on Sebastian, so Ramses went in search of Albion senior.

He found him in one of the alcoves talking to Jumana. “Don’t ask her to dance, this one is mine,” Albion said, with one of his jolly laughs. “I can’t prance around with the young folks, but we’re having a nice time talking Egyptology. She’s a clever girl.”

“She is,” Ramses agreed, glancing at the glass she held. “That isn’t champagne, is it?”

“Soda water,” Albion said. “You don’t think I’d ply a young lady with alcohol, do you?”

The answer to that was a resounding “Yes, if you hoped to gain something by it.” Since courtesy forbade honesty, Ramses said, “I’ll join you, if I may. What were you talking about?”

“Those sites your pa told me about” was the prompt reply. “We’ve just about decided not to do any more digging. The young lady agrees with me that it’s a waste of time.”

“The western wadis are too far away and too dangerous,” Jumana explained. “And there is nothing in that part of the Valley of the Queens.”

“Father will be glad to hear that,” Ramses said.

The music ended. Jumana looked at her dance card. “The next one is Bertie,” she announced importantly. “Will you excuse me, sir?”

“Why, sure. You go right ahead.”

Trying to watch all three Albions and fulfill his social obligations kept Ramses fully occupied for a while. Mr. Albion wouldn’t stay put; he wandered around the room, talking to his wife and to various other people. Seeing Mrs. Albion head purposefully for the door of the ballroom, Ramses caught Nefret’s eye, gestured, and trod on Katherine’s toe. Nefret went in pursuit, abandoning her partner.

“I beg your pardon, Katherine,” Ramses said.

“Quite all right, my dear. Is your injury bothering you? Perhaps we should sit down.”

“What? Oh, that. Well, yes, a little. Not much. It’s all right.”

He’d lost sight of Sebastian too. What was taking his father so long?

Mrs. Albion came back, followed by Nefret. Her nod and smile reassured him; they must have gone to the ladies’ parlor.

He was still scanning the room, trying to locate Sebastian, when he caught sight of his father. He let his breath out in a sigh that ruffled Katherine’s hair.

“Let’s do sit down, Ramses,” she said.

“Did I tread on your foot again?”

“No, dear, but the music has stopped.”

Her husband claimed her for the next dance, and Ramses headed straight for his father. Emerson’s appearance would have roused his wife’s direst suspicions. His hair was standing on end, his tie had come undone, and his smile was reminiscent of that of the Great Cat of Re after a tasty meal. Ramses drew him aside.

“Here, let me fix your tie before Mother sees you.”

“What’s wrong with it? Oh.” Emerson glanced down. “Thank you, my boy.”

“Well?” Ramses demanded.

“It went off without a hitch. What did you expect?”

“Did you find anything?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Don’t do this to me, Father.” He jerked the knot tight.

“I can’t tell you about it now,” Emerson said reproachfully. “But in a word – Oh, curse it. Hullo, Bertie. Were you looking for me? I just stepped out into the garden for -”

“No, sir. That is – did you see Jumana?”

“In the garden? Er – no.”

“Is something wrong, Bertie?” Ramses asked.

Bertie passed his hand over his hair. “It’s just that this is my dance, and I can’t find her. She was with Sebastian, and he doesn’t seem to be in the room either.”

“They must be around somewhere,” Emerson said vaguely. “Damn! There’s your mother. Your mother, I mean, Ramses. Am I supposed to be dancing with her?”

“I’ve no idea,” Ramses said. His mother was advancing on them with a firm stride and a look in her eyes that boded ill for Emerson. “You had better report to her, she probably noticed you were conspicuous by your absence.”

“Jumana -” Bertie began.

“Yes, right. I expect she’s gone to the ladies’ parlor. Let’s ask Nefret.”

Nefret had just returned from the ladies’ parlor. “Mrs. Albion has gone there three times! She keeps taking off her gloves and washing her hands. I hate to speculate about why. Is Father -”

“Dancing with Mother,” Ramses said.

“Thank goodness!”

“Yes, but Jumana has gone missing,” Ramses said. “She wasn’t in the ladies’ parlor?”

“Sebastian’s not here either,” Bertie said.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, I rather lost track of her, what with… one thing and another. Perhaps she stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.”

“The Professor just came in from the garden. He said he hadn’t seen her. But he wouldn’t have, would he, if they were off in a dark corner somewhere.”

“There is no reason to suppose they are together, Bertie,” Nefret said. “But we’ll have a look round.”

The gardens were one of the showplaces of Luxor, planted with exotic trees and shrubs. They, too, had been decorated for the occasion; colorful lanterns hung from the branches, and benches and chairs were scattered about. A number of the guests were enjoying the cool air and the scent of night blossoms. Winding paths led in and out of the shrubbery.

“You go that way,” Bertie said. “I’ll go the other.”

Nefret would have been the first to admit she had been remiss, but she couldn’t believe there was any real danger to Jumana. Not here, in the public gardens, with so many people about. If the girl had let Sebastian bring her here, she was guilty of nothing worse than indiscretion. Nefret had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going to convince Bertie of that. His jaw was set.

“I’m coming with you,” she said. “Wait for me.”

He had already plunged into the nearest path. She picked up her skirts and ran after him.

They had almost reached the end of the path, where it curved back toward the hotel, before Nefret heard a man’s voice, low and intimate, the words indistinguishable; and Jumana’s reply, high-pitched and quavering. “No, I am not afraid, but I want to go back now.”

Sebastian laughed softly. “Not yet.”

Nefret filled her lungs and shouted, “Jumana!”

Jumana came flying out of the shadows. Bertie went flying into them. He dragged Sebastian out into the light and raised his fist.

“Stop them,” Nefret exclaimed. “They’re going to fight!”

“It looks that way,” said Ramses, behind her. “Go ahead, Bertie, give him a good one.”

Bertie let go of Sebastian’s lapel and stepped back. “He’s wearing eyeglasses. I can’t hit a chap who -”

Sebastian’s fist connected neatly and scientifically with Bertie’s jaw, knocking him over backward.

13

“Really,” I said in exasperation, “I cannot decide which of this evening’s outlandish activities to discuss first.”

“I can,” said Emerson. “Good Gad, Bertie, don’t you know better than to fight like a gentleman?”

We had left the party somewhat precipitately. I had known the moment I set eyes on him that Emerson had been up to something, but before I could interrogate him Nefret had run in to tell me Jumana was in hysterics and Bertie was nursing a lump on his jaw and a bump on his head and that Ramses was chasing Sebastian Albion through the gardens and that – in short, we had better go at once. We collected the others, including Ramses, who had cooled off enough to be tractable, and took them away. Since our house was nearer than the Castle, we had all gone there. Having removed coat, waistcoat, and tie, with a glass of whiskey and soda in his hand, Emerson felt in a proper frame of mind to lecture.

“Bear in mind, my boy,” he went on, “that there is no purpose in fighting unless you mean to win. Never mind all that nonsense about fair play.”

“I’ll remember that next time, sir,” Bertie said.

“I sincerely hope there will not be a next time,” Katherine exclaimed. “Nefret, are you certain he doesn’t have a concussion, or a fractured skull, or -”

“He did not fall very hard,” said Jumana.

We all turned to look at her. She had wept on Nefret’s shoulder – Ramses having refused to offer his – all the way back, but whether from distress or pure excitement I would have hesitated to say.

“I am sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean… But why is everyone angry with me? Why did Bertie want to fight with Sebastian? He was very polite, he only -”

“Kept you there after you had said you wanted to go,” Nefret cut in. “Would he have continued to be polite, do you think, if we hadn’t arrived when we did?”

Jumana’s lips trembled.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Bertie muttered. “She didn’t understand.”

“Well, perhaps she didn’t,” I conceded. “I assumed… So I neglected to give her my little lecture. You remember the one, Nefret?”

“Very well,” said Nefret, her tight lips relaxing. “I gave her the same lecture less than an hour ago. Evidently it didn’t make an impression.”

She went to Jumana and lifted her out of her chair by her shoulders. “Have I your full attention now, Jumana? Bertie behaved tonight as any decent man would, coming to the assistance of an inexperienced young girl who is about to be…” She glanced at me, and went on, “… taken advantage of by an unscrupulous scoundrel. He’d have done it for any girl, Jumana, so don’t preen yourself! The only mistake he made was in playing by the rules and expecting Sebastian to do the same. Now go to your room and think about what I’ve said, unless you want to apologize to Bertie and thank him.”

Red-faced and stuttering, Bertie exclaimed, “Oh, I say, she doesn’t owe me an apology. It was – well, it was – what one does, you know. Only I didn’t do it awfully well. I mean -”

Jumana burst into tears and ran out of the room. Bertie smiled apologetically. “I seem to have mucked it up, as usual. Shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Ramses said. He had also divested himself of his extraneous garments and was sitting on the floor by Nefret’s chair. “I made an even greater fool of myself, crashing through the shrubbery after him. I’ll probably get a bill from the hotel tomorrow for damaged plants.”

“One good thing has come of it,” I declared. “We now understand the reason for the Albions’ politeness to Jumana. That disgusting young man still had – er – designs on her. Your warning to him, Ramses, only spurred him on. Some men, I believe, would consider an innocent girl a challenge.”

“And safer than the brothels,” Ramses murmured.

“Please, Ramses.”

“I beg your pardon, Mother. I wouldn’t deny that one of Sebastian’s motives was seduction, but isn’t it somewhat strange that his father and mother would conspire with him? Especially his mother.”

“Bah,” Emerson declared. “She thinks the Albions, father and son, are entitled to use any means possible to get anything they want. They want Jamil’s tomb. They believe Jumana can help them find it. It isn’t difficult to understand why they are so keen. Jamil gave them enough to whet their appetites.”

He smiled provocatively at me.

“So that is where you were tonight,” I said. “I suspected as much.”

“No, Peabody, you didn’t suspect a cursed thing, or you would have insisted on going with me, and you’d have been caught in the act, as I almost was.”

“Tell us all about it,” said Nefret, her dimples showing.

“I have every intention of doing so, if the rest of you have finished chattering. It wasn’t my fault that I was almost caught,” Emerson went on. “One of the cursed sufragis turned up while I was trying my skeleton keys in the lock. He recognized me, of course, so I sent him on his way with a fistful of money and a few small curses. Once inside, I assumed my disguise.”

He paused – ostensibly to sip his whiskey. I didn’t ask why he had bothered with a disguise. A disguise is its own excuse as far as Emerson is concerned.

“You may well ask,” Emerson continued, smirking at me, “why I bothered with a disguise. It was a necessary precaution. If I had been found inside the room, by one of the Albions or a servant, the individual would only have caught a glimpse of a bearded Egyptian before I made my getaway, through the window or out the door. In fact, I was not disturbed. I had ample time to search all the rooms, which were interconnected. The loot, if I may so express it, was in Albion’s room. He and his wife occupy separate bedchambers.”

“That is an extraneous fact, Emerson,” I said. “And none of our business.”

“One never knows what may be relevant, Peabody. It is possible, though not probable, that she is unaware of Albion’s dealings with Jamil. He had a boxful of artifacts, including some fragments of the painting of Khonsu. Jamil must have sold him those and hinted that they were a meaningful clue. The lad had quite a sense of humor. As for the rest… Here’s the list, as nearly as I can remember. First, another cosmetic jar like the one you purchased, with the cartouche intact. It was, as Ramses deduced, that of the God’s Wife Shepenwepet. Second and third, two ushebtis inscribed for the same woman, approximately eight inches high, of blue-green faience. Fourth, and most remarkable, a sistrum of bronze inlaid with gold.” He took a sheet of paper from the table beside him. “I did this while you were all fussing over Bertie,” he explained. “My artistic skills are not as good as David’s, but I wanted to capture the details while I remembered them.”

We gathered round to inspect the drawing. The sistrum was a musical instrument, rather like a rattle, played before various gods. It was dedicated to Hathor, goddess of music, whose image appeared here as the head of a woman with long curling locks and the characteristic cow’s ears. From this sculptured head rose a long loop of copper wire threaded with rods which were strung with beads, so that when the sistrum was held by its handle – this one in the shape of a lotus column – and shaken, it produced a pleasing if somewhat monotonous sound. All the elements I have described were present in Emerson’s sketch, which meant that this object was truly unusual, undamaged, and intact.

“Couldn’t get the face right,” Emerson admitted. “It’s very beautiful. Obviously from a royal workshop.”

“And made for a royal woman,” Ramses said. “I admire your forbearance, Father, I’d have been strongly tempted to take this. It ought to be in a museum.”

“It will be,” Emerson assured him, with a snap of his teeth. “We’ll give the Albions plenty of rope, before we pull the noose tight. There can be no doubt; Jamil’s tomb is that of one of the Divine Wives of Amon, and if these small objects are representative of the contents, Heaven only knows what else may be there.”

Cyrus let out a low moan. “I’d sell my soul for a find like that. And if Joe Albion gets to it first, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”

Next day I penned a courteous note to Mrs. Albion thanking her for her delightful party. It was somewhat hypocritical, as Emerson was quick to point out, but in my opinion a certain amount of hypocrisy is necessary in maintaining the social amenities. If everyone said exactly what he or she thought of everyone else, there would be no social amenities.

“Anyhow,” I added, folding the note, “breaking off relations with the Albions would be a serious error until we get the goods on them.”

We went to work as usual, but did not accomplish a great deal. Emerson’s discovery of the artifacts had whetted his appetite and stimulated his imagination. He tried to concentrate on the work at hand, but he would stop from time to time and stare off into space, mumbling to himself. How well I understood! The broken mud-brick walls of Deir el Medina were so pitiful in comparison to golden dreams of a royal tomb.

Jumana had come late to breakfast, looking so woebegone and red around the eyes that Sennia demanded to know where it hurt and what she could do to make it better. Nefret distracted the child by describing the decorations of the ballroom and the lavish menu, and the Great Cat of Re provided an additional diversion by appearing with an agitated mouse in its mouth. With Sennia’s assistance Ramses managed to pry the cat’s jaws apart and remove the mouse, which he carried outside and released, to the utter disgust of Horus. I hoped that the presentation of unharmed, living prey was not becoming a habit with the confounded cat. Horus at least had the decency to dispose of his in private.

I decided to say no more to Jumana. She had been punished by our combined disapproval and Nefret’s tongue-lashing, and after all, she had not committed a serious misdemeanor, only an error in judgment understandable in a young girl. After having been raised in one society she had had to learn the ways of another; and since she had only been acquainted with men whose moral sensibilities were irreproachable, it was not surprising that she should have misunderstood the despicable intentions of Sebastian Albion.

She accepted the tedious task of sifting the fill without complaint and worked steadily all morning. When we stopped for luncheon she sat to one side, her eyes downcast, and Cyrus, kindhearted individual that he was, made an attempt to cheer her up.

“How about helping me this afternoon?” he asked. “You’ve been at that rubbish dump all morning. That all right with you, Emerson?”

“Certainly, certainly,” said my equally tenderhearted husband.

“You were asking the other day about the theodolite,” Bertie said. “I’ll show you how to use it, if you like.”

It was the first remark he had addressed to her, for she had kept out of his way. Her expressive face brightened.

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

By the end of the day she had recovered her good spirits. Whether she had had the decency to apologize to Bertie I did not know, but she was painstakingly polite to him and he responded like the nice lad he was, with no evidence of hard feelings.

Several days passed without our hearing a word from the Albions, to the disappointment of Emerson, who had rather hoped they would notice that the stolen objects had been disturbed. If they questioned the sufragi who had found him trying to open the lock they would know the identity of the intruder.

“The sufragi wouldn’t betray the Father of Curses,” said Ramses. “You ought to have left your card.”

Emerson curled his lip in acknowledgment of this touch of humor.

“Why stir them up?” Nefret asked. “They’ve abandoned their plans to excavate. Perhaps they’ve given up on finding the tomb.”

“No, they have not,” Emerson grumbled. “Selim says they have hired that rascal Mohammed Hammad as their dragoman. He came back from wherever he was as soon as he got the word that Jamil was dead. He’s no more a dragoman than I am an opera singer.”

“He’s a thief,” I agreed. “But you may be sure he doesn’t know any more about Jamil’s tomb than we do. He’d have been looting it before this if he did.”

The weather had turned unusually hot for that time of year. Even the nights were still and warm. We were all affected by it to some extent, except for Emerson, who never feels the heat and who can sleep through an earthquake. Never would I relinquish the comfort of my husband’s presence, but I must say that lying next to him was rather like being in close proximity to an oven. After several restless nights, I had just got to sleep – or so it felt – when he mumbled loudly in my ear. It was the too-familiar refrain: “Hand of the god… what… where?”

I gave him a rather sharp poke. He rolled over, shoving me to the edge of the bed.

Wide awake and somewhat vexed, I abandoned any hope of repose. I went to the window and leaned out. The room was still dark but there was a freshness in the air that betokened the coming of dawn. It cooled my warm cheeks, and my temper. I had been standing there for several minutes when I heard the creak of an opening door. It was the door at the far end of the courtyard. I had been meaning to have Ali oil the hinges.

It was light enough by now for me to see dim shapes. There were two of them in the doorway, huddled close together. A whisper reached my ears; one form vanished, the other moved slyly and quietly toward the house.

I saw no need to wake Emerson; it is a laborious process at best, and I preferred to deal with this myself. I waited until she had almost reached her window before I climbed out of mine. She let out a stifled shriek and turned to flee, but I was too quick for her.

“Where have you been?” I demanded, seizing her in a firm grip.

“I – I -” Invention failed; she gasped, “Oh, Sitt Hakim, you frightened me!”

“Where have you been, Jumana?”

“Only for a walk. It was hot. I could not sleep.”

“You were with a man. Don’t lie, I saw him.”

“I did nothing wrong. Please believe me!”

“So you have said before. What precisely did you do?”

“I – I promised I would not tell. I gave my word!”

Exasperation had caused me to raise my voice, and defiance, as I thought it, had caused her to raise hers. A grumble and a thrashing of bedclothes told me that we had wakened Emerson. These sounds were followed by a shout: “Peabody!” He always shouts when he reaches out and finds I am not beside him.

“Here,” I called.

Emerson stumbled to the window and looked out. “Is that… Oh, good Gad!”

Only the upper half of his body was visible, but Emerson is a modest man; he retreated, cursing, and began looking for his clothes. I knew it would take him a while, so I pushed Jumana toward her window.

“Go in. You are to remain in your room. If you leave the house without my permission, you need never come back.”

She obeyed without resistance, verbal or physical. I thought I heard a little sob. It did not soften my heart.

When I climbed back in my own window, Emerson was still searching for his trousers. “Never mind that, Emerson,” I said. “You may as well bathe and dress properly, it is almost morning. We have a serious problem on our hands. Jumana has been creeping out at night – possibly for several nights – and she was with a man. I am afraid it was Sebastian Albion.”

“Damnation,” Emerson murmured. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, pushing it back from his face. “Are you sure?”

“Who else would it be? Unless,” I added bitterly, “she has a whole string of them. How could I have been so deceived in her character? I am sadly disappointed, Emerson.”

“Now, Peabody, don’t jump to conclusions.” He sat on the side of the bed and pulled me down next to him. “There may be an innocent explanation. Have you given her a chance to explain?”

“She refused to answer my questions. She said she had given her word. Her word! To a vile deceiver like that!”

“Give her another chance.” A horrible idea struck him. In quavering tones he asked, “You don’t want me to question her, do you?”

“No, Emerson, you are hopeless about such matters. I will give her another chance to confess, naturally. I will leave her locked in her room today and speak to her again this evening, after she has had time to repent.”

“And you have had time to cool off,” said Emerson, putting an arm round my shoulders. “My dear, I don’t blame you for being hurt and disappointed, but – er – you aren’t going to starve her, I hope?”

“Certainly not. I will take her breakfast to her myself. Later.”

I felt calmer after a nice long bath, but I was not ready to face Jumana. I would be the first to admit that my maternal instincts are not well developed – they had been stunted, I believe, by the raising of Ramses – but I had become rather attached to Jumana. I had had such high hopes for her. To find that she was a sneak and a liar and – and worse, perhaps – had left me not only disappointed, but hurt. Yes, Emerson was right about that. I had believed she had become equally attached to us.

When I went to breakfast, the Great Cat of Re was sitting on my chair, its chin on the table, its large green eyes fixed on the platter of bacon. “This is beginning to be like the house of the Three Bears,” I said. “It sits on our chairs, it sleeps on our beds, and now it is about to eat my porridge.”

Sennia found this very witty, but nobody else did, including the cat. Ramses’s keen black eyes detected the perturbation behind my attempt at normalcy; brow furrowing, he started to speak, glanced at Sennia, and remained silent. It was Sennia who asked about Jumana. I explained that she was not feeling well and would spend the day in bed. “You are not to go in her room,” I added. “She needs to rest. Do you understand?”

“Shall I take her a tray?” Fatima asked.

“I will see to that,” I replied. “Later. Thank you, Fatima. Where is Gargery? It is time Sennia left for her lessons.”

Gargery entered at that moment to announce we had guests. “Mr. Bertie and Mr. Cyrus. You didn’t tell us they were expected for breakfast, madam.”

“Stop trying to put me in the wrong, Gargery,” I said somewhat snappishly. “They were not expected.”

“But we are always glad to see them,” Fatima said, adding plates and cups and silverware to the table, and bustling out for more food.

“Sorry to disturb you folks,” Cyrus said. He did not look at all sorry. Bliss – delight – happiness… The words are too weak for the emotion that transformed his face. The only other time I had seen that glow was on the day he and Katherine were wed.

“What is it, Cyrus?” I cried, jumping to my feet.

“It’s for Bertie to make the announcement,” Cyrus replied. He was puffed with pride.

Bertie looked round the table. “Where’s Jumana? She should be here.”

“Oh my goodness,” I gasped. “You aren’t… you two aren’t engaged?”

Bertie’s boyish laugh rang out. “Better than that, Mrs. Emerson. We’ve found it, Jumana and I. Jamil’s tomb.”

Pandemonium ensued. Even Gargery, who had only the vaguest notion of what Bertie meant, clapped his hands and joined in the cries of excitement and congratulation. As the others gathered round Bertie, all talking at once, I slipped out of the room.

Jumana was sitting on her bed, her hands folded and her face smeared with dried tears. Now that I got a good look at her, I realized she was not dressed for a romantic rendezvous. Her shirt and trousers were torn and dusty, her boots were scuffed, and her hair straggled over her face.

“Bertie is here,” I said.

She jumped up. “Then it’s all right? He told you? I promised I would not, it was to be a surprise, his surprise. May I go now?” She let out a peal of laughter. “I am very hungry!”

Ah, the resilience of youth! From despair to delight in the twinkling of an eye! I could have let her go without further delay; I was tempted to do so, but justice compelled me to make what amends I could.

“First, I must apologize,” I said.

“Apologize? To me? Why?”

“For misjudging you. I was wrong, and you were right to keep your promise to Bertie. I deeply regret the injustice I did you and I hope you will forgive me.” I held out my hand. She would have fainted with sheer surprise if I had attempted to embrace her, and anyhow, she was very grubby.

“Forgive? You?” She stared wide-eyed at my offered hand.

“I did you an injustice,” I repeated. “Shake hands, if you will, and then go to the others.”

She did not shake my hand. She kissed it, fervently and damply, gave me a radiant smile, and ran out of the room.

I would not have blamed her for taking advantage of her role as heroine – misjudged, falsely accused heroine at that! Instead she insisted that all the credit belonged to Bertie. It was he and he alone who had deduced where the tomb must be.

“But where is it?” Emerson shouted, tugging at his hair. “Bertie won’t say. Jumana, where -”

“We want to show you,” Bertie explained. “You’ll never believe it otherwise.”

“They’re entitled,” Ramses said, smiling in sympathy. “Lead the way, Bertie.”

He led us to Deir el Medina.

Our men were there, waiting to begin the day’s work. Ramses called them to gather round, explaining that Bertie had an important announcement to make. The truth had begun to dawn on Emerson by then. “It can’t be,” he mumbled. “I don’t believe it. Damnation!”

“Father, if you please,” Ramses said. “Bertie, you have the floor.” He added, with a grin, “Make the most of it.”

“Oh, well,” Bertie said, blushing. “It was an accident, really, you know. I sat here for days with my foot up and nothing much to do but stare at the scenery. I got to know it pretty well. Look up there.”

He pointed.

Straight ahead, the walls of the temple occupied the opening of the little valley, with the fields and the river stretching out to the north and the cliffs rising up on either side. The ruined tombs of the workers were scattered along the western slope. Bertie’s extended arm indicated the highest point, to the left of the temple. We stared in silent bewilderment for a time. We were all looking for a sculpture – the figure of a god, weathered by time, shaped by the hand of man.

A divinity had shaped it – nature herself. As I have had occasion to mention, the rock formations of the western mountains assume bizarre forms. This might have been a giant fist, gripping the crest of the hill – four regular, rounded, parallel shapes, with a small spur of rock next to them like the end of a thumb. It was a prominent landmark, rising high above the lower, less precipitous part of the hillside, and once the eye had defined it the resemblance was unmistakable.

“There!” I exclaimed in wonderment. “Emerson, do you see?”

Emerson removed his pith helmet and flung it onto the ground. I gave him a warning frown and a little poke. It was sufficient; his better nature triumphed over envy. “Well, well,” he said hoarsely. “Hmph. That is – congratulations, Vandergelt.”

Cyrus slapped him on the back. “It belongs to both of us, old pal. All of us, I should say.”

“No, no.” Emerson drew himself up. “We made an agreement, Vandergelt. The tombs of Deir el Medina are yours, and it was Bertie who found this one. Congratulations, I say.”

Never had I admired my dear Emerson more. He looked so noble, his shoulders thrown back and his tanned face wearing a strained smile, it was all I could do not to embrace him. Cyrus was equally moved. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

“That’s darned decent of you, Emerson. But no more than I expected.”

“And no less than you deserve,” Emerson said gruffly. “So where is the damned tomb?”

“In that crack between the first and second fingers,” Bertie said. “It took us several days – nights, I should say – to find it. Fortunately the moon has been full. We haven’t been inside. We thought Cyrus ought to have the privilege,” he added, wincing as Cyrus seized his hand and wrung it vigorously.

“Are you sure the passage is open?” I asked. “I know Jamil has been in and out of the place, but he is – was – slightly built and agile and foolhardy.”

Naturally the men ignored this sensible comment. Emerson’s eyes glittered like sapphires. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

We restrained Emerson while we discussed the best way to proceed. Bertie explained how he and Jumana had managed it, scaling the cliff and lowering themselves from above by means of a rope. Emerson was pleased to approve this plan, though if I had not kept hold of him he would have started straight up the sheerest part of the cliff.

We all went, of course, including Selim and Daoud. Their assistance was invaluable, for it was a tricky climb. When we stood atop the rounded “finger” looking down, I addressed Jumana, who had stuck to me like a burr.

“You did this at night? Really, my dear, was that wise? You ought to have told the Professor, or Cyrus, of your theory.”

Bertie overheard. “It was my fault, Mrs. Emerson. I wanted to be sure before I told anyone. I didn’t mean to tell Jumana either, but I asked too many questions – about the terrain here, and whether Jamil had explored this area – and she wrung it out of me.”

He turned to respond to Emerson, and Jumana said in a low voice, “He would have searched alone. It was too dangerous.”

“It certainly would have been,” I agreed. “I am surprised he allowed you to accompany him.”

“He said I could not. So,” said Jumana coolly, “I told him that you and Nefret do not let Ramses and the Professor stop you from doing what you want, and I was trying to be like you. But you see why I could not speak before. He trusted me, and I had – I had been unkind and unfair to him.”

“Ah,” I said somewhat uneasily. “So you think well of him, do you?”

She met my eyes directly and with no sign of self-consciousness. “He is a good man. We are friends, I hope.”

I hoped so too.

Watching Daoud knot the rope round Cyrus’s waist, I issued a final order. “Cyrus, stop at once and come back if the passage becomes too narrow or the ceiling looks unstable or -”

“Sure, Amelia. Lower away, Daoud.”

“You shouldn’t have allowed him to go first, Emerson,” I scolded, as Cyrus’s body disappeared into the crevice.

“My dear Peabody, how could I deprive him of a moment he has waited for his whole life? If he died in the attempt, he would die happy. That,” Emerson added quickly, “was only a figure of speech. Nothing is going to happen. But – er – well, perhaps I ought to follow him.”

“Not with one arm, Emerson!”

“They will have to lower me, that’s all,” said Emerson, his chin protruding in a manner that made remonstrance useless. “We’ve another rope, haven’t we?”

“It will be a tight fit,” Bertie warned. “There’s a roughish platform, about five feet square, with the passage going off into the cliff at a right angle. It’s partially filled with -”

“Plenty of room,” said Emerson, tossing one end of the rope to Selim and trying to knot the other end round his waist.

I said, “Oh, curse it,” and tied the knot myself. Then I lay flat on the ground peering down into the crevice as Emerson was lowered.

With the rope anchored and held by both Selim and Ramses, I was not afraid Emerson would fall. I was afraid he would try to crawl into the narrow passage and get stuck like a cork in a bottle. It was quite dark down there except for the limited light of Emerson’s torch. I could see very little, and the auditory sense was not of much help either, thanks to the echoes that distorted every sound. The rope went loose and Emerson yelled something, and I let out a small exclamation.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Ramses said. “He’s reached the platform.”

“He won’t be able to get through the passage,” I muttered. “He’s twice the size of Jamil.”

“He’ll get through,” Ramses said, passing his sleeve over his perspiring face. “If he has to dig the fill out with his bare hands. One bare hand.”

I could hear him doing it. Loose rock began falling from the bottom of the cleft, rattling down the hillside. It slowed and stopped. After that there was nothing but silence, until a call from Cyrus brought us all to our feet. Daoud seized the rope and pulled with all his might. As soon as Cyrus’s head appeared we fell on him and dragged him out.

“Well?” I cried.

Cyrus shook his head. His lips moved, but no words emerged. Tears ran down his face. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“Dust,” said my practical son. He handed Cyrus the water bottle, and then leaped for the other rope as it tightened. With Daoud’s help they soon had Emerson up; he hadn’t even bothered tying the rope round his body, but was holding on with one hand. We hauled him over the edge and he staggered to his feet, blinking bloodshot eyes.

“There are four coffins,” he gasped. “Four. Four of everything, packed into that room from floor to ceiling and side to side. Four sets of canopic jars, four gold-inlaid boxes, four funerary papyri, four hundred ushebtis, four thousand -”

Cyrus began jumping up and down and waving his arms. “The God’s Wives,” he bellowed. “Four! I never thought I’d live to see this day! If I were struck dead tonight, I’d be the happiest man alive.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I said, catching hold of him. “You would be dead. And you will be, if you fall off the cliff.”

I wanted to take Emerson home; he had ruined another shirt squeezing through those tight spaces, and banged his head, and scraped most of the skin off both hands and cracked the cast. Cyrus was in little better case, but neither of them heard a word I said; they kept shouting enthusiastically at each other and shaking hands. I consigned them both to the devil (they didn’t hear that either) and concluded I was entitled to satisfy my own curiosity.

We went down in turn, two at a time for safety’s sake: Jumana and Bertie, Ramses and I, Selim and Daoud. Emerson offered to take Nefret, but she said she believed she would wait. The procedure was somewhat uncomfortable – crawling on hands and knees over rough fragments of stone, with dust choking one’s mouth and an occasional bat squeaking past overhead, but the sight was so incredible I would not have wanted to miss it.

The opening of the chamber had been closed with mortared blocks. Jamil had removed the upper layers, stacking the stones along the passage, which made the last few feet something of a squeeze. Looking in, I saw at first only a dazzle of gold. It was the end of an anthropoid coffin, inlaid with glass and semiprecious stones. Packed all around it were smaller objects: woven baskets, caskets of ebony and cedar, tattered fragments of papyrus and linen. Jamil had rummaged through the smaller boxes, dragging out anything he could reach.

Cyrus’s long patient wait had been rewarded at last. This was another cache, like that of the royal mummies; loyal followers of the Adorers of the God had rescued them and their funerary goods from tomb robbers, and hidden them away in this remote spot. Time and careless handling had destroyed some of the artifacts, but it was still one of the richest finds ever made in Egypt.

We could not even begin excavating the tomb chamber that day. The passage and the platform had to be completely cleared first and a method of stabilizing and removing the objects determined upon. Needless to say, all work came to a standstill; the men danced and sang and cheered and Daoud told them all extravagant lies about the treasures in the chamber. It was necessary to make arrangements for guards, by day and by night, for the news would spread like wildfire.

“We might stop at Gurneh and have a word with Mohammed Hassan,” I suggested. “A curse or two, perhaps?”

Emerson chuckled. “He will probably cry like a baby. Yes, I will point out the moral advantages of honesty. If he had not cheated Jamil, he’d have had a chance at this tomb.”

“It would have been a bit tricky,” Ramses said. “Even if they worked only at night, they would have left traces of their activities, and we might have observed those signs. That was why Jamil tried to lure us out into the western wadis. He wanted everyone away from Deir el Medina.”

Since the tomb must not be left unguarded for an instant, Daoud and several of the other men volunteered to stay until evening, when they would be relieved.

“I suppose you plan to sleep here every night,” I said to Cyrus.

“Every night and every day till we can get a steel door in place. Jumping Jehoshaphat, Amelia, you don’t know what this means to me! Katherine! I’ve got to tell Katherine. She’ll be so durned proud of this boy! And then,” Cyrus went on, grinning fiendishly, “maybe I’ll just run over to Luxor and break the news to Joe Albion. I want to see his face when he hears.”

We sent Selim off with a list of the equipment we would need, and dismissed the men for the day. A celebration was definitely in order; Cyrus had promised the greatest fantasia ever seen in Luxor, but that would have to wait. Excitement and exertion had left everyone weary, and Bertie and Jumana both showed the effects of several sleepless nights. I instructed Bertie to go home and rest.

We had an early night too. Tea and biscuits and Sennia’s excited questions revived Jumana temporarily, but I sent her off to bed immediately after dinner. Sennia would not go to bed until Emerson promised to take her into the tomb.

“Emerson, I absolutely forbid it,” I exclaimed, after she had gone dancing off with Horus in her arms.

“Oh, come, Peabody, don’t be a spoilsport. Ramses was in and out of worse places when he was her age. I won’t take her until we’ve made sure it’s safe.” He threw his napkin on the table and stood up. “I’m late. Vandergelt will be there already.”

“Emerson,” I said. “This is Cyrus’s tomb. He is in charge, not you.”

Emerson looked uncomfortable. “I suppose I am allowed to offer my expert advice?”

“Not unless he asks for it. He is generously allowing you to participate, which is more than you ever did for him!”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, stroking his chin.

“You might quite properly offer him the assistance of your staff,” Ramses suggested.

“Oh. Hmmm. Certainly. Including myself?” He gave me a questioning look.

I pretended to consider. Emerson had really behaved quite well, for him. “If he asks you,” I conceded.

“He asked me to stand guard with him tonight.”

“Then you may go.”

Emerson burst out laughing and gave me a bruising hug. “Thank you for giving me permission, my dear. Ramses, are you coming?”

“No,” I said, before Ramses could reply. “He won’t be needed. Nefret, you might have another look at his injury. In my opinion he overdid it today.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Nefret had also noticed that her husband seemed abstracted. He submitted without comment to her examination, but she found no cause for concern. The wound was healing well.

“It’s nice to have an evening to ourselves,” she said.

“Yes.” He was prowling restlessly around the sitting room, picking up a book and putting it down, straightening a stack of papers. Hands folded in her lap, she watched him for a while and then took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

He came to her at once, dropping to his knees in front of the chair and taking the hand she offered.

“I wondered.” His other hand came to rest lightly on her waist. “But I didn’t want to ask.”

“Why not? You had every right.”

“No, I hadn’t. When did you know? Nefret, look at me. Before Gaza?”

She might have equivocated, mentioned the various factors that made certainty difficult. She met his troubled gaze squarely. “Yes.”

“And you risked that? That awful trip, the danger, the -”

She took his face between her hands. “I knew it would be all right. I can’t tell you how I knew, but I did. I would have risked it anyhow. I want this very much, but you are the dearest thing in the world to me. I let you go – I let you take the risk – but I’d have died of suspense waiting in Cairo. Oh, darling, aren’t you glad?”

“Do you suppose I don’t feel the same about you? I’m beginning to understand what you went through, all those times when I was off on some bloody damned job without you. Glad? I suppose I am. Will be. At this moment, I… I’m afraid, I think. I can’t take this risk for you. I can’t even share it.”

She had never seen tears in his eyes before. Her heart turned over. He hid his face against her and she held him, her arms tight around his bowed shoulders.

“It’s too late to change our minds now,” she murmured.

He let out a long breath and when he raised his head she saw again the boy she had loved so long without realizing how much she loved him. His eyes were bright with laughter and dawning joy. “Are you sure you’re prepared for this, Nefret? You’ve heard Mother’s stories. What if it turns out to be like me?”

The house was very quiet. I was alone, without even a cat to keep me company. Many duties awaited me, but for some reason I didn’t feel like tackling any of them. Seating myself on the sofa, I found my sewing box and took out the crumpled scrap of linen.

The sitting room door opened. One look at their faces was all I needed. Hand in hand, they came to stand before me.

“We wanted you to be the first to know, Mother,” Nefret said.

I had to clear my throat before I could speak. I got out four words before my voice failed me. “Well! Naturally, I am…”

“Oh, Mother, don’t cry.” Nefret sat down beside me and put her arms round me. “You never cry.”

“Nor will I mar the happiness of this moment by doing so,” I assured her, somewhat huskily. I held out my hand to Ramses, who seated himself on my other side, let out a yelp, and sprang up. He had sat on my embroidery.

We laughed until the tears came; they had not far to come. Returning to his seat, Ramses held up the miserable object.

“She’s going to claim she has known for weeks. What is this, Mother?”

I wiped my eyes. “A – er – a bib. Babies dribble quite a lot. These blue bits are violets, and these… It is rather nasty-looking, isn’t it? I think the bloodstains will wash out.”

“It’s the most beautiful bib I’ve ever seen,” Nefret said, wiping her eyes. “And I hope the bloodstains never wash out. You did know!”

“Not until this moment,” I said firmly. It would have been the height of unkindness to spoil such a wonderful surprise. “I was making it for Lia’s little girl.”

“Girl?” Ramses’s eyebrows tilted.

“I suppose Abdullah told you,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “Did he happen to mention ours?”

“He never tells me anything important,” I said. Nefret laughed, and I saw Ramses shape the word with his lips: “Ours.” He was still trying to take it in.

I had known, of course, for some time. To an experienced eye the symptoms are unmistakable.

“When?” I inquired.

“September,” Nefret said.

“Ah. So the worst is over, and you are obviously in splendid health. If bouncing across the desert in that motorcar and stealing horses didn’t bring on a miscarriage, nothing will.”

I spoke with all the authority I could summon, which is, if I may say so, considerable, and the faint shadow of anxiety on Ramses’s face faded. “If you say so, Mother.”

“I do. And,” I added, “next time I see Abdullah he will verify it.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

They told Emerson next morning. It took a while to get his attention; he and Cyrus and the others were already planning the day’s activities when they arrived at Deir el Medina. After his wife had poked him with her parasol a time or two he agreed, amiably but in some perplexity, to join them for a brief private conversation in a corner of the vestibule. They had discussed various ways of breaking the news.

“If I say we have something to tell him, he’ll look blank and ask what,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “And announcing he is about to become a grandfather is too sickeningly coy.”

So, in the end, she blurted it out. “I’m going to have a baby, Father.”

Emerson’s jaw went slack. “A… a what?”

“We don’t know yet,” Ramses said. “But we’re pretty sure it’s bound to be either a boy or a girl.”

Emerson choked. “Boy? Girl? Baby? Good – good Gad!”

“Take my handkerchief,” said his wife.

Emerson indignantly refused the handkerchief; if there were tears in his eyes he blotted them on Nefret’s hair as he took her in a close embrace. He turned to Ramses, held out his hand, and then, to the latter’s utter stupefaction, embraced him too.

He was with difficulty prevented from rushing out shouting the news at the top of his lungs to everyone present. “A little less publicly, please,” Nefret begged. “We haven’t told Fatima yet, or Kadija, or Sennia, or Gargery, or -”

“Oh, of course Gargery’s feelings are of paramount importance,” said Emerson with heavy sarcasm and a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Naturally, my dears, I bow to your wishes. Good Gad!”

Emerson went directly to Cyrus and whispered in his ear. Within five minutes everyone on the site had heard. It was possible to watch the word spread by the smiles that warmed the men’s faces as they turned to look at Nefret.

She accepted Cyrus’s hearty good wishes and promises of a celebration to end all celebrations, and then got their minds back to business. “Did anything happen last night?”

“Good Gad,” said Emerson, still grinning. “Good Gad! Er – what did you say? Oh. Well, we saw a few shadows flitting about hither and yon, but they vanished when I announced my – our – presence.”

“You didn’t recognize any of them?” Ramses asked.

“I didn’t have to see them to know who they were,” his father retorted. “Members of our distinguished tomb-robbing families having a look round just in case.”

“They may try again,” Ramses said.

“Bah,” said Emerson. “It’s been over fifty years since the Gurnawis attacked an archaeologist.” He added, his face falling, “The greatest nuisance will be sightseers. They will be swarming as soon as the news spreads.”

In this he was correct. Following regulations, Cyrus had immediately informed the Service des Antiquités of the find. An enthusiastic telegram of congratulations from Daressy was followed in two days by a visit from that gentleman. It was his official duty to inspect the place and make sure the rules were being followed, and a find of that magnitude happened very seldom. Timber balks and a complex arrangement of scaffolding and ladders had been erected, so it was now possible to reach the tomb from below. They had to haul Daressy up by means of a net. He didn’t much enjoy the process, but as he informed them afterward, he would have undergone worse to see the astonishing spectacle.

“My felicitations,” he declared, mopping his sweating face. “For once we have got in ahead of our energetic friends from Gurneh! It is a pleasure to know I can safely leave the clearance in your capable hands, mes amis.”

He accepted a cup of tea and mopped his face again. “By the by, I meant to ask how it is that M. Vandergelt is involved. I was under the impression that he had the firman for Medinet Habu.”

“You are familiar with how it is, monsieur,” Emerson said glibly and ungrammatically. “Thanks to the bedamned war, we are all short of hands. We help one another, as professional goodness demands. It was the young M. Vandergelt who in fact discovered the hiding place.”

“Ah, je comprends bien,” said Daressy, amused. “C’est admirable, messieurs. Proceed, then. I will return from time to time, if I may, not to interfere with your work, but to admire the wonders you will find.”

“I told you he wouldn’t object,” Emerson said to his wife, after they had got Daressy off.

“You left him no choice in the matter,” said that lady.

Every tourist in Luxor wanted to see the tomb. Most of them left in a hurry, driven off by Emerson’s curses and by the fact that there was not much to see as yet. Cyrus was determined nothing should be removed from the chamber until he had arranged for proper lighting and had made certain that objects like the coffins could be moved without damage.

One group of visitors was more persistent. The Albions arrived, en masse, the day after the discovery. Jumana retreated as soon as she saw them, drawing Bertie away with her, and nobody offered them a chair or a glass of tea. The coolness of their reception would have disconcerted sensitive persons, but that adjective did not apply to any of the Albions.

“So that’s how you’re going to get in and out of the place,” Mr. Albion remarked, eyeing the scaffolding. “Too much for me, but Sebastian would like to have a look.”

“Sebastian will have to do without a look,” said Emerson. “Good Gad, I have not the time for this.”

He stalked off to join Jumana and Bertie at the foot of the scaffold. Ramses lingered, marveling at the Albions’ thick skins. Cyrus was unable to resist the temptation to gloat, boasting extravagantly about Bertie and describing the contents of the tomb in loving detail. Mr. Albion’s fixed grin remained in place.

“Sounds like a big job,” he said. “How long do you think it will take?”

“Hard to tell,” Cyrus said. “We’ll have to see what’s there and what needs to be done.”

“Fascinating,” Sebastian declared. He looked around with a complacent smile. “I’ve never observed an excavation in process. Hope you don’t mind if we drop by now and then to watch.”

Ramses had had enough. “Apparently it has escaped your attention that you are not welcome here,” he said. “After what happened the other night -”

“Oh, that. An unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Quite,” said Mrs. Albion, speaking for the first time. “I do think, Mr. Emerson, that you owe my son Sebastian an apology.”

Ramses caught his mother’s eye. He took a deep breath. “I am indeed sorry. Sorry that I didn’t catch up with him.”

“Well, really!” Mrs. Albion took her husband’s arm. “Evil is in the mind of the beholder; isn’t that so, Mrs. Emerson? Let us go, Mr. Albion.”

Cyrus couldn’t resist one final dig.

“No use making arrangements with the dealers on this one, Joe. At the final division, most of the objects will go to the Cairo Museum, and the rest, supposing they are generous enough to leave us a percentage, will not be for sale.”

The Albions left, and Ramses said, “You did rather rub it in, Cyrus.”

“Enjoyed every minute of it,” Cyrus declared, stroking his goatee. “I hoped Joe would slip and make some dumb remark about how he’d already paid for his share, but he’s too smart for that. I wonder who else is going to turn up?”

The next to turn up was Howard Carter, who had to listen to a tirade from Emerson about his exploration of the western wadis. “I’ve been trying to track you down for weeks,” Emerson declared indignantly. “Where have you been? What were you doing in the Gabbanat el-Qirud? Why the devil haven’t you made your notes accessible?”

Carter was too much in awe of Emerson to protest the injustice of the complaint. “My notes are at your disposal, sir, as always,” he said meekly. “I apologize if I offended you.”

“Bah,” said Emerson. “Now see here, Carter -”

“Father, I’m sure Mr. Carter would rather hear about the new tomb,” Nefret interrupted. “Sit down, Mr. Carter, and have a cup of tea.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Carter said with a grateful look at her. “I most certainly would. I will be in Luxor for some time – my next project is to copy the procession reliefs at Luxor Temple – but naturally, if I can assist in any way at all…”

“You can come by now and then,” Emerson said grudgingly. “It will teach you how to conduct a proper clearance of a tomb.”

However, the most unexpected news came in the form of a telegram.

“Look forward to seeing you all soon. Fondest regards, Cousin Ismail.”

“I might have known the news of the tomb would fetch him,” Emerson grumbled. “He doesn’t say when he is coming. Damned inconsiderate.”

“Even more inconsiderate is that infernal signature,” I said in some vexation. “How are we to introduce him? The Vandergelts are bound to recognize him as Sethos, but we cannot call him that. What is his real name?”

“Cursed if I know,” Emerson admitted. “Never gave it much thought.”

“Well, my dear, he will turn up where and when he chooses, as he chooses, and there isn’t a thing we can do about it.”

He turned up at Deir el Medina, two days later. We had had several other visitors that morning, including the cursed Albions; they came round almost every day, though they did not have the temerity to approach us again. Emerson stormed about this, but there was no way we could keep them away from the site as long as they did nothing but sit in their carriage at a distance and look on. The scaffolding had been completed and the door ordered; since nothing more could be done until we had acquired a generator and electric lighting, Emerson had sent us back to work on our boring village. I looked up from my rubbish dump to see a man on horseback approaching.

He came straight to me and removed his hat. “Good morning, Amelia. At your rubbish again, I see.”

He looked well. I observed that first: the healthy color in his face, the upright frame and easy pose. A neatly wound turban concealed his hair, and a magnificent coal-black beard hid the lower part of his face. The tweed suit was not the one he had borrowed from Ramses; it was new and very well cut. In short, he was the picture of a distinguished Oriental gentleman, possibly an official of high rank who had, as his accent indicated, been educated at an English university. Cyrus might be able to identify him as the surly, silent individual who had been his guest the year before, but I doubted any of the others who had known him so briefly would be able to do so.

“A fondness for beards must run in the family,” I remarked.

“You could hardly expect me to appear in Luxor without one, my dear. Some sharp-eyed person might notice I bear a resemblance to a certain well-known Egyptologist.”

“How am I to introduce you?”

“Cousin Ismail, of course. I rather like the name.”

He turned and offered his hand as Emerson came hurrying toward us.

The cordial reception he received seemed to surprise him a little. Nefret gave him a kiss, and Cyrus a hearty handshake, a knowing smile, and an invitation to visit the tomb. Sethos had to hear all about its discovery first; he congratulated Bertie and Jumana, who didn’t know quite what to make of him, but who were flattered by his interest. After luncheon we all went up to the platform outside the tomb. Sethos crawled in and out of the passage, and then brushed himself off and remarked, “You’ve quite a job ahead of you, Vandergelt. I would be happy to recommend a good restorer. I suspect you may need one, some of the organic materials appear to be in a delicate condition.”

“Are you an archaeologist, sir?” Jumana asked.

“I have had a good deal of experience in the field,” said Sethos smoothly. He glanced casually at the rock face above the entrance. It was the first time I had noticed the symbol – a roughly carved circle divided by a curving line.

Ramses waited until Bertie and Jumana and Cyrus had started down the ladder before he spoke. “I hope you don’t mind, sir. I took the liberty -”

Sethos grinned. “I was about to suggest it myself. The Master’s mark may not deter every thief in Gurneh, but it still carries some weight. By the by, are you acquainted with that lot?”

From the height where we stood, the Albions’s carriage was clearly visible. It had been there for several hours.

“We know them slightly,” I said. “Do you?”

“Albion was one of my best customers. I stopped dealing with him a few years ago, after he tried to cheat me.”

“Cheat you?” Emerson repeated. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone could.”

“Dear me, Radcliffe, was that meant to be sarcastic? He didn’t succeed. Watch out for him, that’s all I’m saying.”

When we parted for the day, Cyrus apologized for not inviting “Cousin Ismail” to dinner. “Got to stand guard tonight,” he explained. “But we’re expecting the door to arrive in a day or two; once that is up and secured, we hope, sir, to see a great deal of you. I would very much enjoy a private chat.”

“Thank you,” said my brother-in-law.

I had assumed he would stay with us. He said he had made other arrangements, but would be delighted to join us for tea and an early supper. Jumana’s presence prevented conversation of a personal nature, and when we got to the house Sennia was waiting on the veranda.

“So this is Sennia,” said Sethos, offering his hand. “I have heard a great deal about you – all to your credit, and all well deserved, I see.”

He had a way with women of all ages, and Sennia was no exception. Immensely flattered at the grown-up speech and gesture, she gravely shook hands with him. “Thank you, sir. I have not heard about you, though. Are you a friend of ours?”

“A very old friend” was the smiling reply. “Isn’t that so, Radcliffe?”

“You call him Radcliffe?” Sennia spread her skirts in a ladylike manner and took the chair he held for her. “He doesn’t like to be called that, you know.”

“I had no idea,” Sethos exclaimed. “What shall I call him, then?”

“Well, I call him Professor,” Sennia explained. “Aunt Amelia calls him Emerson, or ‘my dear,’ and Nefret calls him Father, which he is, and Ramses calls him ‘sir,’ and some people call him ‘Father of Curses.’ ”

“Perhaps ‘sir’ would be best,” said Sethos, wrinkling his brow. “What do you think, Sennia?”

I decided it was time to intervene. Emerson was biting his lip and muttering. “Speaking of names,” I said, “perhaps you would allow us – your old friends – to use your given name.”

“Call me anything you like, Amelia dear” was the smiling and uninformative response.

At least it got us off the subject of names, though Sethos continued to address his brother deferentially as ‘sir,’ which made Emerson swear under his breath.

“Do you know Mr. Vandergelt too?” Sennia asked.

“Oh, yes. One might say I know him as well as he knows himself.” He left Sennia to puzzle over this enigmatic remark, which the rest of us understood quite well. “I have not met Mrs. Vandergelt, though, or her son.”

“Can we have a party?” Sennia asked eagerly.

“We must certainly arrange something,” I remarked. “But it will have to wait until the tomb is locked up.”

“A wise precaution,” Sethos agreed gravely. “One never knows, does one?”

“We are glad to have you here, sir,” Nefret said. “You will stay, we hope, for Cyrus’s celebration.”

“He has good reason to celebrate,” Sethos said. “And I understand you and your husband have another cause for rejoicing.”

“How did you – how do you -?” Nefret gasped.

“I have my sources,” said Sethos. He held out his hand, and when he spoke the mockery was gone from his face and voice. “I wish you joy, Nefret. And you, Ramses. I suppose you’ll be returning to England before long?”

“Our child will be born in Egypt, as is fitting,” Nefret said. “Do you suppose I’d allow a pompous male English physician to take care of me, when there are two trained women obstetricians on the staff of my hospital?”

“What about you?” Emerson demanded of Sethos.

“I’m in no hurry to leave. England hasn’t much to offer me.” He smiled wickedly at his brother.

Emerson’s face reddened. “Neither has Luxor.”

“My dear fellow, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your activities. In fact, I would be delighted to assist in any possible manner.”

“Ha,” said Emerson.

Nefret turned her chuckle into a cough.

After dinner the men went off to stand guard. Emerson declined, with thanks, Sethos’s offer to join them.

“Do you suppose he will ever get over suspecting my intentions?” inquired my brother-in-law, after we had retired to the sitting room.

“Perhaps,” Nefret suggested, “if you would get over teasing him…”

“I can’t resist, Nefret. He’s such an easy mark. I was teasing, though, when I implied I would stay on here. I must leave tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Nefret exclaimed. Impulsively she placed her hand on his shoulder. “You will miss Cyrus’s party. We want to keep you with us a while longer.”

“You really mean it, don’t you?” The strange gray-green eyes were, for once, very kind. “I’d like to, Nefret, but I can’t.”

“You are going back to the war, aren’t you?” I asked composedly. “I thought you had promised Margaret this would be your last assignment.”

“The job’s not finished yet, Amelia dear. I made a quick trip here because – well, for two reasons. I must be getting old; I did want to see all of you. The other reason is more… difficult.”

“Would you like me to leave?” Nefret asked.

“No. Please stay. Did Amelia tell you about a conversation we had recently concerning my daughter?”

Nefret’s eyes widened, and I said, “I considered it a private confidence. I have not even told Emerson.”

“Thank you, Amelia. I wasn’t quite myself at the time; what precisely did I say?”

“You said she held you accountable for her mother’s death, and that she had run away from home. You attempted to find her at that time, I presume. A girl of fifteen or sixteen should not have been able to elude a determined search.”

“She was sixteen. But very precocious in a number of ways. Like her mother. I did search, long and hard, without result. I believe she had help, from one of Bertha’s former friends – the same one who told Maryam – Molly – about her mother’s death. Recently I heard that she had found a – a protector, and was in Egypt. I’ve been playing with the Turks ever since; haven’t had time to look for her here.”

“I am very sorry,” Nefret said gently. “Can nothing be done to save her?”

“She doesn’t want to be saved. Especially by me.”

He had not given way, nor would he, but I knew he cared more for the girl than he would admit and that guilt as well as affection motivated his search. I began, “There is a chance that we might -”

“You may encounter her; our Egypt is a small world, in a sense. That is why I brought the subject up. But, Amelia dear, don’t assume that because you managed to reform me – up to a point – you can redeem the entire damned universe. If Maryam blames me for her mother’s death, how do you suppose she feels about you?”

He rose, rather heavily. “I’ll say good night, and good-bye. My regards to Ramses and – er – Emerson.”

“Won’t we see you again?” Nefret asked.

“Not this time. I have business in Luxor before I leave tomorrow. If you learn anything about Molly, a message to our mutual friend with the preposterous name will reach me eventually. He will notify you of any change in my situation.”

“Your death, you mean?” I asked steadily.

“Now, Amelia, it isn’t like you to look on the dark side. Who knows, it may be a wedding invitation!” His mocking smile faded and he said hesitantly, “If you should hear from Margaret -”

“I will write her tomorrow,” I promised. “Someone must know her current address.”

“Thank you.” He took my hand. “Turn your back, Nefret.”

She let out a gasp and so did I. Sethos laughed and caught me in his arms and kissed me – on the brow.

“You will always be the woman I love,” he said. “That doesn’t prevent me from loving Margaret as much. You understand, I think.”

“Yes,” I said. “Turn your back, Nefret.”

Cyrus was bitterly disappointed when he learned of Sethos’s departure, though the arrival of the steel door, a day ahead of schedule, distracted him temporarily. Selim assured him the men would bend their best efforts to have it in place the following day.

“Then I can send out my invitations to the fantasia,” Cyrus said. “Shame Ismail had to leave so soon, I was looking forward to seeing more of him.”

“Typical,” Emerson growled. “Comes and goes at his own convenience.”

“He has other duties,” I said reprovingly. “As you are well aware.”

We did hear from him once again, however. A letter, hand-delivered, awaited us when we got to the house that afternoon. It contained only two sentences: “There are strangers in Luxor. And my former customer is still in the market.”

“I can guess who that’s from, but what the dickens does it mean?” asked Cyrus, who had come back with us for tea.

Emerson glanced around to make sure Sennia wasn’t listening. He lowered his voice.

“It is confirmation of my suspicions, Vandergelt. Tonight is the last night the tomb will be open. I had a feeling Albion wouldn’t give up without a final attempt. He won’t get help from the Gurnawis, but strangers, hired criminals, might be willing to attack us if the rewards were high enough.”

“Good Lord!” Cyrus ejaculated. “We’d better get over to Luxor right away. Have the fellows rounded up and put the fear of God into Joe Albion.”

“I am surprised at you, Vandergelt. One cannot arrest people without evidence of a crime.” Emerson smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I weary of Mr. Albion and his family. We will arrange a little ambush and catch them red-handed.”

“Hmmmm.” Cyrus stroked his goatee. “I like the idea, Emerson. Just so nobody gets hurt.”

“And how do you mean to guarantee that?” I demanded. “What if they are armed?”

“We will have your pistol, Peabody,” said Emerson, grinning.

“We better have more than that,” Cyrus said. “I’ve got a couple of rifles and a pistol, latest-model Mauser. I only hope I can sneak ’em out of the house without Katherine seeing,” he added uneasily.

We had to get Sennia off to bed before we made the final arrangements. Emerson had sent word to Selim, warning him of our suspicions and giving him his instructions, and Cyrus did manage to get his weapons smuggled out of the Castle without Katherine’s knowledge. She would have been deeply distressed if she had known what we were up to.

A little contretemps arose at the last minute, when the men realized that Nefret and I and Jumana meant to accompany them. I put an end to their protests in short order, however.

“So long as you don’t bring that damned sword parasol” was Emerson’s way of conceding defeat.

The moon was on the wane, but the dazzling desert stars gave sufficient light for us to make our way over the ancient path that crossed the gebel. When we reached Deir el Medina, all was quiet. The coals of a fire burned near the place where our men were stationed; there were only four of them, including Selim. They had been ordered to look as if they had relaxed their guard, and on no account to resist an attack. One by one we descended the slope, and found concealment in the shadows of the ruined tombs.

We waited for over an hour before they came, from the south, creeping along the base of the hill. I counted the dim shapes: twelve in all. The last two carried rifles. Like the others, they were masked, but I had no difficulty in recognizing the rotund form of Mr. Albion and the taller outline of his son. One might have expected they would lead their troops from behind! When Selim sprang to his feet, Sebastian advanced, with his weapon aimed, while one of his hirelings called out in Arabic, “Do not move or we will shoot!”

For a moment I was afraid Daoud would forget his orders. It is not in his nature to submit meekly to threats. However, he remained seated, and within a few minutes our fellows were tightly bound, gagged, and blindfolded.

“Now?” Cyrus whispered.

Emerson shook his head.

Sebastian put his rifle down and began to climb the ladder. Obeying his gesture, five of the others followed. Neither he nor his father had spoken; our people could hear, if they could not see, and the use of English would have been a dead giveaway. Mr. Albion sat down with a grunt, and the other men stood close by him.

Emerson waited until Sebastian had reached the platform outside the tomb. His stentorian voice echoed between the cliffs. “Stop where you are, all of you. You are surrounded by armed men.” He added in English, “Drop the rifle, Albion.”

“Better fire a warning shot,” Cyrus advised. “In case they haven’t noticed our weapons.”

We were all on our feet, except for Nefret, who had given me her word she would not expose herself to gunfire. Emerson pointed his rifle toward the temple and pulled the trigger.

The men with Albion broke like a drop of quicksilver, scattering in all directions. “Let them go,” said Emerson, plunging down the slope. “It’s Albion I want.”

However, he was too late. I would never have supposed such a round, elderly man could move so fast. The bullet Emerson aimed at his heels only made him run faster.

“Emerson,” I said, tugging at his arm. “We had better do something about Sebastian, don’t you think?”

Emerson looked up and let out an exclamation.

The men who had started to follow Sebastian up to the platform were dropping to the ground, but Sebastian himself was still there – hanging by his hands from the edge of the platform and screaming at the top of his lungs. Quite a number of people were shouting, so his cries had been lost in the uproar. He must have lost his balance when the gun went off.

“I’ll get him,” Ramses said.

“Give him a hand, Bertie,” Emerson ordered. “You’ll need to get a rope round the bloody idiot. There’s plenty in the supply shed. I wonder how much longer he can hold on,” he added with mild interest.

Nefret and I set about freeing our men, who set about collecting fallen tomb robbers. Some of them had dropped quite a distance, so there were sprains and a broken bone or two, which Nefret treated in her usual efficient fashion.

“Have they got him?” she asked, referring to Sebastian. He was still screaming. “I can’t see from here.”

“Bertie got a rope around him,” Cyrus said. “They don’t seem to be in any hurry to pull him up, though.”

Leaving the robbers in Selim’s charge, we took a silent, shivering Sebastian back to his ma and pa. As Emerson declared, he had not finished with Mr. Albion, not by a damned sight. We all went along, naturally. No one wanted to miss the denouement.

There was no response to Emerson’s emphatic knocks on the door of the Albions’s sitting room. Fearing that he would wake the poor convalescent officers, I announced in low but penetrating tones, “We have your son. If you want him back you must let us in.”

The door was flung open by Mrs. Albion. Despite the lateness of the hour she was fully dressed and bejeweled. “What have you done to him?” she cried, seizing hold of the young man.

“He did it to himself,” I replied, pushing mother and son out of the way. Mr. Albion was sitting on the sofa. He must have arrived just before we did, since he was breathless, disheveled, and very red in the face.

“Now you’ve brought him back, get out,” he said.

“This is not a presentation, it is an exchange,” said Emerson. “Peabody, my dear, may I invite you to take a chair, since no one else has had the courtesy to do so? Albion, I want the artifacts you got from Jamil.”

“Be damned to you!” Albion growled.

Having determined that her son was intact, Mrs. Albion turned indignantly on Emerson. “Mr. Albion paid for those objects, sir. Are you a common thief?”

“Not at all common, madam,” said Emerson, with a smile that reminded me of his brother. “I propose not to press charges for armed assault and purchasing illegal antiquities, in return for the objects that were stolen – and for your promise to leave Luxor immediately. Your husband and your son are extremely inept criminals, but I cannot have this sort of thing. It interferes with my work. Come now, Albion, you are a practical man. Admit you’ve lost.”

“Lost?” Mrs. Albion gasped. “Mr. Albion does not lose. Mr. Albion -”

“Is a practical man,” her husband said, with difficulty. “All right, then. I’ll get them.”

“And I will come with you,” Emerson declared. “To make sure you don’t overlook anything.”

They returned with a heavy box, which Emerson handed to Cyrus. “All there. All yours. Shall we go, my dears?”

Mrs. Albion appeared to be in a state of shock. Her eyes had a bewildered look and she kept murmuring, “Mr. Albion does not lose. Mr. Albion…”

Was in for a spot of marital trouble, if I was any judge. I sincerely hoped so.

“Just one more thing,” Bertie said, in his quiet voice. “Sebastian, take off your glasses and put up your hands.”

“Hopelessly, incorrigibly well-bred,” said Emerson, shaking his head, as Bertie knocked Sebastian flat.

Cyrus’s fantasia was remembered for years as the finest, most extravagant entertainment Luxor had ever seen. The courtyard and the Castle were thrown open; tourists, convalescent officers, Egyptian workmen, and the permanent residents of Luxor mingled in amity, eating and drinking, dancing and singing. It was such a crush I soon gave up trying to do my social duty and was enjoying the sight of Selim and Nefret trying to waltz to the beat of an Egyptian drum, when someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see Marjorie Fisher, a longtime friend who lived in Luxor.

“It’s been ages, Amelia,” she said. “What have you been up to?”

“Just the usual,” I replied. “And what have you been up to?”

She laughed. “The usual. Lunches, teas, visitors… That reminds me, I ran into someone recently who asked to be remembered to you. A sweet little thing with freckles on her nose. Her name is Molly Throgmorton.”

I swallowed the wrong way. “Molly what?”

“She has been recently married,” Marjorie said. “Her husband was with her – a very pleasant but rather coarse American, who looked to be at least fifty years her senior – but she was wearing a diamond the size of a lima bean, my dear, so he must be extremely rich. She said you knew her by her maiden name, but I’m afraid I have forgotten it. Do you know who I mean?”

“Yes. I know who you mean. Where is she – where are they staying?”

“They left Luxor on Tuesday. Is something wrong, Amelia?”

“No. It’s just that I am… sorry to have missed her. I don’t suppose she happened to mention where they were going?”

Marjorie shook her head. “She said she hoped to see you another time. Her exact words were ‘Tell her she hasn’t seen the last of me.’ Rather an odd way of expressing it, but I suppose she meant it as a touch of humor.”

“No doubt,” I said.

“I am going to break all the rules of decorum and ask Selim to dance with me,” Marjorie announced with a smile. “He waltzes beautifully! Come to tea on Friday, Amelia?”

“Thank you. That would be nice.”

The festivities were still in progress when we took our departure, leaving Jumana to “cavort with the young people,” as Emerson put it. The sounds of revelry faded into silence as the carriage traversed the winding road, and the still, starry night of Egypt enclosed us.

“Vandergelt informed me that the Albions left Luxor yesterday,” Emerson remarked. He added pensively, “I must say that the general quality of criminals has sadly deteriorated. Not that I mind – especially at the present time. How are you feeling, my dear?”

He put his arm round Nefret and she leaned against his shoulder. “A little tired, perhaps. But it was a wonderful evening.”

“Life,” Emerson declared, in such a happy frame of mind he actually committed an aphorism, “life could not be better. Eh, Peabody?”

“Indeed, Emerson.”

Not for worlds would I have cast a shadow on his good humor. Nor was there cause to do so; my fancies were no more than that, idle thoughts of a wandering mind. Yet the words kept going round and round in my head, like a broken gramophone record.

“If she blames me for her mother’s death, how do you suppose she feels about you?”… “Tell her she hasn’t seen the last of me…”

“The young serpent also has poisoned fangs.”