"Are you certain?" I asked, as Emerson shook the burglar in an absentminded sort of way and Nefret glared at her brother.

"Yes," Ramses said. "When I switched on the lights, that fellow actually had it in his hand. I went for him, and he tossed it to the third man, who rather lost his head, I think, because he went straight out the French doors without stopping to open them."

"What was that one doing?" Emerson inquired interestedly, indicating the fallen burglar.

"Trying to interfere," said his son.

"He had a pistol, too, I see," said Emerson. "You may as well pick it up, Peabody, my dear; I doubt if he is in any condition to use it, but it is always wise to take precautions. Ramses, apologize to your sister."

"I apologize," Ramses muttered.

"Now that I come to think about it, I'm rather flattered," Nefret said, with one of those abrupt changes of mood some people found so charming (and some other people found so exasperating). She started toward Ramses and let out a little scream; she had trod on some of the broken glass.

Emerson picked her up in the arm that was not holding the burglar and transferred her to a chair. "Be careful where you step, Ramses, you aren't wearing shoes either. It's too late to go after the one that got away. I'll wager this gentleman will be glad to tell us everything we want to know."

He smiled affably at the burglar, a burly fellow whom he continued to hold with one hand, as easily as if he had been a child. The entire household had been aroused, and a good number of them had joined us, shouting questions and brandishing various deadly instruments. The burglar glared wildly at Emerson, bare to the waist and bulging with muscle—at Gargery and his cudgel—at Selim, fingering a knife even longer than Nefret's—at assorted footmen armed with pokers, spits, and cleavers—and at the giant form of Daoud advancing purposefully toward him. "It's a bleedin' army!" he gurgled. "The lyin' barstard said you was some kind of professor!"

By the time we got things sorted out, the gray dawn was breaking. It had taken me a good twenty minutes to get all the broken glass out of Ramses's back and Nefret's feet, and I doubted I would ever get the bloodstains out of the carpet. The burglars had been removed by our local constabulary. The one on the floor had regained consciousness but insisted, between groans, that he could not walk and must be carried on a litter. He did appear to be rather crippled.

The other burglar had been anxious to cooperate but he could offer no means of tracing the man who had hired him and his associates, as he had approached them in one of the foul grog shops in London where such petty criminals (I am informed) are to be found. Disguised as before in turban and brown skin, the villain had paid a small amount down, with the promise of a larger sum upon delivery. He had described the object he wanted in precise detail, and showed them a picture postcard of a scarab in order to make identification easier. He had even given them a rough plan of the house, indicating Emerson's study as the most likely place where the object would be hidden.

After digging in his pockets, Bert (the burglar) produced this paper, and I was not surprised to see that there was no writing at all on it, only an emphatic X marking the room in question. The scoundrel had taken no chances of any kind. Instead of arranging a rendezvous in London, he had indicated he would be waiting outside the gates of the park, where he would hand over the rest of the money in exchange for the scarab.

The futility of pursuit was obvious. The villain must have heard the shot and seen lights go on all over the house; he had known immediately that the plan had gone awry. Had he dared wait long enough to receive the scarab from the third burglar? We might never know. No trace of burglar, scarab or villain was found, though as soon as it was light enough we conducted a thorough search of the grounds. The rain had washed away footprints and the tracks of motorcar, cart, carriage, or cycle.

I made all the searchers change into dry clothes and then we gathered in the small dining room for a belated and hearty breakfast. Gargery was still annoyed because he had not arrived on the scene in time to hit someone with his cudgel.

"You ought to have told me and Bob and Jerry you had got yourselves into mischief," he said reproachfully. "We'd have stood guard."

"There was nothing to tell, Gargery," I assured him. "We had no reason to anticipate any such thing. I still can't account for it. Why would he—whoever he is—go to such lengths to get the thing back?"

"Obviously," said Ramses, "because there was something about the confounded thing that might betray his identity. But what?"

"You observed nothing?" I asked.

"No," said Ramses, visibly chagrined.

"Even more to the point," said Nefret, "is how the fellow knew we had it."

"Hmph." Emerson rubbed his now bristly chin, with a sound like a file rasping on metal.

"We can discuss the ramifications of that question later," I said. Selim and Daoud were listening with amiable interest. They were quite accustomed to our little criminal encounters, but sooner or later one of them, probably Selim, was going to ask for additional details. Under ordinary circumstances they would have been among the first to be taken into our confidence. Under these circumstances I preferred to delay the revelation.

"It will all be gone into at the proper time," I continued. "Get a little more sleep if you can, or at least rest awhile longer."

"England is a dangerous country," Selim remarked. "We should go back to Egypt where you will be safe."

 

From Letter Collection B

Dearest Lia and David,

I understand Aunt Evelyn has already written you about our little burglary, so I make haste to reassure you. Aunt Amelia telephoned poor Mr. O'Connell and scolded him dreadfully for reporting the story, but his wasn't the only newspaper to print it. I fear every journalist in England is familiar with the name of Emerson! The accounts were exaggerated, as they always are; the only fatality was the Professor's favorite bust of Socrates, which was smashed to smithereens by a bullet. No one was hurt, except one of the burglars.

In case Aunt Evelyn didn't mention it, we will soon be following in your footsteps, at least as far as Italy. Poor Daoud has sheepishly admitted that he suffered horribly from seasickness on the voyage over, so we will go by train to Brindisi and board the steamer there instead of sailing direct from London. The Professor has graciously consented to stop along the way in order to show our friends various places of interest. Knowing the Professor, you will not be surprised to hear that the itinerary includes only cities with museums and shops containing Egyptian antiquities...

 

 

                                                               

By the time we reached Brindisi I was not the only member of the party who was glad to leave Europe for sunny Egypt. It had rained in Paris and snowed in Berlin, and on our arrival in Turin we had been greeted by a horrid mixture of sleet and snow. Daoud had been struck all in a heap by the phenomenon of snow; he had stood openmouthed and staring on the Wilhelmstrasse till his face turned blue and his feet turned to ice. He was now suffering from a heavy cold, and was as miserable a man as I have ever seen. (Except for Emerson, who is almost never ill and who behaves like a fiend when he is.)

As soon as we boarded the ship I put Daoud to bed, rubbed him with wintergreen, bundled him up in flannel, and stuffed him full of sleeping medication. The weather was blustery and the sea was rough; Fatima took to her berth, and Selim, who shared Daoud's cabin, declared he did not intend to leave it until we reached Alexandria. They were not the only sufferers; a mere handful of passengers appeared at dinner that night. Even dampened tablecloths did not prevent the plates from sliding and the glasses from toppling. Thanks to the soothing effect of whiskey and soda (a panacea for numerous ailments, including mal de mer), the rest of us were unaffected, and the indisposition of our poor friends providing us with an opportunity for a council of war, we gathered in Emerson's and my stateroom after an excellent, if somewhat lively, meal.

It was really quite cozy, with water lashing across the porthole and the oil lamp swinging wildly, casting fascinatingly distorted shadows across the small room. The solid and surly bulk of Horus helped anchor Nefret to one of the bunks. Emerson's strong arm held me on the other, and Ramses elected to sit on the floor with his feet braced against the wall.

"So how many have we identified?" I inquired.

Ramses extracted a dog-eared list from his pocket. "Seven, including the original scarab. Unfortunately we were only able to purchase three of the remaining six—two scarabs with royal cartouches and a small statue of the god Ptah. The others had already been sold. I've gone over all three and there is no obvious flaw in any of them. When we get to Cairo I will try a few chemical tests."

"If we still have them when we get to Cairo," muttered Emerson, who was inclined to take burglaries of his home personally.

"Nonsense, Emerson," I said. "There is no way the forger can trace these objects to us. No one could possibly have recognized Mr. Applegarth, or his—er—friend."

/ certainly would not have recognized Ramses in his role of a middle-aged, wealthy American collector; even his accent was a devastatingly accurate imitation of our friend Cyrus's voice. Nefret accompanied him, not in champagne satin and citrines, though the crimson ensemble she selected was almost as conspicuous. The only thing that could be said for it was that it concealed her identity quite successfully. It had been obvious to my eye at least that she had stuffed several handkerchiefs into her bodice, and there had been enough paint on her face to disguise three women.

"We still don't know how he traced the first scarab to us," Ramses said.

"We can hazard a guess, can't we?" Nefret demanded. "I dropped an extremely broad hint to Jack Reynolds that day at the Savoy."

"Yes, but that doesn't narrow the possibilities enough," said her brother irritably. "Jack may have passed the remark on to someone else. Mr. Renfrew may have broken his vow of silence. The culprit may have returned to Esdaile's and learned we were there asking about 'Mr. Todros.' Someone else may have been indiscreet."

"It wasn't me," Nefret said indignantly. "You always blame me for talking out of turn. It isn't fair."

Ramses gave his sister a sour look, but nodded. "We are beginning to get a picture of the fellow, though, aren't we? If he is not actually an Egyptologist, he has had extensive training; if he is not an artist himself, he has connections with someone who is. He is annoyingly well-acquainted with our habits, our habitat, and our circle of acquaintances. None of the dealers he approached knew David personally, but he knows David well enough to ape certain of his characteristics, including David's preference for English over other languages, though he also speaks German and French and some Arabic."

"He is an expert at disguise," Nefret contributed.

"Not really," Ramses said. "It doesn't take much expertise to darken one's complexion and assume a false beard and a turban."

A particularly violent lurch of the vessel set the oil lamp swinging. The play of light and shadow across Emerson's scowling face turned it into a diabolical mask. I knew what—or rather of whom—he was thinking. Only the Master Criminal could rouse Emerson to such ire.

We had never known his real name or his true appearance. He was an expert at disguise and the cleverest criminal we had ever encountered. For years he had ruled the iniquitous underworld of antiquities-smuggling and -fraud like the genius of crime he was. He had all the qualities Ramses had mentioned, and others as damning—a sardonic sense of humor and, as he had once admitted to me, some of the world's most expert forgers in his employ.

"Out with it, Emerson," I urged. "It is Sethos you suspect, is it not?"

"No," said Emerson.

"You always suspect him. Admit it. Do not suppress your feelings; they will only fester and—"

"I do not suspect him. Do you?"

"Not in this case. He swore that he would never harm me or those I love—"

"Don't be maudlin," Emerson snarled. "You may be fool enough to believe the bastard's protestations of noble, disinterested passion, but I know better. Curse it, Peabody, why did you have to bring him up? He can't be behind this business."

"I agree, sir," Ramses said.

"Oh, you do, do you? May I ask why? And," Emerson added, "I beg you will not repeat your mother's fatuous and inaccurate assessment of that swine's character."

"No, sir. A man who can imitate an elderly American lady and a foppish young English nobleman would never have assumed such a clumsy disguise as this one. He would have appeared as Howard Carter or Wallis Budge—or you."

 

                                                

Drawing my sword, I ran the fellow through the arm. He ran off squealing and dripping blood. The girl knelt at my feet. "Allah bless you, Effendi," she whispered, pressing her lips to my dusty boots. Gently I raised her . . .

 

We arrived at Alexandria before sunrise, but owing to the inevitable procrastination that prevails in the East, it was after luncheon before passengers and baggage were disembarked. The quay was aswarm with local merchants, all of them pushing and shoving and shouting at the top of their lungs. Even the most importunate gave way before Emerson, who strode along like a pharaoh. I will not be accused of boasting, I believe, if I say that by now we were known to most Egyptians, and those who did not know us were soon apprised of our identities by the hails of greeting: Marhaba, Sitt Hakim! Salaam aleikhum, O Father of Curses! It is Nur Misur, the Light of Egypt, who has returned! Welcome, Brother of Demons ...

That, I regret to say, is my son's Egyptian soubriquet. He was greeted thus familiarly by beggars, cutpurses, and procurers, and he appeared to know all of them by their names.

I had raised my parasol, since the sun's rays were strong, so I did not observe an approaching individual until a soft expletive from Ramses made me look up. Though the individual was only of medium height, the resplendent uniform of an officer of the Egyptian Army (which has been compared by unkind persons to that of a Viennese bandmaster) and his arrogant stride made him seem taller. His features, which I had once thought bore a certain resemblance to my own, were partially obscured by a particularly oversized example of a military mustache. Mustache, hair and eyebrows had been bleached to a sickly brown, and his face was red with sunburn.

He was almost upon us before Emerson saw him. Astonishment stifled my husband's speech for a strategic moment.

"Why, Percy," I said. "What the devil are you doing here?" My least favorite nephew whipped off his fez and bowed. With an engaging smile he indicated the gold braid, the epaulets, the sword, the sash, and the rows of gilded buttons. "As you see, my dear Aunt Amelia, I have joined the Egyptian Army. I hoped you would not have heard of it; I wanted to surprise you."

The express train from Alexandria to Cairo takes over three hours, but Emerson was still swearing when it pulled into the Central Station. Percy had not detained us long; he had explained that he had been seconded to "Alex" on a special mission of great importance and that he had been unable to resist the temptation to be among the first to welcome us. He was obviously aching to be asked about the nature of his mission, so he could look mysterious and important. None of us obliged him.

"I wonder if he's been temporarily assigned to the Alexandria police or the CID," Ramses mused. "Russell has been ordered to stop the import of hashish and cannabis, and he will need additional personnel if he's to have any hope of success."

"Damn and blast!" said Emerson. Ramses's suggestion succeeded in catching his attention, however, and he gave over general swearing for specific comment. "Hmmm. Additional manpower won't do Russell any good, there are too many miles of coastline to cover. What he needs is an informant who is working for one of the big men like Abd el-Quadir el-Gailani, and who can give him advance warning of a delivery."

"Obviously," said Ramses.

His father shot him a critical look. "I strictly forbid it, Ramses. I need you on the dig."

"I hadn't intended—" Ramses began.

"I should hope not!" Nefret exclaimed. "Our primary aim is to find that damned forger. Let Percy play spy and make a fool of himself. I wonder if he swaggers when he's asleep?"

"Enough about Percy," I said firmly. "I do not intend to associate with him and I am heartily sick of discussing him. We have arrived; Emerson, kindly assume your coat and your cravat and your hat. You too, Ramses. Nefret, put Horus on his lead."

Since it was necessary for Nefret to sit between Ramses and the cat, like a mama separating quarrelsome children, Ramses had the corner seat, with Nefret next to him and Horus sprawled insolently across the remaining space. Horus put up a fuss about the lead; he was as spoiled as a fat pasha and had no intention of walking if he could bully someone into carrying him. No one offered, however, not even Emerson.

Waiting to greet us were a number of our loyal men, members of Abdullah's extended family, who had worked for us for many years. Some resided in Luxor, some in the village of Atiyah, south of Cairo. Their cries of welcome were directed at us all, but the returning wanderers were the center of attention this time. I could see that Selim and Daoud were anxious to get home, where the whole village would be waiting to hear the tales of their adventures, so we bade them a temporary farewell and got ourselves and our baggage into cabs.

Traffic worsened every year; now motorcars disputed the right of way with carts and horse-drawn cabs and camels and donkeys, not to mention the pedestrians who had to risk life and limb crossing the major thoroughfares. It took almost half an hour to drive from the railroad station to the dock, but not even my impatient spouse complained of the delay. It was so good to be back—to breathe the hot dry air, to see roses and bougainvillea blooming in December, to hear again the familiar din of Cairo— the mournful chorus of "La lahu ilia-Allah" that heralded a funeral procession, the shouts of sellers of licorice water and lemonade. And to see, when the brief journey ended, the familiar shape of my beloved dahabeeyah on which I had spent so many blissful hours.

Emerson had purchased the boat and named it after me. I could not bear to give it up, though it had become inconveniently small for our extended family and our ever increasing library (not to mention Nefret's ever increasing wardrobe).

Now back on her native heath, properly veiled and attired and ready to resume her duties as housekeeper, Fatima had worked herself into a state of anxious self-reproach. She should not have gone to England. She should have stayed in Cairo to make certain the dahabeeyah was in readiness for our arrival. No one knew how to do it but she. Her niece Karima had no sense. Her nephew, Karima's husband, was lazy and worthless and—worst of all—a man. The floors would be dirty, the beds unmade, the food inedible ...

In my opinion Karima had performed a good deal better than dear old Abdullah had done when he was in charge of the housekeeping arrangements, but as we passed from room to room, Fatima subjected her to a running commentary of criticism. Announcing that she would have to do it all over again, Fatima fluttered off to her room to change from her good clothing and I dismissed Karima with thanks and compliments. She was very glad to go.

We become spoiled and jaded as we mature, I suppose. The bathing arrangements, which had so impressed me on my first inspection of the Philae (as she was called then), now seemed infuriatingly inadequate. I was the last to avail myself of them, and thus the last to join the others in the saloon. Located in the bow of the ship, this large chamber had long windows, with a wide divan under them. Ramses and Emerson had begun unpacking the boxes of books we had brought with us, but had stopped midway as men always do, leaving books on the floor, on the chairs, and on the tables. Nefret reclined on the divan with Horus across her feet; he was growling and rending papers that appeared to be the remains of letters and envelopes. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Ramses was perusing a ponderous tome in German and Emerson was rummaging in the cupboards under the cushioned divan.

"Don't start scolding, Peabody," he remarked, observing my expression. "We cannot put the books away, the shelves are already full. We need more space, curse it."

"On that we are agreed, Emerson. I suppose you expect me to find a house and get it ready—repairs, furnishings, servants—"

"Who said anything about a house?" Emerson demanded. "All we need do is clear out a few tables and chairs—"

"And beds? We could sleep on the floor as well as sit on it, I suppose. Emerson, we have had this conversation a dozen times. You know we promised Lia and David we would let them have the Amelia when they join us; young married persons will want their privacy. You are only objecting because you resent giving up a few hours of your precious excavation time in order to assist me in a project which can only be of benefit to us all. And furthermore—"

"Sit down and have your whiskey, Mother," said Ramses.

"Sit down where? No, thank you, Nefret, I prefer not to hobnob with Horus, he appears to be in a particularly evil mood this evening."

Horus bared his fangs at me. Ramses cleared the most comfortable overstuffed chair, removing the books to the floor. "Here you are, Mother. I'll get you your whiskey and your messages."

The genial beverage had its usual soothing effect. Accepting the pile of envelopes he handed me, I said, "All for me? I presume you have perused yours. Was there anything interesting in them?"

Ramses said, "No."

Since that was the answer I had expected, I turned to my own messages. A nice plump letter from Evelyn I put aside, to be enjoyed at my leisure. The others were notes of welcome. What a pleasure it was to see the familiar names, to anticipate meeting soon again with such dear friends as Katherine and Cyrus, Howard Carter, Mr. and Mrs. Quibell, and all the rest. One message was from an unexpected source; perusing it, I let out a little exclamation of surprise.

"Well, fancy that! Here is an invitation to luncheon from Miss Reynolds. You remember her and her brother, Emerson; we met them last year."

"I remember them, but I see no reason why we should improve our acquaintance with them," said Emerson. "We have too many cursed friends as it is. They interfere with one's work."

"Not our professional colleagues, Emerson. Mr. Reisner speaks very highly of young Mr. Reynolds, and his sister is quite pleasant for an American. She says she has heard we are looking for a suitable house—"

"And where did she hear that?" Emerson demanded.

"Not from me, Emerson, I assure you."

Nefret cleared her throat. "I told you Ramses and I met them in London. I may have mentioned, in the course of conversation, that we were thinking of taking a house."

"Ah, I see. That explains it. Are you and she such good friends, Nefret?"

"No," said Nefret. After a moment, she went on, "Maude's kindly gesture was not prompted by her interest in me."

"What? Oh! Ramses, did you—"

"Yes, Mother," said my son, in the exaggerated drawl he adopted when he was trying to annoy me. "I held her hand, looked deep into her eyes, and murmured passionate phrases into her ear while her brother wasn't listening. She was putty in my hands. Later I lured her away and demanded she find us a house."

"Ramses!" I exclaimed.

Nefret shook her head. "Really, Ramses, it's no fun teasing you anymore."

"Was that what you were doing?" my son inquired.

"Enough," I said severely. "You are too old to be poking fun at the poor young lady. I shall accept her invitation, and I expect both of you to behave yourselves."

"What the devil, Amelia," my husband exclaimed. "I did not come to Egypt to lunch with young ladies. I came here to excavate, and that is what I intend to do, first thing tomorrow morning. Naturally I expect you and the children to accompany me."

"Accompany you where? You have not condescended to tell us where we will be excavating this year. Really, Emerson, you have carried your habit of reticence to an extreme no person of character could possibly accept. Do you expect us to trail meekly at your heels through the sandy wastes of all the Memphite cemeteries? I will not stir one step until you tell me where we are going."

Emerson gave me a particularly maddening grin and reached for his pipe. "Guess," he said.

We had spent a fairly peripatetic life the past years, since Emerson had got into a quarrel with M. Maspero, and a falling-out with Mr. Theodore Davis, who had the concession for the Valley of the Kings at Thebes, where we were working at the time. Maspero had offered Emerson any other site in Thebes except the Valley of the Kings; Emerson, cursing royally, had declared he would have the Valley of the Kings or nothing.

Nothing was what he got, and in a typical fit of temper he determined to—as he put it in his extravagant fashion—shake the dust of Thebes from his feet forever. Four hundred miles to the north, across the river from the modern city of Cairo, lie the ruins of the ancient capital of Memphis and the cemeteries that had served it for thousands of years, and it was this region to which Emerson proposed we should transfer our activities.

I was a trifle put out, since we had built a comfortable house in Luxor and I had finally got it arranged just the way I liked. However, there were compensations. I refer, of course, to pyramids. To claim that I have a passion for pyramids is one of Emerson's little jokes, but I would be the first to admit that they are my favorite monuments.

"Which one would you like, Peabody?" Emerson had inquired, when we first discussed the matter. "The Great Pyramid, or one of the others at Giza?"

I had endeavored, more or less successfully, to conceal my exasperation. "Don't offer me any pyramid I would like in that offhand manner. You know perfectly well that the concession for Giza has been divided between the Americans, the Germans, and the Italians. M. Maspero is not likely to remove any of them as a favor to you."

"Hmph," said Emerson. "Very well, Peabody, if you are going to take that attitude—"

"What attitude? All I said was—"

It would serve no useful purpose to report the remainder of that conversation. I was, of course, correct; we had not been allowed to work at Giza, nor did I have any reason to suppose that we would be able to do so this season.

"Guess?" I repeated. "What nonsense! I refuse to engage in these childish, irresponsible—"

"I will, then," Nefret said quickly. "Is it Abusir, Professor?"

Emerson shook his head. "Abu Roash?" Ramses suggested.

"Even better," said Emerson smugly.

I am by nature an optimistic individual. Hope rose from the ashes of resentment. "Dahshur, Emerson?" I cried eagerly. "Don't tell me you have got Dahshur?"

Emerson's superior smile faded, and his eyes fell. Rather than admit he was ashamed and regretful, he began to swear. "Hell and damnation, Peabody! I know how much you want to go back to Dahshur; do you suppose I do not? Those pyramids are far more interesting than the ones at Giza and the cemeteries around them have never been properly investigated. I would give ten years of my life—"

"Don't talk like a fool, Emerson," I said.

Emerson's face darkened. "She means," said Nefret, "that we wouldn't exchange ten years of your company for all the pyramids in Egypt. Isn't that right, Aunt Amelia?"

"Certainly. What did you suppose I meant?"

"Hmph," said Emerson. "Well. Maspero is holding on to Dahshur for himself, curse him."

"Everyone wants Dahshur," Ramses said. "Petrie and Reisner have also applied for it, without success. So, if not Dahshur, where? Lisht?"

Emerson shook his head. "I suppose I may as well tell you. It is really excellent news. I know you will be as pleased as I. Zawaiet el 'Aryan is the place. Pyramids. Two of them."

"Damnation!" I exclaimed.

"I am shocked to hear you use such language, Peabody. You told me once you were aching to excavate at Zawaiet el 'Aryan."

"Didn't Signor Barsanti investigate those pyramids in 1905?" Ramses asked, as I struggled to regain my composure and Emerson, avoiding my eyes, began to speak very loudly and very quickly.

"Barsanti is an architect and restorer, not an excavator, and the reports he published were shamefully inadequate. The pyramids at Zawaiet el 'Aryan may not look like much—"

"Ha!" I said.

"—but they have a number of interesting features. Remember the sealed, empty sarcophagus, and the—"

I cut Emerson short. "Have you got permission from M. Maspero?" I asked.

Emerson turned a cold blue eye on me. "I am deeply hurt that you should ask, Peabody. Have you ever known me to make a claim that was not true?"

I decided not to mention the examples that came to mind. "I was not questioning your word, only your—er—interpretation of what M. Maspero may have said. He is French, you know."

"But Reisner is not," said Emerson triumphantly and undeniably. "A blunt, straightforward chap, like all Americans. He was at Zawaiet el 'Aryan for a time last year, but he's got too much on his plate already, what with his concession in the Sudan and his work at Samaria, not to mention Giza. It was he who persuaded Maspero to let us have Zawaiet el 'Aryan."

"Kind of him," I murmured. Mr. Reisner was a friend and an admirable scholar, but if he had been present I might have lost my temper with him. His plate was indeed filled, with several of the most delectable sites in the Middle East. He was handing us the crumbs.

Well aware of my feelings, Emerson said, "The site is only a few miles south of Giza, you know, so a house there would be convenient."

"I am so glad you agree," I said sweetly. "After we have lunched with Miss Reynolds and her brother, we will have a look at the place she mentioned. I will tell Fatima to press your good tweed suit, and you can wear that pretty sapphire-blue necktie I gave you last Christmas. The one you keep misplacing."

The dimple (or cleft, as he prefers to call it) in Emerson's prominent chin quivered. "I neglected to pack that particular object of apparel, Peabody."

"I thought you might, so I packed it for you."

For a moment Emerson's temper hung in the balance. Then a twinkle replaced the glare. "Very well, Peabody. A compromise, eh? I will not appear in public in that damned tie, but I will go to luncheon and I will have a quick look at the damned house— on the Wednesday. Tomorrow we will visit the site."

"Tomorrow we have an engagement with Miss Reynolds, Emerson."

After a while Nefret said she was going to retire and fled from the room, carrying Horus. Finding he could not get a word in, Ramses soon followed suit, leaving me and Emerson to thrash it out. It ended as I had known it would, with Emerson apologizing for calling me an unreasonable bully of a woman, and demonstrating that in one area at least he was master in his own house. His attentions are particularly irresistible when he is in that irritated frame of mind.

Before we retired Emerson set fire to the sapphire-blue necktie and threw the blazing remains overboard.

At one time it had taken over an hour to reach the pyramids from the center of Cairo. Slow and dusty the trip may have been; but I have fond memories of jogging along in an open victoria, crossing the bridge over a river as yet uncontaminated by Mr. Cook's tourist steamers, and following the road that led past shady palms and green fields to the pyramid plateau. Now motorcars and cycles mingled perilously with donkeys and camels and carriages, and an electric tram carried passengers from the end of the Great Nile Bridge to the Mena House Hotel, near the pyramids. The suburb of Giza—not to be confused with the village of the same name—had become fashionable in recent years and was growing rapidly. As Emerson is frequently heard to remark, not all modern conveniences are improvements on the old ways.

The house the Reynoldses had taken was one of the new villas, with a view of the river and the Zoological Gardens. We were not the only guests; Miss Maude had invited several of what I must call the younger generation of Egyptologists. I felt certain this was meant as a delicate attention to Emerson, whose boredom with ordinary social engagements was well known. From what I had heard, Miss Maude's usual "set" consisted of the sort of people we took pains not to know—frivolous young women and supercilious young officials.

We were acquainted with most of the other guests—Jack Reynolds, of course, and another of Reisner's assistants, Geoffrey Godwin; Rex Engelbach and Ernst Wallenstein, a shy new member of the German Giza expedition, who was so paralyzed at finding himself in the presence of Emerson he never spoke a word the entire time. There was also a young classical scholar named Lawrence, who had done a bit of excavating in Syria and was spending a month with Petrie at Kafr Ammar. The only women present were Nefret and myself, Miss Maude, and a vague little old lady, an aunt or cousin who acted as nominal chaperone to the brother and sister. The Reynoldses treated her rather like a large fragile parcel, taking her out of one place and putting her down in another, where she remained, smiling dimly, until she was moved to another location. I could not imagine that she would prevent Miss Maude from doing exactly as she pleased.

At first the young men were frightfully deferential to Emerson, which depressed him a great deal. It was Mr. Lawrence who broke the ice—or rather, who jumped into the crashing hole Emerson had broken by criticizing Mr. Petrie.

"I consider it an honor to be working with Professor Petrie this season," he said stiffly. "He speaks of you, sir, with respectful admiration."

"The devil he does," said Emerson, with the greatest good humor imaginable. "We have been friendly enemies for years, and I know precisely what he thinks of me. He can teach you a thing or two about excavation, if you don't die of ptomaine poisoning first. Why he has not long since expired is a mystery to me; he leaves half-eaten tins of food standing about until they turn green, and expects his people to finish the vile stuff. Peabody, do you remember the time Quibell staggered into our camp at Mazghuna asking for ipecacuanha?"

I stopped him before he could elaborate—descriptions of digestive disorders are not suitable for the luncheon table—but his jovial manner had put the young men at ease, and an animated archaeological discussion ensued, dominated, of course, by Emerson. When he announced where we would be working, Jack Reynolds, on my right, exclaimed in surprise.

"Zawaiet el 'Aryan? I knew Mr. Reisner didn't intend to put in another season there, but I cannot conceive why you should be interested in the place. We found very little of interest. Isn't that right, Geoff?"

There could not have been a greater contrast between two men—Jack, hearty and red-cheeked and sturdily built, Geoffrey as fair as a washed-out watercolor and as shy as Jack was outspoken. A delicate flush of embarrassment touched his pale cheeks at finding himself the focus of Emerson's fixed regard, which has a devastating effect on persons of a sensitive nature. "I must agree," he murmured. "The site is not worthy of your talents, Professor."

"Bah," said Emerson vigorously. "You have not the proper attitude toward archaeology, Mr. Godwin." And he proceeded to tell Geoffrey what his attitude ought to be. Nefret, seated next to the young man, took pity on him and distracted Emerson with a teasing question.

Realizing we had heard almost nothing from Ramses—an unusual circumstance indeed—I found him engulfed by Miss Maude, who had placed him next to her. The manners of young American ladies are very free and easy, but it did not take me long to realize that Nefret's hints about Miss Maude's interest in my son were unfortunately correct. She had turned her back on Mr. Lawrence, who was on her other side, and was chattering nonstop, without giving Ramses a chance to speak. This, as I could have told her, was not the way to win his regard.

After luncheon the ladies retired to the sitting room and the gentlemen went into Jack Reynolds's study. I never permitted this absurd variety of segregation in my own home, but I put up with it on this occasion because I was anxious to become better acquainted with Miss Maude. A closer examination of her person confirmed my earlier impression; she was dressed expensively and uncomfortably in the latest fashion, her dress having been made with a hobble skirt so narrow, she had to shuffle like a Chinese lady with bound feet. She appeared to be anxious to ingratiate herself with me and Nefret, whose neat but simple frock she studied interestedly. Her conversation was boring in the extreme, however; it consisted primarily of gossip about her friends and questions about Ramses. Nefret, as bored as I, let her sense of humor get the better of her. The stories about her brother with which she regaled Miss Maude became more and more outrageous, and I was finally forced to put a stop to them.

"If we are to look at the house this afternoon, we must be getting on," I announced. "What are the men doing in there?"

Drinking brandy and smoking was what they were doing. I was pleased to observe that Ramses's glass was untouched, and that Emerson had none. My husband was fidgeting, since the conversation had turned from Egyptology to a subject that interests him very little—firearms. Jack was showing off his gun collection, which was contained in a locked cabinet against one wall.

"What do you need all of those for?" I asked, contemplating with pursed lips the row of deadly weapons.

Jack was obviously not accustomed to having females invade his sacred male domain, much less ask absurd questions. "Why, for hunting, Mrs. Emerson. And protection, of course. Snakes, you know."

"My husband uses a teakettle," I said. "Emerson, are you ready to go?"

Grinning, Emerson came to join me. Cold-eyed and unsmiling, Ramses did the same. He disapproved of hunting for sport.

Everyone insisted on accompanying us to inspect the house Miss Maude had located. It was a pleasant walk of less than a mile, along a road shaded by lebbakh trees, with the rippling waters of the river on the left, but I do not think Miss Maude enjoyed it very much. Her narrow skirt and ankle-strap shoes made it necessary for her to cling to someone's arm, but she had to settle for that of her brother, since Nefret had taken possession of Ramses. It was pure malice that motivated Nefret, I believe, for she did not require assistance; her ankle-length skirt and low-heeled slippers made locomotion for her as easy as for a lad.

We were shown round by the custodian, a mournful-looking individual in a dusty galabeeyah. The house was ideal, in size and in location. It was a little north of the village and a trifle south of the new suburb, set apart in its own ample grounds. It had been built by a former minister of state whose career had taken a sudden turn for the worse. A man of foresight, he had got out of the country with his head still on his shoulders and a fortune in jewels sewn into his clothes. The villa, as it should be called, testified to his good taste if not to his prudence. It must have cost a pretty penny, for the construction was solid and the design an attractive combination of antique charm and modern comfort. Three wings of two stories each surrounded a large courtyard with a tiled fountain in the center. The entrance from the street led to the courtyard through a large and handsomely decorated takhtabosh, a reception hall open on one side to the court. Beautiful mashrabiya screens masked the windows of what had once been the harem, and there were several bath chambers in the European style. Another advantage was that the place was not far from the main road and the electric tramway that led from Cairo to the Pyramids.

After I had looked at each and every chamber I joined the others (who had tired of poking into cupboards and inspecting plumbing) in the courtyard, and announced my decision. "The place suits admirably. We will be settled in before Christmas, on which day I hope you will all join us for a fitting celebration."

Miss Maude's large brown eyes widened. "So soon? My dear Mrs. Emerson, it took me three weeks just to get the spiders removed from our house!"

"I have some experience in these matters," I said. "I will just go round to the office of the agent this evening and settle the business. We will have our people from Atiyah here tomorrow morning; Selim will be in charge, he can find—"

"Selim?" Emerson had been talking with Jack Reynolds. He whirled round. "I cannot spare Selim, Peabody. I want him at the site tomorrow."

"You cannot begin excavating tomorrow, Emerson."

"Why the devil not? That is why I am here," said Emerson, teeth bared and brows lowering. "To excavate. Not to sweep floors or help you select curtains and pots and pans and furniture."

The sight of Emerson in one of his little tempers, his shoulders thrown back, his blue eyes blazing and the cleft in his chin vibrating, never fails to thrill me. I replied, "I don't expect you to do anything of the sort, my dear. You may prowl the site to your heart's content, but you will have to do it without Selim. I need him." Turning to Geoffrey, who, like the others, had followed our exchange with considerable interest, I explained, "Selim is our reis, you see. The members of his family have worked for us for many years. Many of them reside in Atiyah, a village just south of here."

"Oh, yes," Geoffrey said, nodding. "Professor Emerson's trained men are the envy of all other excavators. David Todros, whom I met last year, is one of them, I believe."

"Not exactly," Ramses said. "David is a fully qualified archaeologist. He is now a member of our family as well, having recently married my cousin."

"So that is settled," I announced.

"No, it isn't," Emerson announced. "I'll tell you what, Peabody; we will compromise, eh? Compromise," he explained to the young people, "is essential to domestic as well as international peace. Mrs. Emerson and I are almost always of one mind, but compromise smooths over those little differences that occasionally occur. We will have a look at the site tomorrow and after that you can clean and scrub to your heart's content! How's that, my dear?"

It is impossible to resist Emerson when he thinks he is being clever, and anyhow, domestic discussions are best not conducted in public. "Very well," I said. "We had better be going. I am indebted to you, Miss Reynolds, for your help in this matter, and for a delightful luncheon."

We parted on the most amiable terms, and as we boarded the tram I said, "It will be nice to have such agreeable young persons as neighbors."

"Just so you don't expect me to spend all my time drinking tea and gossiping with Maude," Nefret said. "Goodness, how boring she is! She was quite rude to Mr. Lawrence, I thought. You weren't very polite either, Ramses; don't you like him?"

"I find him frightfully public-school, but I don't know him well enough to like or dislike him. I ran into him when I was in Palestine with Reisner. He had been working at Carchemish."

"He's not an Egyptologist?" Nefret asked.

"No."

"He can't be a suspect, then."

"The least likely suspect, I should say," Ramses replied with a faint smile.

"What are you talking about?" Emerson demanded.

"The forger, of course," said Nefret. "Surely you hadn't forgot about that little matter, Professor. If we are to track him down—"

"We won't do it by suspecting every Egyptologist we happen to run into," Emerson said in exasperation. "Order and method—"

"Don't seem to be getting us anywhere," Nefret declared. "Are we going to the suk this evening, Aunt Amelia?"

"Yes. We must begin shopping for"—I glanced at Emerson— "curtains and pots and pans and furniture."

Emerson's well-cut lips curved in an expression that was only distantly related to a smile. "Don't think you can put me off that way, Peabody, I am too familiar with your underhanded methods. Shopping for pots and pans is not your main purpose. You plan to question the antiquities dealers—to interrogate them, badger them and bully them. Not without me, my dear. You have a bad habit of annoying the wrong people."

"A nose for crime, rather," said Nefret, smiling. "You were planning to let me go with you, weren't you, Aunt Amelia?"

"Certainly. I need your advice about the curtains."

We enjoyed a hearty chuckle over this little joke. At least Nefret and I did.

When we reached the dahabeeyah I told Fatima about the new house and left her happily collecting buckets and scrub cloths, brooms and cleaning materials. Then we went to the office of the agent and signed the papers. It did not take long. Egyptians do not waste time haggling with Emerson.

. There are now modern establishments in Cairo that sell a wide variety of European goods, and certain stretches of certain streets are almost indistinguishable in appearance from those in any city; but the Khan el Khalil still retains its air of Oriental mystery, especially after dark. The narrow lanes are roofed with matting and the merchants squatting on the mastaba benches before the small shops resemble figures out of the Arabian Nights.

We went first to the sellers of fabric, where rainbow-colored silks and damasks woven with gold and silver threads shimmer in the glow of copper lamps. Since I knew precisely what I wanted (I always do) and what its cost should be, it did not take me long to select stuff for curtains and draperies. Emerson rolled his eyes and muttered, however, so I decided not to try his patience by looking at furniture. We would have to make do with the beds and chests and tables from the dahabeeyah until replacements could be received.

A queer sinking sensation overcame me when we neared the establishment of the dealer we had determined to visit first. Not premonitions of the unknown future but memories of the past prompted the feeling; for here, at the witching hour of midnight, Emerson and I had discovered the body of the former owner hanging from the ceiling of his shop. Hardened as I am to crime, the sight of that gross body and hideous, swollen face had left a very nasty impression. The shop was now owned by the son of Abd el Atti, who was a lesser man than his father had been in every way. Aziz Aslimi had once had a shop on the Muski, in the European quarter, but he had proved to be such a poor businessman that he had to give it up and return to the Khan el Khalil. The memories that haunted me probably did not disturb Aziz in the least. He was not a sensitive man. Nor, I thought, was he a criminal, except in the broad sense that applies to almost every antiquities dealer in Cairo. None of them can afford to be overly scrupulous about the origins of the merchandise they handle.

The place was small and the doorway narrow; we had to step aside to allow a customer to emerge—a stooped gray-haired man wearing a frock coat of old-fashioned cut, and a limp white neck handkerchief. He squinted nearsightedly at us, touched his hat, muttered, "Verzeihen Sie mir, guten Abend," and limped away.

"We're treading a bit too close on his heels," whispered Emerson, taking my arm. "Hang on a minute, Peabody."

I could not see that it mattered, since his own mother would not have recognized Ramses unless she had—as had I—beheld the transformation, but we waited for a bit before going in. Mr. Aslimi pretended to be delighted to see us and insisted we drink coffee with him.

The same prolonged courtesies occurred at the other establishments we visited, so it was late before we returned to the Amelia to find Ramses, in his own persona, waiting for us in the saloon.

"What luck?" he inquired.

"None," I replied. "I ought not have allowed your father to accompany me. He has not the patience or the temperament for such delicate inquiries. One cannot gain information by shouting at people and threatening them—"

"I never raised my voice," Emerson exclaimed indignantly. "As for threatening people, it was you who told Aslimi—"

"Now, Professor darling, don't get excited." Nefret perched on the arm of his chair and put an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "I doubt there was any information to be gained. You were no more successful, Ramses, were you?"

Ramses shook his head. "I anticipated as much. Remember that the fellow has been careful to avoid purchasers who knew David by sight, or who would know he is not an Egyptian."

"Unless he is an Egyptian," I said.

"Bah," said Emerson. "Don't start muddying the water, Pea-body. We can now be reasonably certain the swine hasn't approached any of the Cairo dealers."

"And that substantiates our earlier deductions," Ramses said. "The fellow is English or European. Or," he added, glancing at Nefret, "American. Why should he take the risk of peddling his fakes here when he can get better prices, more safely, from European dealers? We know he was in Europe and England this past summer; that's when all the objects were sold, and none of them came on the market before April. That suggests this is a recent operation."

"Not much help," Nefret grumbled. Then she brightened. "Let's make a list of suspects."

"Premature," Ramses said, looking down his nose at her.

"I don't agree," I said. "We have deduced all that is possible from the scanty information at our disposal. Why not speculate— theorize, rather—a bit? It can do no harm and might lead to something."

"You've made one of your outrageous lists, I suppose," Emerson said resignedly.

"I have made a list, yes. As for outrageous—"

"So have I," Nefret said quickly. "Who is first on yours, Aunt Amelia?"

"I believe I could hazard a guess," Ramses murmured.

"Pray do," I said, with a suspicious look at him.

"Howard Carter."

Nefret gasped, Emerson swore, and I said severely, "Have you been snooping in my papers again, Ramses?"

"No, Mother. I know how your mind works. Carter has three things against him. He is an artist and an Egyptologist, and he has no income of his own. He passed three years without a position, scraping a living as best he could, and he is still dependent on the caprices of patrons like the Earl of Carnarvon. The temptation to build up a little nest egg would be understandable."

"You are assuming that the motive behind this is greed," I said.

"A logical assumption, isn't it? There may be strange, perverse motives that elude me—" He looked at Nefret, and his rare smile warmed his austere features. "But the only such motive that comes to mind is resentment of David or of our family in general, and that is surely far-fetched. There are simpler, more direct ways of getting back at us."

"Quite," Emerson grunted. "I refuse to discuss strange perversions. The most obvious motive is the need or desire for money. That might well apply to Carter, but your sweeping description of him as an artist is balderdash. The fellow we're looking for is a sculptor, not a painter."

"The two categories are not necessarily exclusive," Ramses said, before I could offer my opinion. "And the forger and the scholar need not be the same person."

"That might be considered another point against Carter," Emerson admitted. "He's been working in Luxor for years, as Inspector for the Antiquities Department, as a dealer, and as an excavator. He is probably on first-name terms with every forger in Gurneh."

"He would not need a forger, since he is an artist himself," I pointed out. "The same is true of the other individuals on my list."

"Come, come, Peabody. How many such individuals can there be?" Emerson demanded.

"You would be surprised, Emerson. What about Signor Barsanti?"

"Ridiculous, Peabody. He's fifty years of age if he's a day, with no stain on his character. I thought we agreed our suspect is one of the younger lot."

"An assumption only, Emerson. Altered circumstances may drive a formerly honest man to crime. Signor Barsanti was originally hired as a conservator and restorer. A man who has learned how to restore a work of art has learned how to imitate it. Then there are Mr. Quibell and his wife. Annie was copying reliefs at Sakkara when we first met her, if you recall; I'll wager she knows enough about the language to produce the fakes single-handedly. Mr. and Mrs. de Garis Davies have produced copies of Theban tomb paintings that are almost the equal of our dear Evelyn's, and—"

"Why in heaven's name would they—any of them—do such a thing?" Emerson exploded. He caught my eye. "All right, Peabody, all right. We'll leave motive aside for the moment. Who else?"

"Karl von Bork. Though ordinarily I would dispute the assumption that husband and wife should be regarded as a single entity, I fear that Karl and Mary fall into that category. She was an artist, and a good one, when he, and we, first met her. It should be added," I added, "that they are solely dependent on Karl's earnings and that they have several young children. Children are a considerable expense, what with one thing and another, and a man who would not stoop to crime on his own account might do so in order to provide for those he loves."

"As von Bork did once before," said Emerson, looking grave. "Curse it, Peabody, I must confess you have made a serious case."

"But he's a friend of ours!" Nefret exclaimed.

"So is Mr. Carter," said Ramses. "Hadn't you realized that if the culprit is an Egyptologist he is bound to be a friend, or at least an acquaintance?"

"No, but see here," Emerson exclaimed. "We cannot dismiss the possibility that there are two people involved, and that the artist at least is Egyptian. The late and unlamented Abd el Hamed was the only one I've known who had that degree of talent, but this person may be unknown to us—a forger of unusual ability, discovered and trained by our hypothetical... Oh, good Gad! There is no solid ground here; we are fencing with shadows."

"True," I said. "It is time we went on the offensive! If we threw out a few hints to some of the likely suspects—"

Emerson jumped to his feet with a roar. "I knew it! I knew you'd come to that! I absolutely forbid you to run randomly around Cairo accusing people of criminal activities! One would have supposed that by this time you might have learned not to put your head under the blade of a guillotine in order to get a good look at the executioner. Concentrate on the damned house. There's enough to be done there to keep you out of mischief."

"There certainly is a great deal to be done," I replied pleasantly. "And it will be accomplished more quickly and easily if I can count on your wholehearted cooperation. I refer to all three of you. To leave me with the tedious tasks of cleaning and moving while you are enjoying yourselves with our pyramids would be unfair. You agree, of course."

"Of course," Nefret exclaimed.

"No reasonable individual could deny your premise," said Ramses.

"Bah," said Emerson.

"So that is settled," I said, with more optimism than confidence. "We had better retire now if we are to go to the site tomorrow."

"Would you mind very much if I didn't come with you tomorrow?" Nefret asked. "There is a visit I must make. They will be expecting me."

I glanced at Emerson. I could see by his grave look and compressed lips that he did not like the idea any better than I did, and that he knew as well as I that it would be futile to object.

"You must do as you think best, Nefret," I said.

"She will anyhow," said Ramses. "Do you mind if I come with you, Nefret?"

Her blue eyes flashed. "As a chaperon, Ramses, or a bodyguard?"

"As a friend."

"You do know how to get round a girl, don't you?" She smiled and offered him her hand. When he would have taken it, Horus bit his finger.

From Manuscript H

"How much farther?" Ramses asked.

"We're almost there." Nefret took a firmer grip on his arm and hopped neatly over a steaming pile of camel dung. She did not look at him. Keeping one's eyes fixed on the ground was expedient in the alleys of el Was'a, where one had to walk a sort of hopscotch pattern around piles and puddles of noxious substances.

The narrow twisting lanes were crowded, but not as crowded as they would be later in the day, when the shutters covering the ground-floor windows would be raised and the women would take their places behind the iron grilles, gesturing and calling out to the men who paused to inspect them as if they had been animals in a zoo. The area between the Ezbekieh and the Central Train Station was so notorious it was featured on certain tours, though not those of the respectable Mr. Cook.

Just now they were the only foreigners in sight, and Nefret was approximately as inconspicuous as a tigress in her boots and trousers, her golden head bare. People stared and whispered, but made way for them. The camels and donkeys did not. Ramses pulled Nefret to one side to let a cart rumble past. Mud splashed his boots. He hoped it was mud.

"Couldn't you have selected a more salubrious location?" he asked.

"You know better than that. They wouldn't have come to me. I had to go to them."

The house was one of the tall narrow blank-fronted houses of medieval Cairo. There was no sign or nameplate, and after Nefret had rung the bell they were subjected to an intense scrutiny through a narrow slit in the door before chains rattled and bolts squeaked. These sounds were accompanied by a high-pitched ululating cry which most Europeans would have taken for a distress signal. Ramses knew what it was; he was not surprised when the door flew open and Nefret was surrounded by a group of women, all shrieking with joy and all trying to hug her at once.

One of them, a middle-aged woman wearing a physician's white coat over her long tob, advanced toward Ramses with a firm stride and an outstretched hand. Her abundant black hair was heavily streaked with gray and she spoke Arabic with a strong Syrian accent.

"Marhaba, Emerson Effendi. You honor our house."

"Just call him Brother of Demons," said Nefret, laughing. "Ramses, this is Dr. Sophia."

He had not met her, but he had heard Nefret and his mother speak of her with admiration and respect. She deserved both; Syrian Christians were slightly more liberal in their views than most Middle Easterners, but Sophia Hanem's medical degree from Zurich had been acquired after long years of struggle with her family and her government. Nefret had been fortunate to find her to take charge of the clinic.

Ramses was left to cool his heels in the office while Nefret went with the doctor on her rounds. It was a bright, sunny room, lit by wide windows opening onto an interior courtyard, its scrubbed tile floor and whitewashed walls a striking contrast to the filth of the exterior. A girl who could not have been more than thirteen brought him tea; he could not help wondering whether she was one of the pathetic children the clinic had succeeded in freeing from degradation and virtual slavery. Some of the girls were even younger. It was quite some time before Nefret returned, and she did not linger over her farewells. The doctor was not offended at her brusque manner; she smiled rather sadly at Ramses and shook her head. He nodded, to show he understood.

His mother had warned him. "She is always in a wretched mood after she has visited the place. Don't be put out if she snaps at you. She isn't angry at you, but at—"

"At the miserable sights she has seen and at her inability to put them right. Never mind, Mother, I'm quite accustomed to being snapped at by Nefret."

The door closed behind them. Nefret let him take her hand and draw her arm through his. He didn't know what to say to her. In her present mood an expression of his admiration and sympathy might be taken amiss. He had just about decided to risk it, when she stiffened and stared—not at him, but at two men wearing European clothing and matching tarbooshes. Both were smoking cigars. Catching Nefret's eye, the taller of the two came to a sudden stop, spoke briefly to his companion, and strode toward them. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. An officer, even in mufti, had that effect on the citizens of el Was'a.

"Good heavens, Miss Nefret, what are you doing here?" Percy tossed his cigar away and removed his fez. "Let me escort you to safety."

"I am perfectly safe," Nefret said. "And I know precisely what I am doing. May I ask, Lieutenant, for what purpose you have come here? The brothels in the Wagh-el-Birka are more to English tastes."

No lady was supposed to know that word, much less be familiar with the relative amenities of the Cairene establishments.

Percy turned beet-red and glared at Ramses, who was choking with horrified amusement.

"I say! See here, Ramses, this is your fault. Bringing her here— teaching her about—about—"

"I really wouldn't take that approach if I were you," Ramses said earnestly.

It was too late. Nefret was almost as red in the face as Percy.

"Ramses hasn't taught me a damned thing about brothels," she shouted. "Do you suppose I would ever speak to him again, or let him touch my hand, if I believed he would go to such places? A man who would take advantage of those poor women is the lowest form of life on earth. What about you, Lieutenant Peabody? You haven't yet told me why you are here."

Ramses no longer found the situation amusing. She was so angry she was shaking, and Percy had gone a very ugly color, and people were edging closer, staring. A nasty public scene wouldn't serve any useful purpose.

"On duty, are you, old chap?" he suggested helpfully and with only a slight touch of sarcasm.

"Yes." A hint was all Percy needed. Ramses almost admired him for being so quick to recover. "Sometimes the men come here. We do all we can to discourage them, of course."

Ramses nodded encouragingly. "Well done. Shall we leave him to it, Nefret? Father and Mother will be waiting for us at Shepheard's."

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Percy, if I misjudged you." She smiled at him.

That was the trouble with Nefret—one of the troubles with Nefret, Ramses amended. She was as changeable as a spring day in England, blowing a gale one moment, sunny and bright the next. Some people made the mistake of assuming that because her emotions were so volatile they were not sincere and wholehearted. He knew better. Nefret was perfectly capable of knocking a fellow flat on his back one minute and bandaging his broken head the next.

"You misjudged Ramses too," she went on. "It was my own idea to come here. I thought you knew I had opened a clinic for the prostitutes. They have no other medical services available, and they are in great need of them."

"Oh. Oh, yes. I had heard, but—but I never supposed you would come here yourself!" The storm clouds gathered again on Nefret's brow, and Percy said earnestly, "I cannot begin to express my admiration for your courage and compassion. But my dear Miss Nefret, I find it hard to forgive you for believing I would be capable of such contemptible behavior. You can only make it up to me by allowing me to escort you safely to the hotel."

"I think I can manage," Ramses said meekly. "We don't want to interfere with you in the pursuit of your duty."

Leaving Percy smirking and fondling his mustache, they headed back along the lane. "Stand up straight," Nefret muttered. "Why are you slouching?"

"Am I?"

"You sounded like a perfect fool."

"Did I?"

Nefret laughed and gave his arm a squeeze.

They were within easy walking distance of Shepheard's. One of the ironies visitors often commented upon was the proximity of the "Red Blind" district to the most elegant hotels in the city.

"It is good to have you back," Nefret said shyly.

Shyly? Nefret? Ramses glanced down at her in surprise. "I haven't really been away," he pointed out.

"Not this past summer, but you haven't spent the entire season with us for several years."

He recognized the implicit reproach and tried to think of a way of responding to it without admitting it. "The truth is I was finding Mother's dear dahabeeyah, as she will call it, rather too confining."

Nefret laughed. "I know what you mean. It wasn't so much the cramped quarters as the feeling that Aunt Amelia knew every move one made and overheard every word one said."

"The new house will be a great improvement. Mother has actually proposed giving us an entire wing to ourselves. I suspect that was Father's idea."

"They really are sweet," Nefret said with fond condescension. "She still blushes like a prim Victorian maiden when he looks at her in a certain way, and he keeps inventing feeble excuses to get us out of the way when he wants to be alone with her. Do they really believe we don't know how they feel about one another?"

"They enjoy the game, perhaps. I wonder if we could persuade Mother to let us have keys to our own rooms."

"I shall insist upon it," Nefret said firmly. "Confess, Ramses; she anticipated I would want to visit the clinic and ordered you to go with me."

"No. Honestly." It had been his father who gave the order. Not that he had needed it.

In fact, there was probably no part of Cairo where Nefret could not walk unscathed and unmolested. A sentimentalist would claim that her efforts on behalf of the lowest and most degraded members of the population had made her an object of veneration. Ramses, who was not a sentimentalist, suspected that the reverse was true. Most Egyptian males despised women in general and prostitutes in particular. They hadn't objected when she decided to open a free clinic for the fallen women of el Was'a, but they certainly had not admired her for it. No; Nefret's immunity was due in part to her nationality and in even larger part to the blunt hints he and David had dropped in certain quarters— and perhaps in largest part to the fact that she was under the protection of the famous and feared Father of Curses.

They passed the Coptic Church—another of the juxtapositions moralists appreciated—and walked toward the Ezbekieh and the Sharia el Kamal. Ramses took out his watch.

"We're late. They'll be waiting."

But they weren't. As the minutes passed, Nefret began to fidget. "Something is wrong," she declared.

"They can't have got into trouble already," Ramses argued, trying to convince himself as much as her. He knew his mother. "Selim is with them—"

"Aunt Amelia can get into trouble anywhere, anytime." Her eyes narrowed as a new idea struck her. "You don't suppose she lied to us, do you? Maybe they didn't go to Zawaiet el 'Aryan. Maybe they went hunting for the forger!" She pushed her chair back. "We'd better look for them."

"Where? Be sensible, Nefret. It's more than likely that Father came across something interesting and lost track of the time. You know how he is when he's working, and Mother is almost as bad. He won't let her get into mischief."

 

                                           

An Englishman in the East who shows a yellow streak lets the whole side down and endangers every other Englishman. Our innate moral superiority is our only defense against a mob of howling savages.

 

_Knowing that Ramses would be with her lessened my anxiety about Nefret's venture into one of the most noxious regions of the city, though in fact she was probably safer in any part of Cairo than she would have been in London or Paris. There was not a miscreant in Egypt who did not dread the wrath of the Father of Curses, not a villain who did not know Emerson's wife and daughter were sacrosanct. As Emerson had once put it in his poetic fashion, "Should a hair on her head be ruffled or a fold of her garment disarranged, I will tear out your liver."

So that was all right. With my mind at ease about Nefret, I rose before dawn so that we could leave for Zawaiet el 'Aryan as soon as the sun was up. The old thrill of archaeological fever ran through me as I assumed my working attire of boots and trousers and multi-pocketed jacket, and buckled on my belt with its fringe of useful accoutrements—brandy in a small flask, water in another, matches and candles, scissors, twine, to mention only a few. Emerson still complained about the—as he expressed it—superfluity of them and the noise they made banging against one another, but I knew he was only teasing. How often had one or another of those useful devices saved us from a terrible fate!

I tucked my little pistol into one pocket, a nice clean white handkerchief into another, and took up my parasol. I was ready!

Emerson had already gone up to breakfast. Ramses was with him, his coffee cup in one hand and a book in the other.

"What is that?" I asked, for I thought I recognized the volume.

"Annales des Service," said Ramses, without looking up.

"Signor Barsanti's report on Zawaiet el 'Aryan?"

"One of them."

"Well?"

"Well what? Oh. There are some points of interest."

"What points?"

"Finish your breakfast, Peabody," said Emerson.

"I haven't begun yet."

"Then begin. I want to get off. You should read the report for yourself."

"I would have done had I been given sufficient warning of your intentions."

Emerson pretended he had not heard. "Where is Nefret?"

Ramses closed the journal and put it aside. "Getting dressed, I suppose. There is no hurry; we needn't leave for a while."

"Then she has not changed her mind about visiting her clinic?"

"No, sir, I believe not. It will be all right, Father."

"Hmph," said Emerson, stroking his chin. "Yes. We will see you at Shepheard's for luncheon, then. Don't be late."

One of our men took us across the river, to where Selim was waiting with the horses we left in his care each summer. The original pair of thoroughbred Arabians had been gifts to David and Ramses from our friend Sheikh Mohammed; over the years they had produced several equally beautiful offspring. Selim had brought Risha and Asfur for us, and was mounted on Nefret's mare Moonlight. I thought our youthful reis appeared a trifle hollow-eyed and said as much to my husband.

"It really was inconsiderate of you, Emerson, to get Selim out so early. He has probably been up till all hours these past nights, celebrating and being welcomed home by his friends—"

"And his wives," said Emerson. "I wonder if he taught them to waltz?"

I deemed it advisable to drop the subject.

The inundation had begun to recede, but sheets of water still covered some of the fields, reflecting the sky in a shimmer of light.

Herds of buffalo grazed among the reeds and white herons floated in the pools. In the distance the pale limestone of the desert plateau was crowned by the majestic shapes of the pyramids of Giza.

There were two routes we might have followed. As I believe I have pointed out (and as every informed Reader ought to know anyhow), a strip of fertile soil borders the river on either side. Since cultivable land was precious (and, at some seasons, actually under water), the ancients built their tombs in the desert. We could follow the coastal road south and then turn inland to reach Zawaiet el 'Aryan, or we could climb the slopes of the plateau at Giza and then ride south across the desert. As I pointed out to Emerson, it would not be much out of our way to pay a little visit to the pyramids. Emerson replied that this was quite true, so long as we had a little look and not a prolonged stop.

We were, in fact, past the Great Pyramid and proceeding around that of Khafre, when an exclamation from Emerson drew my attention toward an approaching form which hastened to intercept us, waving and calling out as he came.

"Why, Karl," I exclaimed as he came panting up. "How nice to see you. I didn't know you were coming out this year."

Karl von Bork whipped off his pith helmet, mopped his perspiring face, and made each of us a formal, Germanic bow. He was a bit stouter than he had been when we first met him, but his smile was as broad, his mustaches as luxuriant and his speech as effusive.

"Guten Morgen, Frau Professor, Herr Professor! A pleasure and an honor it is to see you again! Aber ja, I am with the so distinguished Professor Junker, assisting him work on the archives of the German Institute in Cairo and in supervising the excavating of the Western Cemetery, which, as you know—"

"Yes, we do know," said Emerson. "Hallo, von Bork. Read your article in the Zeitschrift. Bloody nonsense, you know, what you said about the early dynastic royal tombs being at Sakkara."

"Ach, so? Aber, Herr Professor, the Abydos monuments—"

I interrupted Emerson in the middle of an emphatic rebuttal. "Karl, you should not stand bareheaded in the sun; replace your hat at once. How is Mary? And the children? You have three, I believe? Or is it four?"

I ought to have known better than to ask; Karl whipped a thick sheaf of snapshots from his breast pocket. It took quite a while to examine them, since each image was accompanied by a detailed commentary on the beauty, intelligence, and medical history of the individual depicted. I was pleased to hear that Mary had fully recovered from the illness that had affected her a few years earlier. I had always had a fondness for her; she had worked for us as an artist during the Baskerville case and her marriage to Karl was one of the few pleasant results of that unhappy business.

For a time Emerson politely endeavored to conceal his boredom—like most men, he is profoundly disinterested in all children except his own—but eventually he interrupted with a question about the season's work. Karl asked where we were working, expressed surprise that we had not selected a more interesting site, and offered to show us his new mastaba.

"Not today," I said firmly. "No, Emerson, I mean it. We must go on at once if we are to be back in time to meet Nefret and Ramses."

"Ach, ja, entschuldigen Sie, ich habe to ask forgotten. Sind sie gesund, das schone Madchen und der kleine Ramses?"

"He is not so kleine now," I said, laughing. "Thank you for asking, Karl, they are quite well. We will make arrangements to meet soon again. Come, Emerson. At once, Emerson!"

The pyramids are visible for miles around, and as we rode southward my wistful gaze followed them until Emerson, who was well aware of my sentiments, bade me rather sharply to stop looking over my shoulder and pay attention to where I was going.

"We are almost there," he cried, pointing.

I wondered what the devil he was pointing at.

At that time Zawaiet el 'Aryan was one of the most obscure archaeological sites in Egypt. For obscure, read "boring." The two words are often synonymous in this context, since interesting sites are the ones visited by tourists. No tourists ever came to Zawaiet el 'Aryan.

I could not help but suspect this was one of the reasons why Emerson favored the site. My esteemed spouse is admirably indiscriminate in his antipathies, but, with the possible exception of certain of his fellow archaeologists, there is no group he despises more than tourists. It was fruitless to point out, as I often had, that many of them were moved by a genuine if uninformed interest in the antiquities, and that ignorance should be pitied, not condemned. Emerson's reply was simple and to the point. "They get in my way, curse them."

They would certainly not be in his way at Zawaiet el 'Aryan.

"There it is," he announced in sonorous tones. "The Layer Pyramid."

I believe I may say without fear of contradiction that no woman alive has a greater attachment to her husband than I to mine. Personally and professionally, Emerson is supreme. Just then, as my eyes fell upon the shapeless pile of rubble ahead, I had to bite my lip to keep from shouting at him. In some places a few layers of dressed stone were visible. The rest of the cursed thing was only a low rounded hill, about forty feet at its highest point.

"Is there a substructure?" I inquired hopefully.

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. A shaft, several passages, a presumed burial chamber. Empty. Hmmm. I wonder ..."

The last word floated back to me. Emerson was riding away.

"Where are you going?" I shouted.

"I want to have a look at the other pyramid. It's off to the northwest."

I am by nature an optimistic individual; I look on the bright side and hope for the best and find a silver lining in the darkest cloud. For some reason my rational good spirits failed me that day, and my mood passed from bitterness to extreme aggravation when I saw what Emerson was pleased to call "the other pyramid." Not even a pile of rubble marked its location. There had never been a superstructure of any kind, only a huge trench leading far down into bedrock. Drifting sand had almost filled it.

Emerson dismounted. Accompanied by Selim, he began prowling round the elongated hollow that marked the trench, and I heard him remark, "We'll want fifty men and the same number of basket carriers at the start. As soon as the survey is finished ... Peabody! Don't you want to have a look?"

He hastened to me and pulled me from the saddle with such impetuous enthusiasm that my foot caught in the stirrup and I toppled into his arms. "A little stiff, this first day out?" he asked.

Pressed against his broad chest, enclosed in his strong arms, I looked up at him and felt my wrath evaporate like raindrops in the sunlight of his smile, the warmth of his blue eyes. He was so happy with his wretched ruins of pyramids, so unquenchably (if inappropriately) romantic!

"Trim but nicely rounded," he murmured, embracing the region in question and tucking a lock of loosened hair under my hat. "You never change, my dearest Peabody. Your figure is as shapely and those jetty locks are as untouched by silver as when I first saw you in the Museum of Boulaq. Have you sold your soul to the devil in exchange for eternal youth?"

I saw absolutely no reason to mention the little bottle of hair coloring I kept in a drawer of my dressing table. A husband's illusions should not be shattered, and anyhow I didn't use it often enough to matter.

"I might ask you the same question, my dear Emerson," I replied. "But perhaps this is not the proper time—"

"Anytime is the proper time. Curse it," he added, as the bridge of his nose came into contact with the brim of my pith helmet.

"Selim—"

"The devil with Selim," said Emerson, removing my hat and tossing it aside.

The interlude was brief but refreshing, and it left Emerson in a conciliatory frame of mind. He went so far as to ask my opinion as to which "pyramid" we should tackle, and my own mood was so forbearing I did not comment sarcastically on the word. I cast my vote in favor of the Layer Pyramid. Emerson grinned.

"You want to crawl into the cursed substructure. Really, Pea-body, your penchant for dark, hot, dirty tunnels makes me wonder about you."

"Ah," I said, my interest reviving. "There are dark, hot, dirty tunnels in the substructure?"

Emerson chuckled. "Very dark and very dirty. Shall we have another look?"

Selim, who had tactfully disappeared behind a ridge, now returned, and I said, "We should start back, Emerson, we promised we would meet the children at two."

"Plenty of time," said Emerson, as I had expected.

So we headed back toward the other structure (the word "pyramid" stuck in my throat), which was farther south but closer to the cultivation. It is possible to see for quite* a distance in that clear dry air (after the morning mist has dispersed, and providing there is no wind to raise clouds of sand). I was unable to resist glancing back toward Giza from time to time; the pure perfection of those triangular silhouettes drew my eye like a magnet. We had not proceeded far when I beheld other shapes advancing in our direction. I called out to Emerson to stop.

"There are three individuals on horseback advancing in our direction, Emerson. I think—yes, it is Miss Maude and her brother and Mr. Godwin. I expect they are looking for us."

"Why?" Emerson inquired.

"We did mention yesterday that we were planning to visit the site. It is a delicate attention."

"You and your delicate attentions," Emerson grumbled. "Idle curiosity would be nearer the mark. Haven't they anything better to do than bother me?"

"Probably not. Mr. Reisner is still in the Sudan, and their season does not begin till January. No doubt they wish to give you the benefit of their experience at the site."

The young people were soon with us. Miss Maude looked very businesslike in a divided skirt and matching coat and a pair of well-cut tasseled boots. I had not supposed she meant to offer the benefit of her experience, since she had none; my supposition as to her reason for coming was soon confirmed, for her ingenuous countenance fell when she realized Ramses was not one of the party.

Geoffrey remained modestly silent, allowing Jack Reynolds to do most of the talking. He had spent several weeks excavating in the cemeteries adjoining the pyramid (as he called it) and offered to show us round.

Emerson was graciously pleased to accept and we went on together, with Miss Maude trailing disconsolately in the rear. Listening to Jack's comments, I was increasingly impressed with his competence, though, as he was. the first to admit, they had not spent enough time at the site to enable him to answer many of Emerson's pointed questions.

According to Jack, the monument had in fact been completed. It had been a step pyramid like the magnificent tomb of Zoser at Sakkara, with fourteen steps or layers. The original height was impossible to calculate, since the upper layers had disintegrated into a mass of formless rubble. Mr. Reisner had cleared the base along the east side and part of the north; the rest still lay hidden under heaps of debris. On the north side a great breach gaped, exposing stone steps that descended at a steep angle before disappearing into the darkness below. Even in the short space of time that had elapsed since Mr. Reisner cleared it, sand had half-filled the opening.

"The entrance to the substructure?" I inquired, leaning over to peer in.

"Yes, ma'am. Do be careful, Mrs. Emerson, if you lost your balance you would roll quite a long way." Geoffrey took me gently but firmly by the arm.

"Ten meters to the bottom of the stairs," said Emerson. "Then a long gallery which makes a right-angle turn to another stair, with several corridors opening off from it; one leads to an empty burial chamber. The plan indicates a perpendicular shaft going straight up to the surface from the end of the first gallery. Its upper entrance must be..." He shaded his eyes with his hand and went trotting off.

We followed Emerson to the west, where a largish dimple, or concavity, suggested a hollow beneath. "Here's where the shaft reaches the surface," Emerson said dogmatically. "What's in it?"

"In it?" Jack repeated, looking puzzled.

"There must be something in it," said Emerson slowly and patiently, "or we would be able to see the bottom. It was not left open by the men who constructed it in the first place; that would have constituted an invitation to tomb robbers. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes, sir, that is obvious," said Jack.

"Ah. I am glad you agree with me. So the builders of the shaft must have filled it with something, eh? Barsanti indicates the existence of masonry in the upper portion. Reisner's report makes no mention of it. What I am endeavoring to discover, in my clumsy fashion," said Emerson, "is whether the original filling is still there—and what it consists of—and how far it extends—and whether the shaft contains anything else, such as offerings or funerary deposits or subsidiary burials."

Jack had, I believe, begun to sense something odd in Emerson's manner, but having very little sense of humor he could not quite put his finger on what it was. A line in Geoffrey's thin cheek deepened into a dimple, but he tactfully repressed his amusement. "So far as I know, Professor, no one has excavated the shaft," he said. "Our team certainly did not."

"Good gracious," Emerson exclaimed. "How I admire your courage! If the material, whatever it may be, that fills that shaft, had fallen down into the passageway, you might have been buried alive."

"We spent most of our time on the subsidiary graves and the exterior of the pyramid," said Jack. Emerson's sarcasm had become too exaggerated to ignore; the young man was biting his mustache and glowering.

"Oh, bah," said Emerson, tiring of the game. "The published reports are shamefully inadequate. Where are Reisner's field notes?"

Jack was visibly taken aback. "I couldn't say, sir. I'm sure he would be delighted to show them to you, but without his permission I couldn't possibly—er—even if I knew how to locate them."

"Never mind," Emerson muttered. "I'll have to do it all over again anyhow."

"Emerson," I said. "It is getting late."

"Yes, yes. Just hang on a minute, Peabody."

And without further ado he began to climb the crumbling slope, scrambling agilely upward above a miniature avalanche of pebbles and broken stone.

"Goodness to gracious, look at him go!" Jack exclaimed, staring. "I wouldn't have believed a fellow his size could move so fast."

"He surpasses his own legend," said Geoffrey Godwin with an odd little smile. "Do you know, Mrs. Emerson, that before I met the Professor I doubted most of the stories I had heard about him?"

"The only apocryphal stories are the ones about his magical powers," I said with a laugh. "Though he performs a superb exorcism when called on to do so. As for the other tales, it is impossible to exaggerate where Emerson is concerned."

"The same is true of the rest of you," Geoffrey said gallantly. "You too have become a legend in Egypt, Mrs. Emerson, and Ramses is fast becoming one."

"I have no idea where you got that impression," I replied. I did, though. Maude must have repeated some of the absurd stories Nefret had told her.

Poised on the summit, one hand shielding his eyes, Emerson scanned the surrounding terrain. His splendid physique was outlined against the sky, and his black hair gleamed like a raven's wing. I wondered what the devil he had done with his hat.

"What's he doing?" Maude asked.

Her brother chuckled indulgently. "There's not room in that little head of yours for archaeology, is there? If you'd paid more attention to my brotherly lectures, you wouldn't have to ask. He's looking for buried tombs. Sometimes shadows define a sunken area or a stretch of wall. He won't see much this time of day, though. Sun's too high."

Evidently Emerson came to the same conclusion, for he started back down. "Be careful!" I shouted, as a stone rolled under his foot and thumped to the ground. Geoffrey said something to Jack in a low voice, and Jack called, "It's easier going on the other side, Professor."

I had been about to point this out myself. The descent was more dangerous than the ascent, since a misstep would send the climber tumbling head over heels, with little hope of stopping himself until the rocky ground did it for him. On the east side much of the stone had been exposed, offering a rough sort of staircase. Emerson followed Jack's suggestion, moving horizontally along the slope for a space before continuing his descent. He was within twenty feet of the bottom, moving with the same grace and agility he had displayed while ascending, when he suddenly stopped, stooped, and lost his footing. Staggering and swaying, he flailed his arms wildly as he strove to regain his balance. At one point his body was almost perpendicular to the side and I felt sure he was gone, but with a mighty effort he gathered his forces and threw himself back against the facing with a thud that roused the direst of forebodings as to the condition of his ribs.

I was, of course, already running toward the spot where I had fully expected him to land with an even louder thud. I began climbing, and I was not surprised to see Selim, who had remained aloof from the group, climbing beside me.

Emerson was flattened against the slanting surface, his back to me, one scraped, bleeding hand clamped over the edge of a stone. He turned his head and looked down.

"Confound it, what are you doing up here? Get out of my way, Selim, and drag her with you."

"Drag who?" I cried. The side of his head must have banged against the rock. Blood matted the hair at his temple and trickled down his cheek.

"Whom," Emerson corrected, with an infuriating but reassuring grin. "To be precise—you, Peabody. A mild crack on the cranium does not necessarily induce amnesia. Damnation," he added, "the whole bloody lot of them is on the way up."

It was a slight exaggeration; Maude had remained below, wringing her hands and bleating like a sheep. Emerson's profane adjurations stopped the young men before they had got very far; they retreated, Selim followed, and Emerson swung himself down beside me, assisting my descent with helpful gestures and suggestions. "That stone is loose, try the next one over . .. what the devil did you think you were doing? ... almost there ... if I had fallen I would have swept you down with me. Your heart may be pure, though I have my doubts, but your strength is not the strength of two, much less ten. How dare you take such chances, you adorable idiot?"

The last words were mumbled, since we had reached the ground, where we were surrounded by our anxious companions. Maude cried out and covered her eyes when she saw Emerson's face. It did present a rather horrific spectacle, smeared with blood and dust and perspiration. Geoffrey put a steadying arm round the girl.

"I tried to warn you, sir," he exclaimed. "I almost took a tumble on that stretch myself last year; it is very unstable."

"So I observed," said Emerson. "I got it, though."

And from his pocket he took a large potsherd of pale buff ware. On it, in black paint, was a row of hieroglyphic signs.

We refused Miss Maude's kindly suggestion that we stop at her house for sartorial and medical repairs, since we were already shockingly late. The water in my canteen and my small, medical kit sufficed to restore Emerson to relative respectability. The cuts and abrasions were numerous but shallow; wounds on the head and face always bleed quite a lot. We went straight to the tram station at Mena House, where we left the horses with Selim and bade farewell to our youthful acquaintances. Jack Reynolds assured us in parting that they would be delighted to lend us a hand if we wanted assistance at the dig, since they would not be starting work officially for several weeks.

Once arrived in Cairo, we took a cab to the hotel. During the drive I made Emerson put on the cravat I had brought, smoothed his hair with my folding comb, and shook the sand off his coat. He submitted to these attentions with sullen resignation, remarking only, "Aren't you going to wash my face and brush my teeth?"

I shook my head. "I have done the best I could, Emerson, but

I am afraid the children are going to get something of a shock. You look dreadful."

The children were not the only ones who reacted to Emerson's appearance with consternation. Every head of every diner turned to stare as my imposing and unkempt husband entered the dining salon. Nefret had been watching the door; she jumped up and hurried to meet us.

"Professor darling, what happened? Come back to the dahabeeyah at once and let me examine you."

"What, now?" Emerson drew her hand through his arm and led her back to the table. "I need food, not fussing, my dear; we have had a busy morning."

"So it would seem," said Ramses, who had risen and was holding a chair for me. "You are not seriously injured, Father?"

"No, no, just a bump on the head. I'll tell you all about it as soon as we have ordered. I'm ravenous. Where is the cursed waiter?"

Emerson is well-known to the staff at Shepheard's. He is, I expect, part of the training given new waiters: how to fold a serviette, how to pour wine, how to deal with Professor Emerson. (Ignore his eccentricities of dress and speech, and obey his orders instantly.) The response to his summons was virtually instantaneous, and after I had ordered my modest repast I turned to the children.

"How was your morning, my dears? Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, I presume?"

"If you are referring to murderous attacks or inexplicable happenings, the answer is no," said Ramses.

Nefret, who had opened her mouth, closed it again. Emerson handed the menus to the waiter, unfolded his serviette, and began describing the interesting features of the Layer Pyramid. Ramses asked a number of questions. Emerson began drawing on the tablecloth.

"Don't do that," I said. "Where is your notebook?"

Emerson reached into his pocket. Instead of the notebook he withdrew the potsherd he had found that morning.

"What is that?" Ramses asked, reaching for it.

"The cause of your father's little misadventure," I replied, as Emerson investigated his other pockets.

I proceeded to give a well-organized account of the events of the morning. Nefret's expressive countenance indicated some amusement as I described our encounter with the Reynoldses and Geoffrey.

"Poor Maude," she murmured. "All that way for nothing."

Ramses, intent upon the potsherd, ostentatiously ignored this comment.

"The young fellows seem very keen," said Emerson obliviously. "We may take advantage of their offer to give us a hand for a few weeks. Both of them know the site."

"They might have warned you about the loosened stones," said Ramses.

"Good Gad, there was no need to warn me; I could see for myself that the cursed structure is falling apart. I was a bit careless, that's all." Emerson finished his soup and beckoned the waiter. "It seemed a strange place to find a potsherd of that size lying out on the surface. Our first artifact, eh? I couldn't make anything of the inscription, though."

"Just random hieroglyphs," said Ramses. "Hieratic, rather— Middle Kingdom type. Perhaps some apprentice scribe was practicing."

"Get the dirty thing off the table and eat your pilaf," I ordered.

"Yes, Mother."

"What are we doing this evening?" Nefret asked.

"Shopping."

Emerson groaned.

"Not you, Emerson. All you do is complain and look at your watch. Nefret and I will attend to the purchase of necessary furnishings. You and Ramses can begin packing books."

"There is no hurry," Emerson began.

"Considering the rate at which you pack books, there is. I intend to be moved in before Christmas. I instructed Selim to meet us at the house tomorrow with a full crew—carpenters, masons, painters, and cleaning persons."

Emerson's brows drew together. "I told Selim—"

"I countermanded your order."

 

From Letter Collection B

       Dearest Lia,

It is most inconsiderate of you to be elsewhere when I yearn desperately to talk with you. A honeymoon is no excuse. Something happened this afternoon that has left me feeling wretched and uncomfortable, and I must confide in someone. You will see, as I proceed, why I cannot confide in Aunt Amelia or the Professor or Ramses. Especially Ramses!

I told you in my last that Percy had turned up. I wish you could have been there when he greeted us; I suppose he had no idea how absurd he looked in that ostentatious uniform, with his pink sunburned face and his huge mustache. His reception would have discouraged a less confident man. Aunt Amelia went absolutely rigid and her gray eyes took on a steely glitter; the Professor let out one of his ripest oaths and would have elaborated on it if I had not pretended to lose my footing and stamped heavily on his foot. Ramses? Well, my dear, what would you expect? He's become even more the stone pharaoh. I used to be able to break through his shell by teasing him, but these days he doesn't turn a hair, no matter what I say or do. If I walked into his room stark-naked he would just blink and ask if I weren't afraid of catching cold.

I seem to be losing the thread of the narrative, as Aunt Amelia would say. To resume: I didn't suppose we would see much of Percy, even after we heard that he had returned from Alexandria; the young officers spend most of their time at the Turf Club or the socially acceptable hotels or at various private parties. I underestimated his persistence. He didn't call on us—I think it has dawned on him that the Professor wouldn't be pleased to see him—but he invited me to several parties and dances. I refused, by return messenger, explaining I had no time for social activities.

This wasn't strictly true, since we have seen more than I would like of Maude Reynolds and her set. She and her brother are such close neighbors, it's impossible to refuse all their invitations. I don't mind Geoffrey and jack; they have been very helpful on the dig and I've become rather fond of them, especially Geoff. He turned up at the house one morning with a cartload of flowers—roses, poinsettias, lemon and orange trees and various climbing vines, which he proceeded to plant with his own hands all round the courtyard. He couldn't have done anything to please Aunt Amelia more; the two of them were at it all morning, digging and fertilizing and watering and discussing horticulture.

Ramses and I have had the devil of a time trying to satisfy both the Professor and Aunt Amelia; he wants us on the dig every day, and she wants us at the house. It's like walking a tightrope! We will be making the move in a few days—inshallahl

I'm losing the thread again. You can guess why. I will gird up my loins (figuratively speaking! as Aunt Amelia would say) and get it over.

Most men take the hint after one has consistently refused their invitations. The young officers here in Cairo are often more persistent; their gaudy uniforms and swashbuckling ways make quite an impression on girls fresh out from England, and some of them find it difficult to believe any woman can resist them. It couldn't have been a coincidence that Percy turned up, in person, when I was alone on the dahabeeyah. Aunt Amelia had dragged Ramses and the Professor (protesting loudly) to help her at the house, and had ordered me to finish packing—/ admit I'd kept putting it off. Now don't tell me I oughtn't have seen him, Lia; when Mahmud brought me his card he was already on the boat and in the saloon. I thought I could get rid of him before the others came back.

A less conceited man might have realized he was not welcome. I was wearing the same clothes I wear on the dig—boots and trousers and shirt. I defy you to define a less seductive costume! I settled myself in a straight chair instead of sitting on the divan, so he wouldn't have an excuse to sit next to me. I told him I was busy and asked flat-out what he wanted. He didn't waste time, I'll say that for him. Before I knew what was happening, he was leaning over me, so close I could see the separate hairs in his mustache.

The trouble with straight chairs is that they fall over very easily. For every action there is, we are told, an equal reaction; I was afraid that if I let fly with hand or foot, I would end up on my back entangled in the chair legs—an ignominious and, under those circumstances, vulnerable position. I looked him in the eye and said, "Sir! How dare you?"

It sounded so silly I could hardly keep a straight face. However, I had used it effectively on certain earlier occasions. Percy backed off, looking foolish. I slipped out of the chair and stood behind it.

"You claim to be an officer and a gentleman," I said. "If you cannot behave like one you had better go."

''Forgive me," he mumbled. "I couldn't help myself. You are so lovely, so desirable—"

"So it was my fault that you behaved like a cad?" (Another of those words that seems to be effective, though I'll be cursed if I know exactly what it means!)

"You don't understand. I want to marry you."

I laughed—not a genteel, ladylike giggle, but a hearty guffaw. It was completely spontaneous, but I suppose I couldn't have done anything more offensive if I had tried. He flushed darkly, and I got myself under control—for the moment.

"No," I said. "Not under any circumstances. Not if you were the last man on earth. Not if the sole alternative were a slow painful death by torture."

"You don't mean it," Percy said.

I managed to hold on to my temper. I was quite proud of myself, for really, can you imagine a more infuriating statement? I said quietly, "The others will be back before long. If you are still here when the Professor comes—or Ramses—"

"Ah," said Percy, sneering like a stage villain. "Are you really going to let Aunt Amelia marry you off to cousin Ramses? I thought you had more spunk. He's not man enough for you, Nefret."

That was when I lost my temper. You remember our discussion of that interesting episode in Percy's book? David wasn't supposed to tell you what Ramses had admitted to him, and you weren't supposed to tell me; but we tell each other everything, don't we? You swore me to secrecy, as David had sworn you. Lia, I broke my word! I couldn't help it. That he should dare sneer at Ramses! I informed Master Percy that he wasn't fit to blacken Ramses's boots, and called him a sneak and a liar and a coward—among other things. I wasn't too coherent, but by the time I ran out of breath the whole story had come out.

I didn't fully comprehend what I had done until I saw Percy's face. It had gone all patchy red and white, as sunburned skin does after a bad shock.

"I didn't know," he muttered.

"Obviously you didn't, or you would not have written such rubbish, knowing we could challenge it."

"It's true?" He caught himself. "I mean to say—you would take his word instead of mine?"

"Really, Percy, you are too ridiculous!" I didn't feel like laughing, though; I had begun to realize what a mess I'd made of the business. "Ramses didn't tell me anything. He didn't want anyone to know."

"Then how did you find out? I mean to say, what makes you think—"

"He confirmed it, but only after some of us reasoned it out for ourselves."

"Some of us," Percy repeated.

"Not Aunt Amelia and the Professor, at least I don't believe so. We swore we would keep it to ourselves. Please..." The word came hard, but I got it out. "Please don't say anything."

Percy threw his shoulders back and stuck out his chin. "I would obey your slightest wish, Nefret, but this puts me in an impossible position. Ramses deliberately deceived me—for the best of motives, I am sure—but now that I know the truth I must give him the credit he deserves. An officer and a gentleman could not act otherwise."

I cringe when I remember the hackneyed cliches in which I begged him not to act like an officer and a gentleman. Yes, I had to beg. Whether he would actually have humiliated himself I don't know; that sort of thing is not his style; but I didn't dare take the chance. I knew Ramses would be furious if he found out I had given him away. Finally Percy reluctantly agreed—as a favor to me.

After he had gone I was trembling so hard I had to sit down. You know my frightful temper, Lia; I lose it too quickly, and when I've got my wits back, I feel guilty and ashamed. Not of embarrassing Percy—he deserved it, though I admit he behaved surprisingly well. I would have expected him to storm and shout and deny everything. But I can't forgive myself for betraying Ramses. The promise was unspoken, but it should have bound me. You won't say anything, will you? Not even to David.

 

From Manuscript H

It was almost midnight when Ramses left the dahabeeyah, wearing only a pair of cotton drawers. After he had lowered himself into the water he waited for a moment; hearing no challenge from the guard on the opposite side of the boat, next to the dock, he struck out toward the spot several hundred yards downstream where he had left his clothes. The abandoned hut, hardly more than a pile of tumbled mud-brick, was one he and David had used for a similar purpose when they prowled the suks and coffee shops in various disguises. Ramses still regretted having to abandon his persona as Ali the Rat; it had served him well for several years, until one of their more unpleasant adversaries had discovered Ali's true identity.

That night he would be himself. A disguise would negate the purpose for which he was going through this tedious performance. Since he had known he would have to swim ashore, he had left a change of clothing at the ruin. It was a confounded nuisance but he couldn't risk the possibility that the night watchman, who was one of Selim's innumerable cousins, might tell his father he had gone ashore when he was supposed to be sound asleep in bed. Achmed would as soon cut his own throat as lie to the Father of Curses.

Pulling the bundle of clothing from a crevice in the wall, he rubbed himself dry and dressed, wondering wearily why he had the misfortune to belong to a family of such boundless energy and amiable inquisitiveness. It was almost impossible for him to get away from them without interminable explanations. If he didn't show up at the dig his father would demand to know where the devil he had been; if he didn't turn up for meals his mother would subject him to one of her endless inquisitions; if he wasn't available whenever she wanted him, Nefret would assume he had gone off on some mysterious, possibly dangerous, mission without telling her. That would have been a violation of their First Law, which David had invented and insisted upon; it was a sensible precaution, considering the situations they often got into, and Ramses took pains to conform to it because if he didn't, Nefret wouldn't. She probably would not consider the note he had left for her a legitimate substitute for verbal notification, but there was some consolation in the knowledge that if he didn't get back in time to retrieve it before she found it, he would probably be dead.

In the note he had told her where he was going, but not why. He hated admitting his reasons even to himself; they were unfounded, disloyal and unfair, but they made an unpleasantly convincing syllogism. David was dedicated to the nationalist cause. Causes need money. David had indicated that he wouldn't touch the money Lia's parents had settled on her. Would he have fewer scruples about dealing in forged antiquities in order to lend financial support to the cause in which he ardently believed? He wouldn't have been the first man to be corrupted by a noble ideal.

An hour after he had left the boat, Ramses was in the same coffee shop he had visited twice before, asking the same question and getting the same answer. Nobody had seen the man he wanted. Nobody knew where he was.

Ramses paid the waiter and stared gloomily at the small cup of coffee. Damned if he'd drink the stuff; he'd been swilling coffee for three nights in a row, and caffeine jangled along his nerves. He rose to his feet, deliberately conspicuous in his European clothing. He hadn't hoped anyone would lead him to his quarry, but Wardani certainly knew by now that he was being asked after, and by whom. It would be Wardani's decision as to whether to make contact.

He chose the darker streets on his way back to the river, waving away the cabdrivers who accosted him hoping for a fare. Once he had left the boulevard he encountered only a few people, their faces muffled against the cool night air. He could have shouted with relief when one of them veered toward him and a hand closed over his arm.

"Do not move or cry out," said a quiet voice. "Do you feel the point of the knife?"

"Yes." It was scarcely more than a pinprick, below his left shoulder blade.

Another shadowy form closed in on his right, and he was blindfolded, quickly and efficiently.

"Children's games." He spoke Arabic, as they had done, and one of them let out a muffled laugh.

"Come, then, Brother of Demons, and we will play the game you have chosen."

He moved with them, letting his other senses compensate for the loss of sight. When they stopped he could have retraced the route without hesitation, and identified the establishment they entered. The smell was unmistakable. The British authorities were trying to stop the import of hashish, but so far all they had accomplished was to make it scarcer and more expensive. Ramses waited until the door had closed behind him and his escorts before he acted.

"So then," he said to his guide, whom he now held against the wall with the fellow's own knife at his throat. "Shall we find a more comfortable place in which to talk?"

As he had suspected, the guide was Wardani himself. He had grown a beard, which blurred the shape of that arrogant chin and strong jaw. Unperturbed and smiling, he glanced at the man who lay groaning on the floor. "More childish games, my friend. That was unnecessary and unkind. You knew you were in no danger with us."