CHAPTER TEN

Men May Be Violently Attracted by Attributes That  Are Not Immediately Apparent

Though I have never been particularly fond of mummies, I have in the course of my professional career learned to deal with the nasty things efficiently and unemotionally. I retreated from that one in considerable haste. The hour was late when we returned to the Amelia, but I admitted the need for discussion and restorative libations. It was impossible to go tamely to bed after such an experience.

We had all shared it, except for Evelyn, who claimed our descriptions were quite enough for her. Emerson, who is attracted to mummies, would have crawled over burning coals to reach this one. With the help of Abdullah he managed to widen the space enough for him to squeeze through, and he was there so long, I regretted not having attached a rope to him. Not until I crawled partway into the tunnel and threatened to remove him bodily did he consent to return. Emerson is not especially sensitive to atmosphere, and it was that as much as the hideous aspect of the mummy that had affected me—the dim light and shifting shadows, the foul stench—and the fact that the plain white coffin with its dreadful inhabitant had guarded the burial chamber of a queen. Hasty as had been my retreat, I had observed the doorway behind the coffin—a doorway blocked with massive stones.

Contemplating contemptuously the glass of warm milk I had caused to be served to him, Ramses remarked, "The reason for the refusal of the cats to enter the tomb is now explained. Their sense of smell, so much keener than ours, must have caught a whiff of that vile odor."

"You are being unduly fanciful, Ramses," I said. "A cat's notion of what constitutes a vile odor is certainly not the same as ours. But we have the mummy to thank, I suspect, for the fact that the thieves did not enter the burial chamber."

"I wonder," Walter exclaimed. "Radcliffe, do you remember the story we heard some years ago in Gurneh? About the lost tomb into which three men had vanished and never come out?"

"Folktales," Emerson said impatiently.

"This had occurred within recent memory," Walter insisted. "The fellow who told us of it claimed to be the brother of one of the men who had disappeared."

"A typical folktale, no doubt," Ramses said thoughtfully. "But it would be interesting, would it not, if some of the bones crushed underfoot in the antechamber turned out to be of modern date?"

"Balderdash," Emerson said. "The first sight of the atrocious thing might have sent them into screaming retreat, but tomb robbers are accustomed to grisly sights."

"I have never seen one as grisly as that," I murmured.

Emerson considerately splashed more whiskey into my glass. "I have, though. It came from the royal cache at Deir el Bahri."

"Emerson, this poor fellow was buried alive!"

"For once, Peabody, your melodramatic interpretation is probably correct. This mummy shows the same characteristics as the other, which I was allowed to examine some years ago. In fact, the visible parallels are so exact that I can guess what we will find when I finish the examination I was not allowed to make this evening."

I ignored this provocative remark, and the glance that accompanied it. He was only teasing.

"Yes, I remember the Deir el Bahri specimen," Walter exclaimed. "Its hands and feet had also been bound."

"Instead of being wrapped with bandages, it had been sewn into a sheepskin," Emerson said. "The internal organs were still in place and there was no evidence that the process of mummification had occurred. The same seems to be true of our mummy. I found the sheepskin, pushed back from the exposed body, and I could see no signs of the incision through which the viscera were usually removed. The expression of intense agony is like that of the other example, and it certainly suggests that both individuals died ... unpleasantly."

"His crime must have been heinous, to warrant such a fate," Nefret said.

I wondered if I would ever become accustomed to it—the contrast between her delicate English fairness and the placidity on that fair face when she spoke of matters the mere thought of which would have made an English maiden shudder or swoon.

"A good point," said Emerson. "Not only was the method of execution— for such it must have been—particularly cruel, but the man was stripped of his name and identity and wrapped in the skin of an animal which was considered ritually impure. Yet the body was not destroyed; it was entombed with the royal dead—as, apparently, was this individual. I confess an explanation eludes me."

"There's a mystery for you, Amelia," said Walter. "I don't believe you've had a murder this season; why not employ those detectival talents of yours on this poor chap?"

"I doubt that even the talents of Ramses's favorite fictional detectives could solve a case such as this," I replied in the same jesting tone. "So long ago as that—"

"Ha," said Emerson. "I believe I once heard you say that no mystery is insoluble. It is simply a question of how much time and energy one is willing to expend, you said."

"I was engaging in a little braggadocio," I admitted. "However .. ."

"Oh, you have a theory, have you?"

"Not yet. How could I, when the evidence is incomplete?" Emerson's smile broadened. The challenge in those mocking blue eyes was impossible to resist; I went on, "What I intended to say, before you interrupted me, was that at this stage one cannot state that a solution may not be arrived at. One or two ideas have occurred to me."

Observing that Ramses, who was never at a loss for ideas, was about to launch into a speech, Emerson said quickly, "The hour is late. Off to bed, eh? Not a word of this to anyone, mind you. If O'Connell gets wind of it he will drag out the old nonsense about curses, and I don't trust Miss Marmaduke to resist his confounded charm."

"So you find Mr. O'Connell charming, do you?" I inquired, as we left the saloon.

"Not at all," said Emerson coldly. "I was referring to his effect on susceptible females, which I have had occasion to observe."

                                     

Emerson's temper was sorely tried over the following days, for the Mirror arrived on schedule and the Times soon followed, and Cook's added us totheir itinerary ("steamers twice weekly during the height of the season"). Emerson's face when he first beheld the troop of donkey-mounted tourists thundering down on us was a remarkable sight. The timider souls retreated at his first bellow, but some were remarkably persistent and did not go away until he charged them brandishing a plank.

Not only were we besieged by journalists and tourists, but the archaeological onslaught Emerson had predicted also occurred. The first to arrive was Cyrus Vandergelt, our wealthy American friend. Quibell and Newberry "dropped in," Howard Carter spent as much time with us as he could spare from his other duties, and we were even honored by a brief visit from M. Maspero, despite Emerson's efforts to head him off.

The only ones of our friends who did not turn up were the Reverend Sayce, who, I was sorry to hear, was suffering from an attack of rheumatics (Emerson was not sorry to hear it), and Mr. Petrie. The Petries were at Abydos that year, which made their failure to come even more surprising. Howard attributed it to Petrie's compulsive work habits. Emerson attributed it to spite and jealousy.

"At least," he remarked sourly, "we need not fear interruption by the local thieves. They couldn't get near the place without tripping over a journalist or an archaeologist."

There had indeed been a singular lack of interest on the part of our known and unknown enemies. We had heard nothing more from Riccetti; night succeeded peaceful night at the tomb and on the dahabeeyah. This was, in my opinion, an ominous sign, but Emerson absolutely refused to agree with me (or to discuss the matter at all). How true it is that there are none so blind as those who will not see! I must share some small part of the blame. Our work absorbed me. I became complacent and careless. And in due course of time I paid a terrible price for that complacency.

Yet what Egyptologist could resist the allure of that tomb! The painted reliefs were remarkable, the colors scarcely faded, the outlines sure and crisp. Emerson and Walter spent a good deal of time arguing about the historical implications of these scenes and the translations of the hieroglyphic inscriptions, but I will spare the uninformed Reader further details. (The Reader who wishes to be informed will find those details in our forthcoming publication, The Tomb of Tetisheri at Thebes; four volumes, and a fifth, folio-size, of color plates.)

Clearing the antechamber took less time than I had expected. The modern thieves had been busy there, shoveling the debris aside in their search for marketable objects, and disturbing the stratigraphy to such an extent that even Emerson admitted there was no hope of reconstructing the original arrangement. Most of the remaining objects were much later in date than the time of Tetisheri, and of poor quality. The tomb robbers had left very littleof them, dismembering the mummies in search of amulets and smashing the flimsy wooden coffins. They had come from the burials of a priestly family of the Twenty-First Dynasty, who had used Tetisheri's antechamber as their family tomb before an avalanche or earthquake concealed the entrance.

We found the work fascinating, but the journalists did not. After an interval during which no mummies, jewels or golden vessels emerged from the tomb, they retired to the Luxor hotels, where they spent most of their time drinking and listening to the fabrications of the local inhabitants. Our archaeological friends also dispersed; they had responsibilities of their own, and as Mr. Quibell remarked, with a rueful smile, it took Emerson even longer than it did Petrie to clear a tomb.

Not even to our archaeological colleagues did Emerson admit we had gone beyond the antechamber. He had closed the opening in the doorway and refused to open it again even at the direct request of the Director of Antiquities.

It was amusing to see how M. Maspero's face brightened when he saw our nice wooden stairs. Like Hamlet, he was somewhat stout and scant of breath. After inspecting the reliefs, he interrupted Emerson's lecture on the artifacts we had found thus far.

"Mon cher colleague, I am confident that you are carrying out your excavations in a manner of the most irreproachable. But what of the queen's mummy?"

Emerson's face took on the expression that often preceded a tactless remark, and I said soothingly, "We have not yet investigated the burial chamber, monsieur. You know my husband's methods."

Maspero nodded and mopped his perspiring brow. With any other excavator he might have insisted on having the passage cleared, but he knew Emerson well. "You will notify me before you enter the burial chamber?" he said wistfully.

"Certainly, monsieur," Emerson replied in his fluent but vilely accented French. "How could you suppose I would do otherwise?"

"Hmmmm," said Maspero, and went puffing down the stairs.

The only visitor who persisted was Cyrus. His offer of assistance having been firmly rejected by Emerson, he began his own excavations in the Valley of the Kings; but since his Luxor home was located near the entrance to the Valley, he was able to "keep after us day and night," as Emerson sourly expressed it. The house, which the local residents referred to as the Castle, was a large, elegant residence equipped with every modern comfort. Cyrus invited us to tea, breakfast, luncheon and dinner, and offered to put any or all of us up.

"Mr. and Mrs. Walter Emerson, at least," he insisted. "They aren't usedto roughing it like us old hands, Mrs. Amelia, and the dahabeeyah must be a mite crowded with six of you."

I refused the invitation, but kept it in mind. The Castle was fully staffed and stout-walled as a fortress. There might come a time ...

We were dining with Cyrus at the Luxor hotel on the evening when the deceptive tranquillity of our existence was broken by the first ominous ripple that indicated the presence of inimical life below the surface. Emerson had grudgingly agreed to dine, moved more by the fact that the following day was Friday, and hence a holiday for the men, than by my insistence that we all needed a change of scene. I thought Evelyn was looking tired, and even Nefret seemed more silent and preoccupied than usual.

With his customary generosity Cyrus had invited our entire staff as well as the young Egyptologist he had hired to supervise his own work. We made quite a large party, and Cyrus's lined face broke into a smile as he surveyed the table from his position at its head.

"Now isn't this just fine?" he demanded of me—seated, of course, at his right. "The more the merrier, that's my motto. And a handsome lot too, if you except my weathered old self."

I was forced to agree. No one adorns a dinner table (or any other ambience) more than my dear Emerson, tanned and fit as always, his well-cut lips curving in a fond smile as he watched Nefret pretending to be polite to Ramses. She had developed quite a talent for sweet sarcasm, which of course passed right over Emerson's head. It did not pass over the head of Ramses, but he had not decided what to do about it.

Sir Edward, playing it safe, had rejected evening dress in favor of a suit in a heather blend that set off his blue eyes and fair hair. Kevin ... Well, even his best friend could not have called him handsome, but his freckled face beamed with satisfaction at finding himself in such company. The annoyance of the Times, the Mirror and the Daily Mail, at a distant table, undoubtedly added to his enjoyment. Walter looked ten years younger than he had when he first arrived; his face was now healthily tanned and he had gained at least a stone.

Mr. Amherst, Cyrus's new assistant, was a fine-looking young fellow, with sandy hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. None of us had met him before, since he was fresh down from Oxford, where he had been studying classics. He was chatting with Evelyn, who had never looked lovelier.

The happiest face of all, however, belonged to Miss Marmaduke. As the only unmarried adult female present, she obviously considered herself the belle of the occasion and she blossomed under the attentions of the gentlemen. Her black frock had been altered to display her arms and throat and shoulders, and by some device not immediately apparent to me she had managed to put her hair up and keep it there. Her thin cheeks were becomingly flushed—or perhaps it was paint. The transformation was so great I wondered whether Sir Edward ...

"A good many tourists in Luxor this year," said Cyrus, interrupting a train of thought which probably did me no credit. "I wonder how many have been drawn here by the news of the tomb."

"Some have tried to see it, at any rate," I replied, recognizing several familiar faces. "Lord Lowry-Corry and his lady actually threatened Emerson with dismissal when he refused to let them mount the stairs."

"Dismissal from what?" Cyrus inquired with a bemused smile.

"Heaven only knows. I suppose they believe archaeologists must be employed by the British government." I nodded distantly at Lady Lowry-Corry, who proceeded to cut me dead.

Cyrus, who had observed the exchange, laughed heartily. "I hope you will forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Amelia, but there are advantages to a democratic form of government. The aristocracy can be a nuisance."

"Emerson would agree with you. But if you will forgive me for saying so, Cyrus, some Americans toady to aristocrats too—not only ours, but the American aristocracy of wealth. I deduce, from the way the ladies are fawning on him, that the gentleman at that table is a member of that group, for his appearance is not so prepossessing as to inspire such a degree of admiration."

"Right again, Mrs. Amelia." Cyrus scowled at the little man with the enormous mustaches, who was holding forth in a loud American accent. "He is a New Yorker and an old business rival of mine. Apparently he has become quite fascinated with Egypt, for he had the almighty gall to visit me and pump me about my excavations. Watch out for him. He'll be trying to bully his way into your tomb next, and I wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw him."

"You could probably throw him quite a distance, Cyrus."

"And Emerson could throw him even farther." Cyrus's face relaxed into an anticipatory grin. "I just hope I'm on the spot if he tries his tricks on your husband."

I caught the eye of another gentleman who immediately rose and came to our table.

"How is your son getting on, Mrs. Emerson? Since you did not call me back I assume there were no complications."

"As you see, he is the picture of health." Turning to Cyrus, I said, "You remember Dr. Willoughby, Cyrus. I am glad to be able to thank you again, Doctor, not only for your prompt attention to Ramses's little accident, but for your care of my husband last winter."

"He certainly seems to have made a complete recovery," said Willoughby,looking at Emerson, who was, to judge by his impassioned gestures, arguing about philology with Walter.

"It was just as you predicted," I said. "As his physical health improved the—er—nervous disorder disappeared."

"I am delighted to hear it. And so would my patients be," he added with a smile, "if I were so unprofessional as to discuss my other cases with any but the patient and his family. But I may tell you, Mrs. Emerson, that your husband's case aroused my interest in—er—nervous disorders, and I have been able to help several individuals who have consulted me with similar problems. My practice is constantly increasing."

"Luxor is becoming known as a health resort," I agreed, "and the presence of a physician of your reputation must attract many invalids to the city."

After a further exchange of compliments the doctor returned to his table, and Cyrus, who was studying me curiously, remarked, "So Ramses has had another little accident—and one serious enough to require the attention of a surgeon?"

"The maternal instinct quite frequently inspires an exaggerated response," I replied, and, in the hope of changing the subject, went on without pausing. "Are the other people at the doctor's table patients of his, I wonder? Some of them seem to be suffering from nothing more serious than overindulgence."

"That fellow in the red fez could certainly profit from a few weeks on bread and water," Cyrus agreed with a chuckle. "He is a Hollander, Mrs. Amelia, and quite a bon vivant. The lady in black next to him is a subject of the Emperor of Austria. She lost her husband not long ago in a tragic accident; he was an ardent sportsman who tripped over a root and shot himself instead of the stag he was after. The poor lady appears to be very frail; that forbidding female at her left is a hospital nurse, who accompanies her everywhere."

"What a mine of information you are, Cyrus. Do you know everyone in Luxor?"

"I am not acquainted with the other ladies at Willoughby's table. Wouldn't mind an introduction, though. Nothing wrong with any of them that I can see."

"Too much money and too few brains, no doubt. Which do you fancy, Cyrus, the dark lady or the one with the Titian hair? I doubt it is the original color."

"Why, either one. I make no bones about my admiration for the fair sex, Mrs. Amelia, and since you are unavailable I must seek consolation elsewhere."

I am sure I need not explain to the Reader that vulgar curiosity was not the cause of my inquiries. In recent days I had seen no signs of the vultures, but I did not doubt they were still hovering, intent on gaining control ofthe empire Sethos had left leaderless. The trouble with unknown enemies is that they are so hard to identify. Any or all of these seemingly innocent tourists could be such a foe.

After dinner we retired to the garden for coffee. Lanterns hanging in the trees cast their soft glow on luxuriant greenery and tender blossoms; the cool pure air was a welcome refreshment after the crowded atmosphere of the dining salon. Emerson promptly proceeded to pollute the air with his pipe and Cyrus, after politely requesting my permission, lit one of his cheroots.

"So," said the latter, getting down to business, "when do you expect to reach the burial chamber?"

With a glance at Kevin, seated at an adjoining table, Emerson said, "One can almost see his ears prick, can't one? Don't bother straining your neck, O'Connell. The answer to Mr. Vandergelt's question is an unequivocal 'How the devil should I know?' It will be several more days before I finish with the antechamber, and then there is a passage of unknown length to be cleared of rubble. We will be lucky to reach the burial chamber, wherever it is, before March."

"Another month?" Kevin exclaimed, pulling his chair closer.

"At least."

"But I can't be hanging around Luxor so long! My editor won't stand for it."

"Neither, I fancy, can the Times and the Mirror," said Emerson with a sinister smile. "You have my permission to pass the information on to them, O'Connell. Now, Vandergelt, you were asking about the next volume of my History. I mean to discuss at length the development of the temporal power of the priesthood of Amon and its effect . . ."

With a muttered "Begorrah!" Kevin got up and walked away. The ruse had been successful. He and his readers were not interested in Emerson's theories about the priesthood of Amon. I was, of course, so much so that it was not until after we had finished a refreshing little argument about Akhenaton that I realized several of our party had disappeared.

"Curse it!" I exclaimed. "Where is Nefret? If that girl has gone off with—"

"With Ramses, I expect," Emerson said ingenuously. "It is a fine moonlit night, Amelia, and young people are too restless to sit still for long."

"Have Evelyn and Walter gone for a moonlight stroll too?"

"It would appear so. Sit down, Peabody, what are you in such a state about?"

"It is her maternal instincts," Cyrus declared seriously. "I sympathize, Mrs. Amelia; the responsibility for two such young people must be stupendous. What with Ramses's propensity for accidents and Miss Nefret's prettyface . .. You'll be up to your—er—neck in lovesick swains before long, Emerson."

"Oh, good Gad," said Emerson, with a stricken look at me. "Peabody, perhaps you had better go look for her—them."

It was so like him to have ignored all the obvious signs, including my warnings, until a casual comment from another man caught his attention! I said coolly, "I intended to do just that, Emerson. Please do not disturb yourself."

Picking up my parasol (crimson, to match my frock) I followed the path leading into the shrubbery.

There were others enjoying the tropical beauty of the night—shadowy forms in the darkness, many of them arm in arm. As I went on, I began to regret I had allowed momentary pique to prevent me from urging that Emerson accompany me. Egyptian nights are made for romantic encounters—stars, soft breezes, the languorous scent of jasmine and roses heavy on the air. The moon, nearing the full, cast silvery rays across the path. How could I, who had been and still was susceptible to sentiments of that nature, entirely condemn a young person who yielded to its exquisite sensations?

Because she was fifteen years old, not... not as mature as I had been when 1 was swept off my feet by moonlight and Emerson.

It was the moonlight that betrayed them, glinting in his fair hair. Her form was in deeper shadow, half-concealed by a flowering vine. A breeze rustled the branches; the sound must have hidden the even softer brush of my skirts along the grass. I stopped; and then I heard a woman's voice.

"What is it they say here? Word of an Englishman?"

It was not Nefret's voice. In fact, it was hard to identify, for she spoke in a whisper and a hint of laughter colored the tones. I knew it must be Gertrude, though, even before the response came in the equally soft but unmistakable voice of Sir Edward Washington.

"You have it. Do you doubt me?"

"Give me your hand on it, then—as gentlemen do when they strike a bargain."

The only answer was an intake of breath. The gleam of fair hair vanished as he moved, and since I did not know whether he was moving forward or back toward me, I retreated at once.

Returning to the table, I was relieved to find the wanderers had come back.

"We went for a short stroll," Evelyn explained. "The view across the river is beautiful."

"Did you see the others?" I asked casually.

"We ran into Mr. O'Connell and Amherst," Walter replied. "They werelooking for tobacco. The shops are open half the night during Ramadan, you know."

"Sir Edward and Miss Marmaduke were not with you?" Well, I knew they had not been, at least not all the time, but a proper investigator takes nothing for granted.

"What business is it of yours?" Emerson demanded. "You are not responsible for them, nor are they accountable to you for what they do in their free time." He pulled out his watch. "It is late. We must be getting back."

"What's your hurry?" Cyrus gestured at a passing waiter. "The ladies are just as entitled to a holiday as the workers. If you won't take a day off, I would be delighted to act as escort. Temples, tombs or shops, ladies— whatever your pleasure, Cyrus Vandergelt, U.S.A., is your man. What about the Valley of the Kings, eh? I believe I may claim that is my particular bailiwick, and Miss Nefret tells me she has not seen it."

We had not been debating the matter long when the others returned. They were all three together. O'Connell was showering Gertrude with smiles and Irish compliments. Had she managed to work him in too? I decided I had better have a little chat with Gertrude.

In all fairness to myself, I must make it clear that my concern was dictated by simple duty. Emerson is always complaining about my weakness for young lovers, as he terms it, and I would be the last to deny that I take an interest in promoting alliances of a romantic nature. (Marital alliances, that is.) In this case there could be no question of marriage, but there might be a question of conspiracy. I owed it to my family to learn whether Sir Edward and Gertrude were in cahoots, as Cyrus might say, or whether the gentleman was only amusing himself. And in the latter instance my sense of moral responsibility demanded that I speak a word of kindly warning to a woman who had obviously not my experience with the masculine sex.

I explained this to Emerson later, after we had returned to the Amelia. I am sorry to say that he responded with remarks of the most frivolous nature, and proposed another theory which I prefer not to quote literally. To employ terms less vulgar than the ones he had used: Gertrude was not so inexperienced as she appeared. Sir Edward (ready as men always are to believe themselves irresistible) had been seduced by a cunning adventuress. Emerson added—let me think how to put it—that men may be violently attracted by attributes that are not immediately apparent.

It was difficult to deny the truth of this. I managed to counter it rather neatly, I believe. "I am in complete agreement, Emerson. In fact, it was I, if you recall, who first pointed out that Gertrude is not what she seems. She may be more than a simple adventuress. She may be a spy and a criminal! In fact—yes, the snatches of conversation I overheard strongly suggest that she is trying to enlist him in the conspiracy!"

"They strongly suggest to me the sort of idiotic verbal games males and females play when they are establishing a—er—romantic relationship."

"Possibly," I said magnanimously. "But it is our duty to ascertain the truth and warn poor Sir Edward if he has been taken in."

"He wouldn't thank you for it," muttered Emerson. "Oh, damnation. I don't know why I waste time arguing with you, Peabody, you will go your own way whatever I say. Ply Miss Marmaduke with tea and sympathy and pry into her innermost feelings. I would attempt to prevent you if I thought there were the slightest possibility that she is anything but a sentimental, rather stupid woman who would faint dead away if she ever encountered a criminal or a spy."

He was mistaken, of course. He had not heard the woman's voice— confident, amused, murmurously seductive—the voice of an experienced woman of the world.

                                            

We had settled on the Valley of the Kings for our excursion next day. Emerson had agreed to join us, though he complained about cursed tourists and missing a day of work.

"At least Ramadan is almost over," I said consolingly. "One cannot expect the men to work at their best when they fast all day."

"And gorge themselves all night," Emerson grumbled. "Then we must endure three days of overindulgence and distraction, while they celebrate the end of Ramadan. Religion is a confounded nuisance!"

Of course he insisted on stopping by the tomb first. The rest of us rode directly to the Castle, where we were to breakfast with Cyrus before beginning our excursion. The party was the same as that of the night before, since Cyrus had affably included everyone in his invitation. He took us on a tour of the establishment while we waited for Emerson to join us. The tour ended in the library; watching Mr. Amherst remove an enormous folio volume from its shelf so that Nefret could examine it, I drew Cyrus aside.

"Are you certain Mr. Amherst is who he says he is, Cyrus?"

"My dear Mrs. Amelia! You must get over this habit of thinking everyone you meet is in disguise."

"He seems very interested in Nefret."

"What young fellow would not be? He is just showing off, Mrs. Amelia, heaving that volume of Lepsius around the way another lad might lift weights, to impress a pretty young lady. Ah, but here is your husband. Let's go to breakfast."

The food was excellent, as Cyrus's cuisine always was. Basking in our commendations, he reiterated his invitation. "There's plenty of room here, folks. What about you, Miss Marmaduke? And Sir Edward?"

"Kindly allow me to make the arrangements for my staff, Vandergelt," Emerson growled.

"No need to put out good money for a hotel," Cyrus insisted. "And it would save them making that trip across the river twice a day. Willy and I rattle around in this big old place, and I'm not much company for an energetic young chap. Isn't that right, Willy?"

Amherst smiled politely. "Your company, Mr. Vandergelt, could never be dull. It is entirely up to you, sir, of course."

"Wrong," said Emerson. "It is also up to me. Oh, the devil. Do as you like. Everyone always does."

I expected Gertrude would jump at the offer. Not only would proximity make it easier for her to spy on us, but the accommodations, which she had seen earlier, were as elegant as any female could desire. She demurred, however, and when Sir Edward also expressed his reluctance to take advantage of Cyrus I thought I knew why. Both would accept, or neither would. They wanted to confer privately before deciding.

"Think it over, then," Cyrus said good-humoredly. "The offer stands; just let me know."

We were soon on our way, following a path through the wadi. I had of course visited the Valley innumerable times, but it never fails to cast its spell upon me. As we rode on, the gorge gradually narrowed between walls of bare rock, golden yellow in the sunlight and utterly devoid of life— only the vultures lazily gliding overhead and an occasional serpentine slither among the rocky slopes—and, of course, flies. They appeared to bother Gertrude most. She looked ridiculous, bouncing up and down in her saddle and flailing at the air with her whisk. Again I asked myself: Could this silly woman be an adventuress or a spy?

The answer, of course, was: Yes, she could. A talent for acting and for disguise is essential to both professions.

When the path forked we followed the left-hand branch through a natural gateway of rock and saw the Valley before us. As Emerson had predicted, the place swarmed with tourists.

Only a few of the royal tombs were considered by Baedeker to be worthy of starred entries, and it was around these that the tourists had gathered. Disdaining the vulgar mobs, we were led by Cyrus to the place he had selected for this season's work. None of the men was working that day, but the evidence of their labor was visible in holes and piles of sand.

"I figure there's got to be a tomb here someplace," Cyrus declared.

Miss Marmaduke studied the barren ground and piles of rubble withobvious bewilderment, and Emerson said with a snort, "You would be better employed, Vandergelt, in conducting a proper excavation of one of the tombs that has never been completely explored—number 5, for instance. Burton's incomplete plan has several interesting features."

"The doggone place is full of debris," Cyrus objected. "It would take months to dig it out. Anyhow, it's not a royal tomb."

"Typical," Emerson muttered. "That is all you care about, you and the others—royal tombs."

Whereupon he stalked off, leaving us to remain or follow as we chose. "Where are you going, Emerson?" I asked, trotting after him.

Courteous as always (when I reminded him), he slowed his pace. "I want to have a look at one of the tombs Loret found last year."

"Amenhotep II? It will be crowded with tourists, Emerson; you know how the vulgar are attracted by mummies."

"No," said Emerson.

The tomb he sought had been dug into the side of the Valley. Like most of the others, it was open and unguarded, and I reflected, as we started down the stairs, that Howard had his work cut out for him if he hoped to protect the tombs.

We had of course brought our own candles. At that time none of the tombs were lighted by electricity, and the steps were steep and broken. Gertrude, gallantly assisted by Cyrus, let out little squeaks of alarm as she stumbled down them.

The stairs ended in a square, unadorned room. A second stone-cut staircase led down into the chamber that had been the king's final resting place. A red sandstone sarcophagus, adorned with images of protective gods and goddesses, gaped empty.

"Hmph," said Emerson uninformatively. He went to the right-hand wall and began examining it.

I did not need him to inform me why he had come there. The tomb had belonged to Thutmose I, the father of Queen Hatshepsut, but it was not that connection that interested Emerson. This was the earliest royal tomb in the Valley—later by several generations than our tomb, but closer in time to it than any other. It was much smaller than the long, elaborate sepulchers of later periods, and I saw what was in Emerson's mind. Since our tomb was earlier even than this one, it might be as simple. If so, the blocked doorway at the base of the stairs we had seen could lead directly into the burial chamber.

The others had gathered round the sarcophagus. Gertrude stood at the head, her head bowed and her hands clasped. I noted that the goddess portrayed on that part of the sarcophagus was Nephthys—no more veiledthan Isis, since both ladies are usually depicted wearing an extremely skimpy, skintight garment.

After examining the sarcophagus and translating the inscriptions (though no one had asked him to), Ramses joined his father at the wall.

"It was decorated with painted stucco," he remarked dogmatically.

"Hmph," said Emerson, walking sideways and holding his candle close to the surface.

"Water-damaged," said Ramses to Nefret, who had come to see what they were doing. "The chamber has often been flooded. That is the difficulty with these tombs located at the foot of the cliffs; one would have supposed—"

"Hmph," said Nefret, following Emerson.

"Haven't you seen enough?" Cyrus demanded impatiently. "There's nothing interesting here."

I had to tap Gertrude on the shoulder before she roused from her reverie— or meditation, or prayer, or whatever it was. She turned to me with a particularly foolish look. "It is wonderful," she breathed. "To see Her here, in this setting; the air is permeated with Her presence, with the intensity of belief."

"If by Her, you refer to Isis," I remarked, "you have picked the wrong goddess. That is Nephthys. Isis is on the foot of the sarcophagus."

Gertrude was not put out. "She manifests herself in many forms. All are She. She is all."

"Oh, really? Come, Gertrude, or we will be left behind."

"Not by me," Cyrus declared. "I have an arm for each of you, ladies."

"That would leave you no hand for your candle," I retorted. "Take care of Miss Marmaduke, Cyrus. I will follow behind with ... Evelyn?"

She had already gone on—with whom I had not seen, but not with her husband. "With Walter," I finished. "May I have your arm, my dear?"

Not that I needed it. However, his hangdog look indicated that his fragile masculine ego required a little boost, and I was happy to supply it. We were the last to mount the stairs, leaving darkness to fill the desolate abandoned chamber once again.

At the suggestion of Ramses, who shares his father's interest in mummies (to an exaggerated degree, I might add), we went next to the tomb of Amenhotep II, which had been discovered only the previous year. Like the cache at Deir el Bahri, it had contained the remains of pharaohs and queens transferred from their own tombs for safekeeping. The royal remains had recently been removed to the Cairo Museum, except for the body of the tomb owner himself. It still lay in the open sarcophagus, and naturally it attracted the more ghoulish visitors. It was an unseemly sight—the still dignity of the shrouded form, a withered wreath still on its breast, surrounded by gabbling, sweating, gaping curiosity-seekers. Some humorists made rude jokes, and some dripped candle wax onto the mummy. I was obliged to take Emerson away.

We retreated into the next room, where was to be seen one of the most curious sights in the Valley. In addition to the shrouded and encoffined royal dead, the tomb had contained three other mummies. They lay where they had been found, naked and unnamed. Two had been sadly battered by the ancient tomb robbers and did not look very nice, though the effect was nothing near so ghastly as our unnamed mummy. One, that of a woman, retained even yet a remote beauty. Her long dark hair lay round her head.

Of course we found Ramses already there, bending over the mummies. Nefret was with him, and as we came in we heard Ramses remark, "The mummification technique is certainly that of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Observe the incision."

Which Nefret did, her face close to the unpleasant surface of the mummy. Emerson chuckled. (The most peculiar things put him in a pleasant temper.)

"I am glad to see you both working hard at your studies," he said. "Have you reached any conclusions, Ramses?"

"As to the possible identity of these individuals, you mean?" Ramses thoughtfully fingered his chin. "It has been suggested, I believe, that the older woman is the great Hatshepsut herself."

Nefret let out a little exclamation of interest and knelt to examine the body more closely. "Could the younger individuals be her children?"

"Impossible to determine," said Ramses. "And there is no more reason to suppose that this is Hatshepsut than any other royal woman of the period whose mummy is as yet unknown."

A loud "Pardon, madame!" behind me made me step aside. Two tourists entered, followed by Sir Edward, whose expressive eyebrow lifted at the sight of Ramses and Nefret crouching beside the mummies.

"Amazing young woman," he murmured. "Most gels would run shrieking from such a sight."

"Most gels have been trained to behave like idiots," I replied.

"I am entirely of your opinion, Mrs. Emerson. After the ladies whom I have had the good fortune to meet this season, the ordinary young Englishwoman will seem vapid and childish."

I acknowledged the implied compliment with a smile.

The tourists were, as the Reader has undoubtedly deduced, of the French nation. I deduced, farther, that they were on their bridal trip. (They were young, their clothing was new and of the latest fashion, and she clung to his arm in a manner typical of brides.) The young man's swagger and loud voice and the high-pitched giggles with which she responded to his feeble witticisms were also indicative.

Emerson was already simmering with rage; he had protested loudly to M. Maspero about leaving the mummies unprotected. The rude comments of the young male person did nothing to calm him. When the latter poked at one of the pitiful cadavers with his gold-headed stick, Emerson could contain himself no longer.

"Sacrebleu!" he shouted. "Que le diable vous emporte! Ane maudit!" and other, even more emphatic, expressions of disapproval.

The tourists went quickly away. I caught Emerson's arm and prevented him from pursuing them. Sir Edward began to laugh.

"Very eloquent, Professor."

Emerson's rigid arms relaxed. "Oh, curse it. I don't know why I bother. It is a wonder some collector hasn't walked off with these poor cadavers already. I must have a word with Carter about this."

Climbing back up the rough rubble-strewn stairs was even more difficult than the descent had been, with only a rope handrail to offer assistance. We stopped midway up to see the other peculiar mummy still remaining in the tomb—which Ramses of course insisted on inspecting. After stripping it of its wrappings and amulets, the ancient thieves had thrown it carelessly onto a wooden boat, where it had stuck fast (being still damp with the oils and unguents of anointing). At the sight of it Emerson exploded again.

"Chicken wire! Is that Maspero's notion of proper protection? Curse it . . ."

I will spare the Reader a repetition of his additional remarks.

Even the excellent picnic lunch Cyrus's servants produced did not relieve his feelings. He was still in a surly mood after we finished eating, and declined to join us in an inspection of Belzoni's tomb, as it is called after the name of its discoverer.

"I have seen it a dozen times. You don't need me; Walter and Ramses can tell you about the reliefs as well as I can. And Peabody, of course."

Since the tomb (that of King Sethos I, to be precise) is one of the most handsomely decorated of all, there were still a number of cursed tourists hanging about, but they did not mar the enjoyment of my companions. A thrill of affection ran through me as I beheld Evelyn, her face rapt, examining the beautifully painted scenes. Her first and only visit to Egypt had ended in marriage and persistent motherhood; it was all new to her and as fascinating as art can be to a true artist. Gertrude found enough goddesses to keep her happy, and Ramses lectured till he was hoarse.

When we came out into the sunlight again, everyone was ready for a rest and liquid refreshment. The air, particularly in deep tombs like Sethos's, is very dry. Comfortably seated in the shade, we finished the tea and lemon drink the servants had brought.

Most of the tourists had gone; purple shadows lengthened as the sun sank toward the cliffs. "Where's my old pal Emerson got to?" Cyrus asked.

"Deep down in a tomb, I expect," Walter replied with a smile. "He loses all track of time when he is absorbed in archaeology. We needn't wait for him if you are tired, Evelyn. He will find his way back when he is ready."

I rose and shook out my skirts. "The rest of you go on."

"If you wish to wait for the Professor, I will stay with you," said Sir Edward, gallant as always.

"I don't intend to wait. I know where he has gone, and I am going the same way. I will meet you back at the dahabeeyah. Thank you, Cyrus, for a delightful day."

Cyrus slapped his knee. "Gee whillikers, but I am a stupid old goat! I should have known he couldn't stay away from that tomb of his. See here, Mrs. Amelia, it's a long, rough hike from here. You can't go on foot."

"Emerson is on foot," I replied.

"You are going over the mountain path?" Sir Edward shook his head and smiled. "One day, Mrs. Emerson, I will learn not to be surprised at anything you attempt. I will accompany you, of course, if I cannot dissuade you. And I feel fairly sure I cannot."

He really had a very charming smile. Before I could assure him he was welcome, Ramses, already on his feet, said stiffly, "That is not necessary, sir. I will escort my mother."

I was anxious to be off, so I cut short the agitated discussion that followed. Everyone offered to go; I selected the ones I knew could keep up with me. "Ramses, Nefret and Sir Edward. Good day to the rest of you."

The view from the top of the cliff was glorious at that time of day, but we did not linger to enjoy it. As the sun sank lower, my uneasiness increased. We ought to have met Emerson returning before this. He would not have remained away so long without warning me of his intentions.

Instead of following the well-marked path that led to Deir el Bahri, I struck out to the north, following what I deemed to be the quickest if not easiest route. The track was in some places almost too rough for human feet, and had probably been made by goats. Since I was in something of a hurry, I accepted Sir Edward's hand in the more difficult sections. Ramses and Nefret followed, and I am sorry to say that I heard a good deal of bad language from the latter as she fought off Ramses's attempt to assist her in the same way. Some of the words were Arabic (learned, I did not doubt, from Ramses), and Sir Edward had trouble controlling his mouth. He did me the courtesy of pretending he had not heard, however.

I was sadly short of breath, with agitation as well as exertion, when I saw before me, encrimsoned by the sunset light, an unmoving and monolithic form. It was Emerson, sitting on a rock.

"Ah," he said, as we came panting up to him. "There you are, Peabody. I rather expected you would turn up before long, though I clung to the forlorn hope that you would have sense enough to go back with Vandergelt."

The reproaches that hovered on my lips, awaiting breath enough to pronounce them, were never voiced. I had seldom seen even Emerson in such a state of disarray. His hands were bleeding and his shirt was ripped half off him.

"Curse it, Emerson, what the devil have you been doing?" I gasped.

"Language, Peabody. Sit down and catch your breath."

"Excuse me, sir, but is it wise to remain here?" Sir Edward inquired. "You appear to have had some trouble."

"Trouble? Not in the least. I banged myself up a bit descending that ladder in too great haste. Unfortunately I was not hasty enough. They got away."

"Ladder?" I started to rise.

Emerson put his hand on my shoulder and held me in place. "You will see it soon enough, my dear, unless you decide to go round the long way. So much for your mysterious secret passages, eh? It is quite a well-constructed rope ladder, and it has probably been used several times—for one thing, to put the hippopotamus statue in the tomb."

"But you said there was no need to guard the upper entrance."

"Hmm, yes, well, it appears I was wrong. What I failed to take into account was the confounded religious element. During Ramadan even our men are tired and less alert by the end of the day. As soon as the sun goes down they begin eating and drinking and relaxing. The small sounds made by someone descending would be unheard or taken for natural noises."

Ramses returned from the edge of the descent. "They arranged it rather ingeniously, don't you think, Father? The supports are inconspicuous but sturdy; the ladder could be put in place and removed quickly."

I was amused to observe that Sir Edward, normally so cool and imperturbable, was beginning to show signs of perturbation. "Sir—with all respect— it is getting dark, and the return trip across the plateau will be difficult for the ladies—"

"What ladies?" Emerson grinned at me and put an affectionate arm around Nefret, who was sitting next to him on the other side. "But perhaps you are right, we ought to be getting back. Will you go first, Peabody?"

"If you will permit me, Father ..." Ramses was already on the ladder.

"Gallantry is not required, Ramses," said his father, with a laugh. "The thieves are long since departed, and there is no one below except our men. But go ahead. I left a candle burning at the entrance of the tomb, where the ladder ends. You might wait there for Nefret."

Again I demanded explanations, and while we waited for the childrento make the descent, Emerson condescended to give me a brief account. "It had occurred to me that perhaps I ought to have a look round up here, so I came this way, meaning to descend, you know, by one of the paths a little farther along. They had posted a lookout. He saw me coming; the first I knew of his presence was when he called out a warning. He was on the ladder and halfway down before I got here, and although I went after him immediately, I was just too late. The others must have rushed out of the tomb and gone pelting down the stairs; there were enough of them to burst through our guards and bolt. They knocked poor old Abdullah flat and cut Daoud up a bit."

"Are you certain they are all right?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes. Except for being extremely embarrassed. I have been up and down several times, which accounts for my improper appearance. Now then, Peabody, off you go."

He assisted me onto the ladder and addressed Sir Edward. "I don't want to leave the ladder here. Unhook it and bring it with you."

Sir Edward must have voiced a mild objection or question; Emerson's answer, couched in his normal voice, was audible even though I was some feet down the ladder.

"Of course you cannot descend a ladder while you are carrying it! Go back the way you came or follow the path farther to the north and east, where the slope is not so steep.

"Really," he added, after he had joined me on the platform outside the tomb entrance, "so-called higher education in England has deteriorated even further than I had believed. Can you imagine a graduate of Oxford University making such an idiotic remark?"

"It will be a difficult trip in the dark, whichever way he goes," I said.

"He ought to know the paths, he was here last season with Northampton, wasn't he? Anyhow," Emerson went on, "you do not suppose I would leave you and Nefret alone with him."

"Hardly alone, Emerson. Really, you ... Oh, never mind. Did they do any damage? For I presume you have been in the tomb."

"Yes."

Night had fallen. There is almost no twilight in Egypt, only a sudden transformation from daylight to dark. Emerson removed the candle from its rocky setting. The flame illumined his grave, unsmiling countenance.

"They meant to break into the burial chamber tonight, Peabody. And they might have done it, too, if I had not startled them into flight."

"Yet they chose to face all our men instead of you." I squeezed his arm affectionately.

"They may have believed you were with me," Emerson said with a chuckle. "You and your parasol." But there was no humor in his voicewhen he continued. "The situation is more serious than I allowed myself to admit, Peabody. An attempt like this one, in broad daylight and in force, is uncharacteristic of the Gurnawis. Someone knows we are now within striking distance of the burial chamber, and he means to get there before we do. The next attempt may be more violent; one of the men, or one of us, could be seriously injured. It is against all my principles, but I see no help for it. We'll have to go straight for the sarcophagus and the queen's mummy."