CHAPTER 1

"Some concessions to temperament are necessary if the marital state is to flourish."

I believe I may truthfully claim that I have never been daunted by danger or drudgery. Of the two I much prefer the former. As the only unmarried offspring of my widowed and extremely absentminded father, I was held responsible for the management of the household— which, as every woman knows, is the most difficult, unappreciated, and lowest paid (i.e., not paid) of all occupations. Thanks to the above mentioned absentmindedness of my paternal parent I managed to avoid boredom by pursuing such unwomanly studies as history and languages, for Papa never minded what I did so long as his meals were on time, his clothing was clean and pressed, and he was not disturbed by anyone for any reason whatever. At least I thought I was not bored. The truth is, I had nothing with which to compare that life, and no hope of a better one. In those declining years of the nineteenth century, marriage was not an alternative that appealed to me; it would have been to exchange comfortable serfdom for absolute slavery— or so I believed. (And I am still of that opinion as regards the majority of women.) My case was to be the exception that proves the rule, and had I but known what unimagined and unimaginable delights awaited me, the bonds that chafed me would have been unendurable. Those bonds were not broken until the death of my poor papa left me the possessor of a modest fortune and I set out to see the ancient sites I knew only from books and photographs. In the antique land of Egypt I learned at last what I had been missing— adventure, excitement, danger, a life's work that employed all my considerable intellectual powers, and the companionship of that remarkable man who was destined for me as I was for him.
What mad pursuits! What struggles to escape! What wild ecstasy!

*  *  *

I am informed, by a certain person of the publishing persuasion, that I have not set about this in the right way She maintains that if an author wishes to capture the attention of her readers she must begin with a scene of violence and/or passion.

"I mentioned— er— 'wild ecstasy,'" I said.

The person gave me a kindly smile. "Poetry, I believe? We do not allow poetry, Mrs. Emerson It slows the narrative and confuses the Average Reader." (This apocryphal individual is always referred to by persons of the publishing persuasion with a blend of condescension and superstitious awe, hence my capital letters.)

"What we want is blood," she continued, with mounting enthusiasm. "And a lot of it! That should be easy for you, Mrs. Emerson. I believe you have encountered a good many murderers."

This was not the first time I had considered editing my journals for eventual publication, but never before had I gone so far as to confer with an editor, as these individuals are called. I was forced to explain that if her views were characteristic of the publishing industry today, that industry would have to muddle along without Amelia P. Emerson. How I scorn the shoddy tricks of sensationalism which characterize modern literary productions! To what a state has the noble art of literature fallen in recent years! No longer is a reasoned, leisurely exposition admired, instead the reader is to be bludgeoned into attention by devices that appeal to the lowest and most degraded of human instincts.

The publishing person went away shaking her head and mumbling about murder. I was sorry to disappoint her, for she was a pleasant enough individual— for an American. I trust that remark will not leave me open to an accusation of chauvinism, Americans have many admirable characteristics, but literary taste is rare among them. If I consider this procedure again, I will consult a British publisher.

*  *  *

I suppose I might have pointed out to the naive publishing person that there are worse things than murder. Dead bodies I have learned to take in my stride, so to speak, but some of the worst moments of my life occurred last winter when I crawled on all fours through indescribable refuse toward the place where I hoped, and feared, to find the individual dearer to me than life itself. He had been missing for almost a week I could not believe any prison could hold a man of his intelligence and strength so long unless . . . The hideous possibilities were too painful to contemplate, mental anguish overwhelmed the physical pain of bruised knees and scratched palms, and rendered inconsequential the fear of enemies on every hand. Already the swollen orb of day hung low in the west. The shadows of the coarse weeds stretched gray across the grass, touching the walls of the structure that was our goal. It was a small low building of stained mud-brick that seemed to squat sullenly in its patch of refuse-strewn dirt. The two walls visible  to me had neither windows nor doors. A sadistic owner might keep a dog in such a kennel . . .

Swallowing hard, I turned to my faithful reis Abdullah, who was close at my heels. He shook his head warningly and placed a finger on his lips. A gesture conveyed his message: the roof was our goal. He gave me a hand up and then followed.

A crumbling parapet shielded us from sight, and Abdullah let out his breath in a gasp. He was an old man, the strain of suspense and effort had taken their toll. I had no sympathy to give him then, nor would he have wanted it. Scarcely pausing, he crawled toward the middle of the roof, where there was an opening little more than a foot square. A grille of rusted metal covered it, resting on a ledge or lip just below the surface of the roof. The bars were thick and close together.

Were the long days of suspense at an end? Was he within? Those final seconds before I reached the aperture seemed to stretch on interminably. But they were not the worst. That was yet to come.

The only other light in the foul den below came from a slit over the door. In the gloom of the opposite corner I saw a motionless form. I knew that form, I would have recognized it in darkest night, though I could not make out his features. My senses swam. Then a shaft of dying sunlight struck through the narrow opening and fell upon him. It was he! My prayers had been answered! But— oh, Heaven— had we come too late? Stiff and unmoving, he lay stretched out upon the filthy cot. The features might have been those of a waxen death mask, yellow and rigid. My straining eyes sought some sign of life, of breath . . . and found none.

But that was not the worst It was yet to come.

Yes, indeed, if I were to resort to contemptible devices of the sort the young person suggested, I could a tale unfold ... I refuse to insult the intelligence of my (as yet) hypothetical reader by doing so, however. I now resume my ordered narrative.

*  *  *

As I was saying: "What mad pursuits! What struggles to escape! What wild ecstasy!" Keats was speaking in quite another context, of course. However, I have been often pursued (sometimes madly) and struggled (successfully) to escape on more than one occasion. The last phrase is also appropriate, though I would not have put it quite that way myself.

Pursuits, struggles and the other sentiment referred to began in Egypt, where I encountered for the first time the ancient civilization that was to inspire my life's work, and the remarkable man who was to share it. Egyptology and Radcliffe Emerson! The two are inseparable, not only in my heart but in the estimation of the scholarly world It may be said— in fact, I have often said it— that Emerson is Egyptology, the finest scholar of this or any other era. At the time of which I write we stood on the threshold of a new century, and I did not doubt that Emerson would dominate the twentieth as he had the nineteenth. When I add that Emerson's physical attributes include sapphire-blue eyes, thick raven locks, and a form that is the epitome of manly strength and grace, I believe the sensitive reader will understand why our union had proved so thoroughly satisfactory.

Emerson dislikes his first name, for reasons which I have never entirely understood. I have never inquired into them because I myself prefer to address him by the appellation that indicates comradeship and equality, and that recalls fond memories of the days of our earliest acquaintance. Emerson also dislikes titles, his reasons for this prejudice stem from his radical social views, for he judges a man (and a woman, I hardly need add) by ability rather than worldly position. Unlike most archaeologists he refuses to respond to the fawning titles used by the fellahin toward foreigners, his admiring Egyptian workmen had honored him with the appellation of "Father of Curses," and I must say no man deserved it more.

My union with this admirable individual had resulted in a life particularly suited to my tastes. Emerson accepted me as a full partner professionally as well as matrimonially, and we spent the winter seasons excavating at various sites in Egypt. I may add that I was the only woman engaged in that activity— a sad commentary on the restricted condition of females in the late-nineteenth century of our era— and that I could never have done it without the wholehearted cooperation of my remarkable spouse. Emerson did not so much insist upon my participation as take it for granted. (I took it for granted too, which may have contributed to Emerson's attitude.)

For some reason I have never been able to explain, our excavations were often interrupted by activities of a criminous nature. Murderers, animated mummies, and Master Criminals had interfered with us, we seemed to attract tomb-robbers and homicidally inclined individuals. All in all it had been a delightful existence, marred by only one minor flaw. That flaw was our son, Walter Peabody Emerson, known to friends and foes alike by his sobriquet of "Ramses."

All young boys are savages, this is an admitted fact. Ramses, whose nickname derived from a pharaoh as single-minded and arrogant as himself, had all the failings of his gender and age: an incredible attraction to dirt and dead, smelly objects, a superb disregard for his own survival, and utter contempt for the rules of civilized behavior. Certain characteristics unique to Ramses made him even more difficult to deal with. His intelligence was (not surprisingly) of a high order, but it exhibited itself in rather disconcerting ways. His Arabic was of appalling fluency (how he kept coming up with words like those I cannot imagine, he certainly never heard them from me), his knowledge of hieroglyphic Egyptian was as great as that of many adult scholars, and he had an almost uncanny ability to communicate with animals of all species (except the human). He . . . But to describe the eccentricities of Ramses would tax even my literary skill.

In the year preceding the present narrative, Ramses had shown signs of improvement. He no longer rushed headlong into danger, and his atrocious loquacity had diminished somewhat. A certain resemblance to his handsome sire was beginning to emerge, though his coloring more resembled that of an ancient Egyptian than a young English lad. (I cannot account for this any more than I can account for our constant encounters with the criminal element. Some things are beyond the comprehension of our limited senses, and probably that is just as well.) A recent development had had a profound though as yet undetermined effect on my son. Our latest and perhaps most remarkable adventure had occurred the previous winter, when an appeal for help from an old friend of Emerson's had led us into the western deserts of Nubia to a remote oasis where the dying remnants of the ancient Meroitic civilization yet lingered.  We encountered the usual catastrophes— near death by thirst after the demise of our last camel, attempted kidnapping and violent assaults— nothing out of the ordinary, and when we reached our destination we found that those whom we had come to save were no more. The unfortunate couple had left a child, however— a young girl whom, with the aid of her chivalrous and princely foster brother, we were able to save from the hideous fate that threatened her. Her deceased father had called her "Nefret," most appropriately, for the ancient Egyptian word means "beautiful." The first sight of her struck Ramses dumb— a condition I never expected to see— and he had remained in that condition ever since I could only regard this with the direst of forebodings. Ramses was ten years old, Nefret was thirteen, but the difference in their ages would be inconsequential when they reached adulthood, and I knew my son too well to dismiss his sentiments as juvenile romanticism. His emotions were intense, his character (to put it mildly) determined. Once he got an idea into his head, it was fixed in cement. He had been raised among Egyptians, who mature earlier, physically and emotionally, than the cold English,
some of his friends had fathered children by the time they reached their teens. Add to this the dramatic circumstances under which he first set eyes on the girl . . .

We had not even known such an individual existed until we entered the barren, lamplit chamber where she awaited us. To see her there in all her radiant youth, with her red-gold hair streaming down over her filmy white robes, to behold the brave smile that defied the dangers that surrounded her . . . Well. Even I had been deeply affected.

We had brought the girl back to England with us and taken her into our home. This was Emerson's idea.
I must admit we had very little choice, her grandfather, her only surviving relative, was a man so steeped in vice as to be an unfit guardian for a cat, much less an innocent young girl. How Emerson persuaded Lord Blacktower to relinquish her I did not inquire. I doubt that "persuaded" is an appropriate word. Blacktower was dying (indeed, he completed the process a few months later), or even Emerson's considerable powers of eloquence might not have prevailed. Nefret clung to us— figuratively speaking, for she was not a demonstrative child— as the only familiar objects in a world as alien to her as Martian society (assuming such exists) would be to me. All she knew of the modern world she had learned from us and from her father's books, and in that world she was not High Priestess of Isis, the incarnation of the goddess, but something less— not even a woman, which Heaven knows was low enough, but a girl-child, a little higher than a pet and considerably lower than a male of any age. As Emerson did not need to point out (though he did so in wearying detail), we were peculiarly equipped to deal with a young person raised in such extraordinary circumstances

Emerson is a remarkable man, but he is a man. I need say no more, I believe Having made his decision and persuaded me to accept it, he admitted to no forebodings. Emerson never admits to having forebodings, and he becomes incensed when I mention mine. In this case I had a good number of them.

One subject of considerable concern was how we were to explain where Nefret had been for the past thirteen years. At least it concerned me. Emerson tried to dismiss the subject as he does other difficulties "Why should we explain anything? If anyone has the impertinence to ask, tell them to go to the devil."

Fortunately Emerson is more sensible than he often sounds, and even before we left Egypt he was forced to admit that we had to concoct a story of some kind Our reappearance out of the desert with a young girl of obviously English parentage would have attracted the curiosity of the dullest, her real identity had to be admitted if she was to claim her rightful position as heiress to her grandfather's fortune. The story contained all the features journalists dote on— youthful beauty, mystery, aristocracy, and great amounts of money— and, as I pointed out to Emerson, our own activities had not infrequently attracted the attentions of the jackals of the press, as he was pleased to call them.

I prefer to tell the truth whenever possible. Not only is honesty enjoined upon us by the superior moral code of our society, but it is much easier to stick to the facts than remain consistent in falsehood.

In this case the truth was not possible. Upon leaving the Lost Oasis (or the City of the Holy Mountain, as its citizens called it), we had sworn to keep not only its location but its very existence a secret. The people of that dying civilization were few in number and unacquainted with firearms, they would have been easy prey for adventurers and treasure hunters, not to mention unscrupulous archaeologists. There was also the less imperative but nonetheless important question of Nefret's reputation to be considered. If it were known that she had been reared among so-called primitive peoples, where she had been the high priestess of a pagan goddess, the rude speculation and unseemly jests such ideas inspire in the ignorant would have made her life unbearable. No, the true facts could not be made public. It was necessary to invent a convincing lie, and when forced to depart from my usual standards of candor, I can invent as good a lie as anyone.

Luckily the historical events then ensuing provided us with a reasonable rationale. The Mahdist rebellion in the Sudan, which began in 1881 and had kept that unhappy country in a state of turmoil for over a decade, was ending Egyptian troops (led, of course, by British officers) had reconquered most of the lost territory, and some persons who had been given up for lost had miraculously reappeared The escape of Slatin Pasha, formerly Slatin Bey, was perhaps the most astonishing example of well-nigh miraculous survival, but there were others, including that of Father Ohrwalder and two of the nuns of his mission, who had endured seven years of slavery and torture before making good their escape.

It was this last case that gave me the idea of inventing a family of kindly missionaries as foster parents for Nefret, both of whose real parents (I explained) had perished of disease and hardship shortly after their arrival. Protected by their loyal converts, the kindly religious persons had escaped the ravages of the dervishes but had not dared leave the security of their remote and humble village while the country was so disturbed.

Emerson remarked that in his experience loyal converts were usually the first to pop their spiritual leaders into the cook pot, but I thought it a most convincing fabrication and so, to judge by the results, did the press. I had stuck to the truth whenever I could— a paramount rule when one concocts a fictional fabrication— and there was no need to falsify the details of the desert journey itself. Stranded in the empty waste, abandoned by our servants, our camels dead or dying ... It was a dramatic story, and, I believe, distracted the press to such an extent that they did not question other more important details. I threw in a sandstorm and an attack by wandering Bedouin for good measure.

The one journalist I feared most we managed to elude. Kevin O'Connell, the brash young star reporter of the Daily Yell, was on his way to the Sudan even as we left it, for the campaign was proceeding apace and the recapture of Khartoum was expected at any time. I was fond of Kevin (Emerson was not), but when his journalistic instincts were in the ascendancy I would not have trusted him any farther than I could have thrown him.

So that was all right. The biggest difficulty was Nefret herself.

I would be the first to admit that I am not a maternal woman. I venture to remark, however, that the Divine Mother herself might have found her maternal instincts weakened by prolonged exposure to my son. Ten years of Ramses had convinced me that my inability to have more children was not, as I had first viewed it, a sad disappointment, but rather a kindly disposition of all-knowing Providence. One Ramses was enough Two or more would have finished me.

(I understand that there has been a certain amount of impertinent speculation regarding the fact that Ramses is an only child. I will only say that his birth resulted in certain complications which I will not describe in detail, since they are no one's business but my own.)

Now I found myself with another child on my hands, not a malleable infant but a girl on the threshold of womanhood, and one whose background was even more unusual than that of my catastrophically precocious son. What on earth was I to do with her? How could I teach her the social graces, and complete the enormous gaps in her education that would be necessary if she was to find happiness in her new life?

Most women, I daresay, would have sent her off to school. But I hope I know my duty when it is forced upon me. It would have been cruelty of the most exquisite variety to consign Nefret to the narrow female world of a boarding school. I was better equipped to deal with her than any teacher, because I understood the world from which she had come and because I shared her contempt for the absurd standards the so-called civilized world imposes on the female sex. And ... I rather liked the girl.

If I were not an honest woman, I would say I loved her. No doubt that is how I ought to have felt. She had qualities any woman would wish in a daughter— sweetness of character, intelligence, honesty, and, of course, extraordinary beauty. This quality, which many in society would rank first, does not count so high with me, but I appreciated it.

Hers was the style of looks I had always envied. It is so unlike my own. My hair is black and coarse. Hers flowed like a river of gold. Her skin was creamy fair, her eyes cornflower-blue. Mine . . . are not. Her slim little figure would probably never develop the protuberances that mark my own. Emerson had always insisted these characteristics of mine pleased him, but I noted how appreciatively his eyes followed Nefret's dainty form.

We had returned to England in April and settled down at Amarna House, our home in Kent, as usual. Not quite as usual, though, normally we would have set to work immediately on our annual excavation reports, for Emerson prided himself on publishing them as soon as possible. This year we would have less to write about than usual, for our expedition into the desert had occupied most of the winter season. However, after our return to Nubia we had put in several productive weeks in the pyramid fields of Napata. (In which activity, I must add, Nefret had been a great help. She showed a considerable aptitude for archaeology.)

I was unable to assist Emerson as I usually did. I am sure I need not explain why I was distracted. This placed a considerable burden on Emerson, but for once he did not complain, waving aside my apologies with (ominous) good nature. "It is quite all right, Peabody, the child's needs come first. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help." This uncharacteristic affability, and the use of my maiden name— which Emerson employs when he is feeling particularly affectionate or when he wishes to persuade me into some course of action to which I am opposed— aroused the direst of suspicions.

"There is nothing you can do," I retorted. "What do men know of women's affairs?"

"Hmmm," said Emerson, retreating in haste to the library. I confess that I enjoyed fitting the girl out with a proper wardrobe. When we arrived in London she had hardly a stitch of clothing to her name, except for the brightly colored robes worn by Nubian women, and a few cheap ready-made garments I had purchased for her in Cairo. An interest in fashion, I believe, is not incompatible with intellectual ability equaling or exceeding that of any man, so I wallowed (the word, I hardly need say, is Emerson's) in tucked nightgowns and lace-trimmed petticoats, frilly unmentionables and ruffled blouses, in gloves and hats and pocket handkerchiefs, bathing costumes and cycling bloomers, wrappers and buttoned boots, and a rainbow assortment of satin sashes with matching ribbons.

I indulged in a few purchases for myself, since a winter in Egypt always has a deplorable effect on my wardrobe. The styles in vogue that year were less ridiculous than in the past, bustles were gone, the balloon sleeves of the past had shrunk to a reasonable size, and skirts were soft and trailing instead of bunched up over layers of petticoats. They were particularly suited to persons who did not require "artificial additions" to assist in delineating certain areas of the body.

At least I thought the styles were less ridiculous until I heard Nefret's comments on them. The very idea of a bathing costume struck her as hilarious. "What is the point of putting on clothes that will get soaking wet?" she inquired (with some reason, I had to admit). "Do women here wear washing costumes when they take a bath?" As for her remarks on the subject of underdrawers . . . Fortunately she did not address them to the clerk, or to Emerson and Ramses. (At least I hope she did not. Emerson is easily embarrassed by such matters— and Ramses is never embarrassed by anything.)

She fit into our household better than I had expected, for all our servants have become more or less accustomed to eccentric visitors. (Either they become accustomed or they leave our service, usually at their own request.) Gargery, our butler, succumbed at once to her charm,  he followed her as devotedly as did Ramses, and never tired of hearing the (revised) story of how we had found her. Gargery is, I am sorry to say, a romantic person. (Romanticism is not a quality I despise, but it is inconvenient in a butler.) His fists would clench and his eyes would flash as he declared (forgetting diction in his enthusiasm)," 'Ow I wish I could 'ave been with you, madam! I'd 'ave thrashed those treacherous servants and fought those beastly Bedouins! I'd 'ave—"

"I am sure you would have been a great help, Gargery," I replied. "Another time, perhaps."

(Little did I know when that careless comment passed my lips that it was in the nature of prophecy!)

The only member of the household who did not fall victim to Nefret was dear Rose, our devoted housemaid. In Rose's case it was jealousy, pure and simple. She had helped raise Ramses and had a wholly unaccountable affection for him— an affection that was, or had been, reciprocated. Now Ramses's offerings of flowers and interesting scientific specimens (weeds, bones, and mummified mice) were bestowed upon another. Rose felt it, I could see she did. I found Rose a great comfort whenever the combined adulation of the male members of the household got too much for me.

The cat Bastet was no comfort, though she was female. She had been somewhat slow to discover the attractions of the opposite sex, but she had made up for her delay with such enthusiasm that the place was overrun with her progeny. Her latest litter had been born in April, just before our arrival, and Nefret spent some of her happiest hours playing with the kittens. One of her responsibilities as High Priestess of Isis had been the care of the sacred cats, perhaps this explained not only her fondness for felines but her almost uncanny powers of communication with them. The way to get on with a cat is to treat it as an equal— or even better, as the superior it knows itself to be.

The only persons who knew Nefret's true story were Emerson's younger brother Walter and his wife, my dear friend Evelyn. It would have been impossible to conceal the truth from them even if we had not had complete confidence in their discretion, and indeed I counted on Evelyn to advise me in the proper care and rearing of a young female. She had had considerable experience, being the mother of six children, three of them girls, and she had the kindest heart in the world. I well remember one beautiful day in June, when we four adults sat on the terrace at Amarna House watching the children at play upon the lawn. The great Constable might have captured the idyllic beauty of the landscape— blue skies and fleecy white clouds, emerald grass and stately trees— but the talents of quite another sort of painter would have been necessary to limn the laughing children who adorned the scene like living flowers. Sunlight turned their tossing curls to bright gold and lay caressingly on limbs pink and plump with health. My namesake, little Amelia, followed the toddling steps of her year-old sister with motherly care, Raddie, the eldest of Evelyn's brood, whose features were a youthful version of his father's gentle countenance, attempted to restrain the exuberance of the twins, who were tossing a ball back and forth. The image of innocent youth blessed with health, fortune, and tender love was one I will long cherish.

Yet I fancy mine were the only eyes fixed upon the charming figures of my nieces and nephews. Even their mother, whose youngest child lay sleeping on her breast, looked elsewhere.

Nefret sat apart, under one of the great oaks. Her legs were crossed and her bare feet peeped out from under the hem of her dress— one of the native Nubian garments in which I had clothed her, for want of anything better, while we worked at Napata. The background color was a strident parrot-green, with great splashes of color— scarlet, mustard-yellow; turquoise-blue. A braid of red-gold hair hung over one shoulder, and she was teasing the kitten in her lap with the end of it. Ramses, her inevitable shadow, squatted nearby. From time to time Nefret looked up, smiling as she watched the children's play, but Ramses's steady dark eyes never left her face.

Walter put his cup down and reached for the notebook he had refused to relinquish even upon this social occasion. Thumbing through it, he remarked, "I believe I see now how the function of the infinitival form has developed. I would like to ask Nefret— "

"Leave the child alone." It was Evelyn who interrupted her husband, her tone so sharp I turned to look at her in amazement. Evelyn never spoke sharply to anyone, much less to her husband, on whom she doted with (in my opinion) uncritical adoration.

Walter glanced at her in hurt surprise. "My dear, I only want— "

"We know what you want," Emerson said with a laugh. "To be known and honored as the man who deciphered ancient Meroitic. Encountering a living speaker of that supposedly dead language is enough to turn the brain of any scholar."

"She is a human Rosetta Stone," Walter murmured. "Certainly the language has changed almost beyond recognition over a thousand years, but to a trained scholar the clues she can offer— "

"She is not a stone," Evelyn said. "She is a young girl."

A second interruption! It was unheard of. Emerson stared at Evelyn in surprise and some admiration, he had always considered her deplorably mild-tempered. Walter gulped, and then said meekly, "You are quite right, my dear Evelyn. Not for the world would I ever do anything to— "

"Then go away," said his wife. "Go to the library, both of you, and immerse yourselves in dead languages and dusty books. That is all you care about, you men!"

"Come along, Walter." Emerson rose. "We are in disgrace and may as well spare ourselves the trouble of self-defense. A woman convinced against her will— "

I threw a muffin at him. He caught it neatly in midair, grinned, and walked off, trailed unwillingly by Walter.

"I do beg your pardon, Amelia," Evelyn said. "If I have put Radcliffe in a bad humor . . ."

"Nonsense, your criticism was much milder than the sort he is accustomed to receive from me. As for being in a bad humor, have you ever seen him more pleased with himself, more cursedly complacent, more infuriatingly good-natured?"

"Most women would not find that a source of complaint," Evelyn said, smiling.

"It is not the Emerson I know. Why, Evelyn, he has not used bad language— not a single, solitary 'damnation!'— since we returned from Egypt." Evelyn laughed,I went on in mounting indignation, "The truth is, he simply refuses to admit that we have a serious problem on our hands."

"Or rather, under the oak tree." Evelyn's smile faded as she contemplated the girl's graceful figure. The kitten had wandered off and Nefret sat perfectly still, her hands in her lap, looking out across the lawn. Sunlight sifting through the leaves struck sparks from her hair, and the diffusion of light made her look as if she were enclosed in a golden shadow.

"She is as remote and beautiful as a young goddess," Evelyn said softly, echoing my own thought. "What is to become of such a girl?"

"She is willing and intelligent, she will adjust," I said firmly. "And she seems happy enough. She has not complained."

"She has learned fortitude in a hard school, I fancy. But then, my dear Amelia, she has little to complain of so far. You have— quite rightly, in my opinion— kept her relatively sheltered from the outside world. All of us accept her and love her as she is. Sooner or later, however, she must take her rightful place in the world that is hers by birth, and that world is pitilessly intolerant of anything different"

"Do you suppose I am unaware of that?" I said, adding with a laugh, "There are some individuals who actually consider ME eccentric. I pay no attention to them, of course, but . . . well, I admit I have wondered if I am the best possible mentor for Nefret."

"She could not do better than emulate you," Evelyn said warmly. "And you know you can count on me to help in any way I can."

"We shall get on all right, I expect," I said, my natural optimism reasserting itself. "After all, I survived ten years of Ramses. With your help, and that of Walter . . . You were perhaps a little hard on him, dearest Evelyn. The decipherment of ancient unknown languages is not only his profession but his most passionate interest. Next to you, of course— and the children . . ."

"I wonder." Evelyn looked like a Raphael Madonna, golden-haired and sweet-faced, with the babe cradled in her arms, but her voice held a note I had never heard in it before. "How strangely the years change us, Amelia ... I dreamed last night of Amarna."

It was the last thing I ever expected to hear her say, and it had the oddest effect on me. An image flashed across my eyes, so vivid that it replaced reality: a scene of baking desert sands and frowning cliffs, as empty of life as a lunar landscape. I could almost feel the hot dry air against my skin, I seemed to hear again the ghastly moaning cries of the apparition that had threatened our lives and sanity. . . .

With an effort I shook off this seductive image. Unaware of my distraction, Evelyn had gone on speaking. "Do you remember how he looked that day, Amelia— the day he first declared his love? Pale and handsome as a young god, holding my hands in his as he called me the loveliest and most courageous of women? No crumbling papyrus or Rosetta Stone would have replaced me in his heart then. Danger, doubt, and discomfort notwithstanding, those were wonderful days! I even find myself thinking fondly of that wretched man and his absurd mummy costume."

I sighed deeply. Evelyn looked at me in surprise. "You too, Amelia? What can you possibly regret? You have gained everything and lost nothing. I can hardly pick up a newspaper without finding an account of some new escapade— pardon me, adventure— of yours."

"Oh, adventures." I gestured dismissively. "It is only natural they should occur. Emerson attracts them."

"Emerson?" Evelyn smiled.

"Only consider, Evelyn It was to Emerson Lord Blacktower appealed for assistance in locating his missing son, Emerson who unmasked the criminal in the case of the British Museum mummy. To whom else would Lady Baskerville come when seeking a man to continue her husband's excavations, but to Emerson, the most preeminent scholar of his time?"

"I never thought of it that way," Evelyn admitted. "You have a point, Amelia. But you have only strengthened my argument. Your life is so full of the excitement and adventure mine lacks—"

"True. But it is not the same, Evelyn. Dare I confess it? I believe I do. Like you, I often dream of those long-gone days, when I was all-in-all to Emerson, the only, the supreme object of his devotion."

"My dear Amelia— "

I sighed again. "He hardly ever calls me Amelia, Evelyn. How well, how tenderly, I remember his snarl when he addressed me by that name. It is always Peabody now— my dear Peabody, my darling Peabody . . ."

"He called you Peabody at Amarna," Evelyn said.

"Yes, but in such a different tone! What began as a challenge has now become a term of complacent, lazy affection. He was so masterful then, so romantic— "

"Romantic?" Evelyn repeated doubtfully.

"You have your fond memories, Evelyn, I have mine. How well I remember the curl of his handsome lips when he said to me, 'You are no fool, Peabody, if you are a woman', how his blue eyes blazed on that never to be forgotten morning after I had nursed him through the crisis of his fever, and he growled, 'Consider yourself thanked for saving my life. Now go away.'" I fumbled for a handkerchief. "Oh, dear. Forgive me, Evelyn. I had not meant to succumb to emotion."

In sympathetic silence she patted one hand, while I applied the handkerchief to my eyes with the other. The mood was passing, a shriek from Willie and an answering shriek from his twin brother betokened one of the rough-and-tumble encounters that characterized their affectionate relationship. Raddie rushed to break up the fight and staggered back, holding a hand to his nose. Simultaneously Evelyn and I sighed.

"Never believe that I repine," she said gently. "I would not exchange one curl on Willie's head for a return to that life. I love my children dearly. Only— only, dear Amelia— there are so many of them!"

"Yes," I said forlornly. "There are."

Ramses had moved closer to Nefret. The image was irresistible and unnerving: the goddess and her high priest

And they would be with me, day and night, summer and winter, in Egypt and in England, for years to come.

CHAPTER 2

"One may be determined to embrace martyrdom gracefully,
but a day of reprieve is not to be sneezed at."

I believe in the efficacy of prayer.

As a Christian woman I am obliged to do so. As a rationalist as well as a Christian (the two are not necessarily incompatible, whatever Emerson may say), I do not believe that the Almighty takes a direct interest in my personal affairs. He has too many other people to worry about, most of them in far greater need of assistance than I.

Yet almost could I believe, on a certain afternoon a few months after the conversation I have described, that a benevolent Being had intervened to answer the prayer I had not dared frame even in my most secret thoughts.

I stood, as I had done so many times before, at the rail of the steamer, straining my eyes for the first glimpse of the Egyptian coast. Once again Emerson was at my side, as eager as I to begin another season of excavation. But for the first time in oh! so many years, we were alone.

Alone! I do not count the crew or the other passengers. We were ALONE. Ramses was not with us. Not risking life and limb trying to climb onto the rail, not with the crew, inciting them to mutiny, not in his cabin concocting dynamite. He was not on the boat, he was in England, and we ... were not. I had never dreamed it would come to pass. I had not ventured to hope, much less pray, for such bliss.

The workings of Providence are truly mysterious, for Nefret, whom I had expected to be an additional source of distraction, was the one responsible for this happy event.

*  *  *

For some days after the younger Emersons left us, I watched Nefret closely and concluded that the forebodings I had felt that pleasant June afternoon were no more than melancholy fancies. Evelyn had been in a strange mood that day, her pessimism had infected me. Nefret seemed to be getting on quite well. She had learned to manipulate a knife and fork, a buttonhook and a toothbrush. She had even learned that one is not supposed to carry on conversations with the servants at the dinner table. (That put her one step ahead of Emerson, who could not, or would not, conform to this rule of accepted social behavior.) In her buttoned boots and dainty white frocks, with her hair tied back with ribbons, she looked like any pretty English schoolgirl. She hated the boots, but she wore them, and at my request she folded away her bright Nubian robes. She never breathed a word of complaint or disagreed with any of my suggestions. I therefore concluded it was time to take the next step. It was time to introduce Nefret into society. Of course the introduction must be gradual and gentle. What better, gentler companions, I reasoned, could there be than girls of her own age?

In retrospect, I would be the first to admit that this reasoning was laughably in error. In my own defense, let me state that I had had very little to do with girls of that age. I therefore consulted my friend Miss Helen Mclntosh, the headmistress of a nearby girls' school.

Helen was a Scotswoman, bluff, bustling and brown, from her grizzled hair to her practical tweeds. When she accepted my invitation to tea she made no secret of her curiosity about our new ward.

I took pains to ensure that Nefret would make a good impression, warning her to avoid inadvertent slips of the tongue that might raise doubts as to the history we had told. Perhaps I overdid it. Nefret sat like a statue of propriety the whole time, eyes lowered, hands folded, speaking only when she was spoken to. The dress I had asked her to wear was eminently suitable to her age— white lawn, with ruffled cuffs and
a wide sash. I had pinned up her braids and fastened them with big white bows.

After I had excused her, Helen turned to me, eyebrows soaring. "My dear Amelia," she said. "What have you done?"

"Only what Christian charity and common decency demanded," I said, bristling. "What fault could you possibly find with her? She is intelligent and anxious to please—"

"My dear, the bows and the ruffles don't do the job. You could dress her in rags and she would still be
as exotic as a bird of paradise."

I could not deny it. I sat in— I confess— resentful silence while Helen sipped her tea. Gradually the lines on her forehead smoothed out, and finally she said thoughtfully, "At least there can be no question as to the purity of her blood."

"Helen!" I exclaimed.

"Well, but such questions do arise with the offspring of men stationed in remote areas of the empire. Mothers conveniently deceased, children with liquid black eyes and sun-kissed cheeks . . . Now don't glower at me, Amelia, I am not expressing my prejudices but those of society, and as I said, there can
be no question of Nefret's . . . You must find another name for her, you know. What about Natalie? It
is uncommon, but unquestionably English."

Helen's remarks induced certain feelings of uneasiness, but once her interest was engaged she entered
into the matter with such enthusiasm that it was hard to differ with her. I am not a humble woman, but
in this case I felt somewhat insecure. Helen was the expert on young females, having asked her opinion
I did not feel in a position to question her advice.

It should have been a lesson to me never to doubt my own judgment. Since that time I have done so
only once— and that, as you will see, almost ended in a worse catastrophe.

Nefret's first few meetings with Helen's carefully selected "young ladies" seemed to go well. I thought them a remarkably silly lot, and after the first encounter, when one of them responded to Emerson's
polite greeting with a fit of the giggles and another told him he was much handsomer than any of her teachers, Emerson barricaded himself in the library and refused to come out when they were there. He agreed, however, that it was probably a good thing for Nefret to mingle with her contemporaries. The
girl seemed not to mind them. I had not expected she would actively enjoy herself at first. Society takes
a great deal of getting used to.

At last Helen decided the time had come for Nefret to return the visits, and issued a formal invitation for the girl to take tea with her and the selected young "ladies" at the school. She did not invite me. In fact, she flatly refused to allow me to come, adding, in her bluff fashion, that she wanted Nefret to feel at
ease and behave naturally. The implication that my presence prevented Nefret from feeling at ease was of course ridiculous, but I did not— then!— venture to differ with such a well-known authority on
young ladies. I felt all the qualms of any anxious mama when I watched Nefret set off, however, I assured myself that her appearance left nothing to be desired, from the crown of her pretty rose-trimmed hat to the soles of her little slippers. William the coachman was another of her admirers, he had groomed the horses till their coats shone and the buttons of his coat positively blazed in the sunlight.

Nefret returned earlier than I had expected. I was in the library, trying to catch up on a massive accumulation of correspondence, when Ramses entered.

"Well, what is it, Ramses?" I asked irritably. "Can't you see I am busy?"

"Nefret has come back," said Ramses.

"So soon?" I put down my pen and turned to look at him. Hands behind his back, feet apart, he met my gaze with a steady stare. His sable curls were disheveled (they always were), his shirt was stained with dirt and chemicals (it always was). His features, particularly his nose and chin, were still too large for his thin face, but if he continued to fill out as he was doing, those features might in time appear not displeasing— especially his chin, which displayed an embryonic dimple or cleft like the one I found so charming in the corresponding member of his father.

"I hope she had a good time," I went on. "No," said Ramses. "She did not."

The stare was not steady. It was accusing. "Did she say so?"

"SHE would not say so," said my son, who had not entirely overcome his habit of referring to Nefret in capital letters. "SHE would consider complaint a form of cowardice, as well as an expression of disloyalty to you, for whom she feels, quite properly in my opinion— "

"Ramses, I have often requested you to refrain from using that phrase."

"I beg your pardon, Mama. I will endeavor to comply with your request in future. Nefret is in her room, with the door closed, I believe, though I am not in a position to be certain, since she hurried past me with her face averted, that she was crying"

I started to push my chair back from the desk, and then stopped. "Should I go to her, do you think?"

The question astonished me as much as it did Ramses. I had not meant to ask his advice. I never had before. His eyes, of so dark a brown they looked black, opened very wide. "Are you asking me, Mama?"

"So it seems," I replied. "Though I cannot imagine why."

"Were not the situation one of some urgency," said Ramses, "I would express at length my appreciation
of your confidence in me. It pleases and touches me more than I can say."

"I hope so, Ramses. Well? Be succinct, I beg."

Being succinct cost Ramses quite a struggle. It was a token of his concern for Nefret that on this occasion he was able to succeed. "I believe you should go, Mama. At once."

So I did.

I found myself strangely ill at ease when I stood before Nefret's door. Weeping young ladies I had encountered before, and had dealt with them efficiently. Somehow I doubted the methods I had employed in those other cases would work so well here. I stood, one might say, in loco parentis, and that role was not congenial to me. What if she flung herself sobbing onto my lap?

Squaring my shoulders, I knocked at her door. (Children, I feel, are as much entitled to privacy as human beings.) When she replied I was relieved to hear that her voice was perfectly normal and when I entered, to find her sitting quietly with a book on her lap, I saw no trace of tears on her smooth cheeks. Then I realized that the book was upside down, and I saw the crumpled ruin on the floor near the bed. It had once been her best hat, a confection of fine straw and satin ribbons, its wide brim heaped with pink silk flowers. No accident could have reduced it to such a state. She must have stamped on it.

She had forgotten about the hat. When I looked back at her, her lips had tightened and her frame had stiffened, as if in expectation of a reprimand or a blow.

"Pink is not your color," I said. "I should never have persuaded you to wear that absurd object."

I thought for a moment she would break down. Her lips trembled,then they curved in a smile.

"I jumped on it," she said.

"I thought you must have."

"I am sorry. I know it cost a great deal of money."

"You have a great deal of money. You can stamp on as many hats as you like." I seated myself at the foot of the chaise longue "However, there are probably more effective ways of dealing with the matter that troubles you. What happened? Was someone rude to you?"

"Rude?" She considered the question with an unnervingly adult detachment. "I don't know what that means. Is it rude to say things that make another person feel small and ugly and stupid?"

"Very rude," I said. "But how could you possibly believe such taunts? You have the use of a mirror, you must know you outshine those plain, malicious little creatures as the moon dims the stars. Dear me, I believe I was on the verge of losing my temper. How unusual. What did they say?"

She studied me seriously. "Will you promise you will not hurry to the school and beat them with your parasol?"

It took me a moment to realize that the light in her blue eyes was that of laughter. She hardly ever made jokes, at least not with me.

"Oh, very well," I replied, smiling. "They were jealous, Nefret— the nasty little toads."

"Perhaps." Her delicate lips curled. "There was a young man there, Aunt Amelia."

"Oh, good heavens!" I exclaimed. "Had I but known— "

"Miss Mclntosh did not know he was coming either. He was looking for a school for his sister, for whom he is guardian, and expressed a wish to meet some of the other young ladies in order to see if they would be suitable associates for her. He must be very rich, because Miss Mclntosh was extremely polite to him. He was also very handsome. One of the girls, Winifred, desired him." She saw my expression and her smile faded. "I have said something wrong."

"Er—not wrong. That is not quite the way Winifred would put it . . ."

"You see?" She spread her hands wide in a gesture as graceful as it was somehow alien. "I cannot speak without making such mistakes. I have not read the books they have read or heard the music I cannot
play on the piano or sing as they sing or speak languages— "

"Nor can they," I said with a snort. "A few words of French and German— "

"Enough to say things I do not understand, and then look at one another and laugh. They have always acted so, but today, when Sir Henry sat beside me and looked at me instead of looking at Winifred, every word was a veiled insult. They talked only of things of which I am ignorant, and asked me questions—
oh, so sweetly!— to which I did not know the answers. Winifred asked me to sing. I had already told her I could not."

"What did you do?"

Nefret's expression was particularly demure "I sang I sang the Invocation to Isis."

"The ..." I paused to swallow. "The chant you sang in the temple of the Holy Mountain? Did you . . . dance, as you did then?"

"Oh, yes, it is part of the ritual. Sir Henry said I was enchanting. But I do not think Miss Mclntosh will ask me to come to tea again."

I could not help it. I laughed till the tears flowed from my eyes. "Well, never mind," I said, wiping them away. "You will not have to go there again. I will have a word to say to Helen! Why I ever listened to her— "

"But I will go back," Nefret said quietly "Not soon, but after I have learned what I must know, when I have read the books and learned their silly languages, and how to stick myself with a needle." She leaned toward me and put her hand on mine— a rare and meaningful gesture from so undemonstrative a girl
"I have been thinking, Aunt Amelia. This is my world and I must learn to live in it. The task will not be
so painful, there are many things I desire to learn. I must go to school. Oh, not to a place like that, it cannot teach me quickly enough, and I am not— quite— brave enough to face girls like those every day. You say I have a great deal of money. Will it pay for teachers who will come to me?"

"Yes, of course. I was about to suggest something of the sort, but I thought you needed time to rest and accustom yourself to— "

"I did, and I have had it These weeks with you, and the professor, and my brother Ramses, and my friends Gargery and the cat Bastet have been like the Christian Heaven my father told me about. But I cannot hide in my secret garden forever You had thought, I believe, to take me with you to Egypt this winter."

"Had thought . . ." For a moment I could not speak. I conquered the unworthy, contemptible emotion
that swelled my throat, and forced the words out. "We had, yes. You seem interested in archaeology— "

"I am, and one day, perhaps, I will pursue that study. But first it is necessary to learn many other things. Would Mrs. Evelyn and Mr. Walter Emerson let me stay with them this winter, do you think? If I have
so much money, I can pay them."

Tactfully, as is my wont, I explained that friends do not accept or offer payment for acts of kindness,
but in every other way the plan was exactly what I would have suggested myself, if I had dared to propose it. I could have hired tutors and teachers who would have stuffed Nefret with information like
a goose being fed for foie gras, but she could not learn from them what she really needed— the graciousness and deportment of a well-bred lady. There could be no better model than Evelyn, nor a more sympathetic guide. Walter could feed the girl's lust for learning while satisfying his own In short,
the solution was ideal. I had not proposed it because I did not wish to be accused, even by my own conscience, of neglecting my duty. Besides, I had not imagined for a moment that it would be considered acceptable by any of the parties concerned.

Now Nefret herself had proposed the scheme, and she stuck to her decision with a quiet determination that was impossible to combat. Emerson did his best to persuade her to change her mind, especially after Ramses, to the astonishment of everyone but myself, concluded that he would also remain in England
that winter.

"I don't know why you persist in arguing with him," I said to Emerson, who was storming up and down the library as is his habit when perturbed. "You know that when Ramses makes up his mind, he never changes it. Besides, the scheme has a number of things to recommend it."

Emerson stopped pacing and glared at me. "I see none."

"We have often discussed the one-sidedness of Ramses's education.

In some ways he is as ignorant as Nefret. Oh, I grant you, no one mummifies mice or mixes explosives better than Ramses, but those skills have limited utility. As for the social graces— "

Emerson let out a growling noise. Any mention of the social graces has that effect on him. "I told you,"
I went on, "about how the girls taunted Nefret."

My husband's handsome countenance reddened. Thwarted choler was responsible, he had been unable,
in this case, to apply his favorite redress for injustice. One cannot punch young ladies on the jaw or
thrash a respectable middle-aged headmistress. He looked rather forlorn as he stood there, his fists clenched and his shoulders squared, like a great bull tormented by the pricks and stabs of the picadors. Forlorn, yet majestic, for, as I have had occasion to remark, Emerson's impressive muscular development and noble features can never appear less than magnificant. Rising, I went to him and put my hand on his arm.

"Would it be so terrible, Emerson? Just the two of us, alone, as we used to be? Is my companionship so displeasing to you?"

The muscles of his arm relaxed. "Don't talk nonsense, Peabody," he muttered, and, as I had hoped he would, he took me into his embrace.

So it was arranged. Needless to say, Evelyn and Walter entered into the scheme with delight. I hastened to make the necessary arrangements for our departure before Emerson could change his mind.

He moped a bit, before and after we left, and I must confess I felt an unexpected sensation of loss when the steamer pulled away from the dock and I waved farewell to those who stood below. I had not realized Ramses had grown so much. He looked sturdy and dependable as he stood there— next to Nefret, of course. Evelyn was on Nefret's other side, her arm around the girl, Walter held his wife's arm and flapped his handkerchief vigorously. They made a pretty family group.

Since we had been able to get off early in the season, we had determined to take the boat from London
to Port Sa'id instead of following the quicker but less convenient route by train to Marseille or Brindisi before boarding a steamer. I hoped the sea voyage would reconcile Emerson and put him in a proper frame of mind. The moon obliged me, spreading ripples of silvery light across the water as we strolled the deck hand in hand, gliding through the porthole of our cabin to inspire the tenderest demonstrations of connubial affection And I must say it was a pleasant change to indulge in those demonstrations without wondering whether we had forgotten to lock Ramses in bis cabin.

Emerson did not respond as quickly as I had hoped, being given to occasional fits of frowning abstraction, but I felt certain his gloomy mood would lift as soon as we set foot on the soil of Egypt. That moment was now only hours away, already I fancied I could see the dim outline of the coast, and I moved my hand closer to the strong brown hand that lay near it on the rail.

"We are almost there," I said brightly.

"Hmph," said Emerson, frowning.

He did not take my hand. "What the devil is the matter with you?" I inquired. "Are you still sulking
about Ramses?"

"I never sulk," Emerson grumbled. "What a word! Tact is not one of your strong points, Peabody, but
I must confess I had expected you to demonstrate the emphathy of understanding you claim to feel for me and my thoughts. The truth is, I have a, strange foreboding— "

"Oh, Emerson, how splendid!" I cried, unable to contain my delight. "I knew that one day you, too— "

"The word was ill-chosen," Emerson said, glowering. "Your forebodings, Amelia, are solely the products of your rampageous imagination. My— er— uneasiness stems from rational causes."

"As do all such hints of approaching disaster, including mine. I hope you do not suppose I am superstitious! I? No, premonitions and forebodings are the result of clues unnoticed by the waking mind, but recorded and interpreted by that ulnsleeping portion of the brain which— "

"Amelia." I was thrilled to observe thait Emerson's blue eyes had taken on the sapphirine glitter indicative of rising temper. The dimple (which he prefers to call a "cleft") in his well-shaped chin quivered ominously. "Amelia, are you interested in hearing my views or expressing your own?"

Ordinarily I would have enjoyed on,e of those animated discussions that so often enliven the course of our rtnarital relationship, but I wanted nothing to mar the bliss of this moment.

"I beg your pardon, my dear Emersoin. pray express your forebodings without reserve."

"Hmph," said Emerson. For a morrnent he was silent—testing my promise, or gathering his thoughts— and I occupied myself in gazing upon him with the admiration that ssight always induces. The wind blew his dark locks away from his intellectual brow (for he had declined, as usual, to wear a hat) and molded tlhe linen of his shirt to his broad breast (for he had refused to put on his coat until we were ready to disembark). His profile (for he had ttnrned from me, to gaze out across the blue waters) might have servedl as the model for Praxiteles or Michelangelo— the boldly sculpturecd arch of the nose, the firm chin and jaw, the strong yet sensitive cuirve of the lips. The lips parted. (Finally!) He spoke.

"We stopped at Gibraltar and Mallta."

"Yes, Emerson, we did." By biting cdown on my lip I managed to say no more.

"We found letters and newspaper from home awaiting us at both places."

"I know that, Emerson. They came overland by train, more quickly than we ..." A premonition of
my own made my voice falter. "Pray continue."

Emerson turned slowly, resting one arm on the rail. "Did you read the newspapers, Peabody?"

"Some of them."

"The Daily Yell?"

I do not lie unless it is absolutely necessary. "Was the Yell among the newspapers, Emerson?"

"It is an interesting question, Peabody." Emerson's voice had dropped to the growling purr that presages an explosion. "I thought you might know the answer, for I did not until this morning, when I happened to observe one of the other passengers reading that contemptible rag. When I inquired where he had got it—for the date was that of the seventeenth, three days after we left London—he informed me that several copies had been taken aboard at Malta."

"Indeed?"

"You missed one, Peabody. What did you do with the rest, toss them overboard?"

The corners of his lips quivered, not with fury but with amusement. I was somewhat disappointed— for Emerson's outbursts of rage are always inspiring— but I could not help responding in kind.

"Certainly not. That would have constituted a wanton destruction of the property of others. They are under our mattress."

"Ah. I might have noticed the crackle of paper had I not been distracted by other things."

"I did my best to distract you."

Emerson burst out laughing. "You succeeded, my dear. You always do. I don't know why you were so determined to prevent me from seeing the story, I cannot accuse you this time of babbling to that fiend
of a journalist. He only returned to England ten days before we left, and as soon as I learned of his imminent arrival I made certain you had no opportunity to see him."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

"Kevin O'Connell"— Emerson's tone, as he pronounced the name, turned it into an expletive— "Kevin O'Connell is an unscrupulous wretch, for whom you have an unaccountable affection. He worms information out of you, Amelia. You know he does. How often in the past has he caused us trouble?"

As often as he has come nobly to our assistance," I replied. "He would never do anything deliberately
to harm us, Emerson."

"Well ... I admit the story was not as damaging as I might have expected."

It would have been a good deal more damaging if I had not warned Kevin off. Emerson does not believe in telephones. He refuses to have them installed at Amarna House. However, we were in London for two days before we left, and I managed to put through a trunk call from the hotel. I too had seen the notice
of Kevin's impending return, and my premonitions are as well-founded as Emerson's.

"I suppose he picked up his information while he was in the Sudan," Emerson mused. "He was the only one to use it, there was nothing in the Times or the Mirror."

"Their correspondents were concerned only with the military situation, I suppose. Kevin, however— "

"Takes a proprietary interest in our affairs," Emerson finished. "Curse it! I suppose it was unreasonable
to hope O'Connell would not question the officers at Sanam Abu Dom about us, but one would have thought military persons would not spread gossip and idle rumors."

"They knew we had gone out into the desert after Reggie Forthright, whose expedition was ostensibly designed to locate his missing uncle and aunt," I reminded him. "We could hardly conceal that fact, even if Reginald himself had not expressed his intentions to every officer at the camp. And when we returned, Nefret was bound to inspire curiosity and speculation. But the story we concocted was far more believable than the truth. Everyone who knew of poor Mr. Perth's quest for the Lost Oasis considered him a madman or a dreamer."

"O'Connell didn't mention it," Emerson admitted grudgingly. He had not mentioned it because I had threatened him with a number of unpleasant things if he did.

"Nefret's was not the only name to appear in Kevin's story," I said. "As I suggested . . as I expected of a journalist of his ability, Kevin took for his theme the miracle of survival. Nefret's story was only one of many, no one reading the article could possibly suspect that she was reared, not by kindly American missionaries, but by the pagan survivors of a lost civilization. Even if the Lost Oasis was not mentioned, the suggestion that she had been reared among naked savages—for that is how our enlightened fellow countrymen regard the members of all cultures except their own—would subject her to ridicule and rude speculation by society."

"That's what concerns you, is it? Nefret's acceptance into society?"

"She has had trouble enough with narrow-minded fools as it is." The clouds on Emerson's noble brow cleared. "Your kindly concern for the child does you credit, my dear. I think it is all a lot of nonsense, but no doubt the impertinent opinions of the vulgar affect a young girl more than they would ME. In any case we can't explain her origins without giving away the secret we have sworn to keep. All in all, I find I am glad the children are safe at home in England."

"So am I," I said truthfully.

*  *  *

The first person I saw as the steamer nosed into the dock at Port Sa'id was our faithful foreman Abdullah, his snowy-white turban rising a good six inches over the heads of the crowd that surrounded him.

"Curse it," I exclaimed involuntarily. I had hoped for a few more hours of Emerson's undivided attention. Fortunately he did not hear me, raising his hands to his mouth, he let out a ululating call that made the nearby passengers jump, and brought a broad grin to Abdullah's face. He had been our reis for years and was far too old and dignified to express his excitement in violent physical demonstrations, but his younger relatives were not, their turbans bobbed as they jumped up and down and shouted their welcome.

"How splendid of Abdullah to come all this way," Emerson said, beaming.

"And Selim," I said, spotting other familiar faces. "And Ali, and Daoud, and Feisal and— "

"They will be of great help getting our gear to the train," Emerson said. "I can't think why I didn't suggest they meet us here. But it is like Abdullah to anticipate our slightest desire."

The train from Port Sa'id to Cairo takes less than six hours. There was plenty of room in our compartment for Abdullah and his eldest son Feisal, since the other European passengers refused to
share it with a "bunch of dirty natives," as one pompous idiot put it. I heard him expostulating with the conductor. He got nowhere. The conductor knew Emerson.

So we settled down and had a refreshing gossip. Abdullah was distressed to learn that Ramses was not with us. At least he put on a good show of distress, but I thought I detected a certain gleam in his black eyes. His feelings were clear to me— did I not share them? His devotion to Emerson combined the reverence of an acolyte with the strong friendship of a man and a brother. He had not been with us the year before, now he could look forward to an entire season of his idol's undivided attention. He would have disposed of ME as well had that been possible, I thought, without resentment. I felt the same about him. Not to mention Ali, Daoud, and Feisal.

We parted in Cairo, but only temporarily, before long we would visit the men at their village of Aziyeh,
to recruit our crew for the winter's excavations. Emerson was in such a good humor that he submitted gracefully to being embraced by all the men in turn, for some time he was virtually invisible in a cloud
of waving sleeves and flapping robes. The other European travelers stared impertinently.

We had booked rooms at Shepheard's, of course. Our old friend Mr. Baehler was now the owner, so we had no difficulty on that score, though Shepheard's is becoming so popular that rooms are hard to obtain. That year everyone was celebrating the victory in the Sudan. On September 2, Kitchener's troops had occupied Omdurman and Khartoum, ending the rebellion and cleansing the British flag of the stain of dishonor that had blemished it since the gallant Gordon fell to the hordes of the mad Mahdi. (If my
reader is not familiar with this event, I refer him or her to any standard history.)

Emerson's amiable mood disintegrated as soon as we entered the hotel. Shepheard's is always crowded during the winter season and this year the crush was greater than usual. Sun-bronzed young officers, newly arrived from the battle zone, flaunted their bandages and gold braid before the admiring eyes of
the ladies who fluttered around them. One face, adorned with a particularly impressive set of military mustaches, looked familiar, but before I could approach the officer— who was surrounded by a crowd
of civilians, questioning him about Khartoum— Emerson took me by the arm and dragged me away. Not until we had reached our rooms— the ones we always had, overlooking Ezbekieh Gardens— did he speak.

"The place is more confoundedly overcrowded and fashionable every year," he grumbled, tossing his hat onto the floor and sending his coat to follow it. "This is the last time, Amelia. I mean it. Next year we will accept the invitation of Sheikh Mohammed to stay with him."

"Certainly, my dear," I replied, as I did every year. "Shall we go down for tea, or shall I tell the safragi to bring it to us here?"

"I don't want any confounded tea," said Emerson. We had our tea on the little balcony overlooking the gardens. Greatly as I yearned to join the crowd below, which, I did not doubt, contained many friends and acquaintances, and catch up on the news, I did not deem it wise to persuade Emerson back into his coat and hat. I had had a hard enough time getting the latter object of apparel onto his head long enough to enter the hotel.

The white-robed servant glided in and out, noiseless on bare feet, and we took our places at the table. Below us the gardens were bright with roses and hibiscus, carriages and foot passengers passed to and fro along the broad avenue in the never-ending panorama of Egyptian life, as I once termed it. A handsome carriage drew up before the steps of the hotel, from it descended a stately figure in full dress uniform.

Emerson leaned over the edge of the balcony. "Hi, there," he shouted. "Essalamu 'aleikum, babibi"

"Emerson," I exclaimed. "That is General Kitchener!"

"Is it? I was not addressing him." He gestured vigorously, to my chagrin his wave was answered by a picturesque but extremely ragged individual carrying a tray of cheap souvenirs. Several other equally picturesque persons in the crowd of would be sellers of flowers, fruit, trinkets and souvenirs, attracted by the gesture, looked up and joined in the general shout of welcome. "He has returned, the Father of Curses! Allah yimessikum bilkheir, effendi! Marbaba, O Sitt Hakim!"

"Hmph," I said, somewhat flattered at being included in this accolade—for Sitt Hakim, "Lady Doctor,"
is my own affectionate nickname among Egyptians. "Do sit down, Emerson, and stop shouting. People are staring."

"It was my intention that they should," Emerson declared. "I want to talk with old Ahmet later, he always knows what is going on."

He was persuaded to resume his seat. As the sun sank lower, the horizon was suffused by the exquisite glow of the dying day, and Emerson's countenance became pensive. "Do you remember, Peabody, the first time Ramses stood on this very balcony with us? We watched the sunset over Cairo together . ."

"As we shall no doubt do again," I said rather sharply. "Now, Emerson, don't think of Ramses. Tell me the news I have been dying to hear. I know your engaging habit of keeping our future plans a secret from me until the last possible moment, you enjoy your little surprises. But the time has come, I think. Where shall we excavate this winter?"

"The decision is not so easy to make," Emerson replied, holding out his cup to be refilled. "I was tempted by Sakkara, so little has been done there, and I am of the opinion that there is a great Eighteenth Dynasty cemetery somewhere in the vicinity of Memphis."

"That is a logical deduction," I agreed. "Especially in view of the fact that Lepsius mentions seeing such tombs in 1843."

"Peabody, if you don't refrain from anticipating my brilliarant deductions I shall divorce you," Emerson said amiably. "Those tombs of Lepsius's are now lost, it would be quite a coup to find them again,
and perhaps others. However, Thebes also has its attraction. Most of the royal mummies of the Empire have now been found, but... By the by, did I tell you I knew of that second cache of mummies, in
the tomb of Amenhotep the Second, fifteen years ago?"

"Yes, my dear, you have mentioned it approximately ten times since we heard of Loret's discovery
of the tomb last March. Why you didn't open the tomb yourself and get the credit—"

"Credit be damned. You know my views, Peabody, once a tomb or a site is uncovered, the scavengers descend. Like most archsiaeologists, that incompetent idiot Loret doesn't supervise his men aodequately. They made off with valuable objects from that tomb undeler his very nose; some have already appeared on the market. Until the Antiquities Department is properly organized— "

"Yes, my dear, I know your views," I said soothingly, for Emerson was capable of lecturing on that subject for hours. "So you are considering the Valley of the Kings? If the royal mummies have all been
found—"

"But the original tombs have not. We are still missinjng those of Hatshepsut, Ahmose, Amenhotep the First and Thutmose the Third, to mention only a few. And I have never been certain that the tomb
we found was really that of Tutankhamen."

"It could have belonged to no one else," I said. "However, I agree with you that there are royal tombs
yet to be found. Our old friend Cyrus Vandergelt will be there again this season, will he not? He has
often asked you to work with him."

"Not with, but for him," Emerson answered with a sccowl. "I have nothing against Americans, even rich Americans— even rich American dilettantes— but I work for no man. You have too many cursed old
friends, Peabody."

My famous intuition failed on this occasion. No tremor of premonitory horror ran through me. "I hope you don't harbor any doubts as to Mr. Vandergelt's intentions, Emerson."

"You mean, am I jealous? My dear, I abjured that unwonrthy emotion long ago. You convinced me, as I hope I convinced you, that there could never be the slightest cause. Old married people like ourselves, Peabody, have passed through the cataracts of youthful passion into the serene pool of matrimonial affection."

"Hmmm," I said.

"In fact," Emerson went on, "I have been thinking for some time that we need to examine our plans, not for this year, but for the future. Archaeology is changing, Peabody. Petrie is still bouncing around like a rubber ball, tackling a different site each year— "

"We have done the same."

"Yes, but in my opinion this has become increasingly ineffective. Look at Petrie's excavation reports. They are . . ." Emerson almost choked on the admission that his chief rival had any good qualities, but managed to get it out. "They are— er— not bad. Not bad at all. But in a single season's work he cannot do more than scratch at the site, and once the monuments are uncovered they are as good as gone."

"I agree, Emerson. What do you propose?"

"Do you mind if I smoke?" Without waiting for an answer he took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. "What I propose is that we focus on a single site, not for one season, but until we have found everything that is to be found and recorded everything in painstaking detail. We will need a larger staff, of course—experts in the increasingly complex techniques of excavation. Photographers, artists, an epigrapher to copy and collate texts, an anatomist to study bones, students who can supervise the workers and learn excavation procedures. We might even consider building a permanent house to which we can return every year." He let out a great puff of smoke and added, "Then we wouldn't have to stay at this cursed hotel."

For a moment I could think of nothing to say The proposal was so unexpected, the ramifications so complex, I struggled to take them in. "Well," I said, on a long breath. "The proposal is so unexpected I can think of nothing to say."

I fully anticipated Emerson would make some sarcastic remark about my loquacity, but he did not rise to the bait. "Unexpected, perhaps, but I hope not unwelcome. You never complain, my dear, but the tasks you have faced each year would daunt a lesser woman. It is time you had help— companionship— assistance."

"Of the female variety, I suppose you mean? A secretary would certainly be useful— "

"Come, Peabody, I had not expected you to be so narrow-minded. We could certainly use someone to keep the records straight, but why need that individual be female? And why not women students, excavators and scholars?"

"Why not indeed?" He had touched a tender chord, the advancement of my underrated sex has always been of deep importance to me. After all, I reflected, I had never counted on more than one year of solitary happiness. I had not even counted on that. Let me enjoy it now and not think of the depressing future. "Emerson, I have said it before and I will continue to say it: you are the most remarkable of men."

"As you have also said, you would have accepted nothing less." Emerson grinned at me.

"Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Nefret and Ramses, of course."

"Of course."

"The girl has demonstrated both interest and aptitude," Emerson went on. "I am also in hopes of inducing Evelyn and Walter to come out with us, once we have established a permanent base. There is a young woman named Murray at University College, a student of Griffith, who shows great promise . . . That is one of the things I hope to do this season, Peabody, interview potential staff members."

"Then," I said, rising, "I suggest we begin by dining downstairs."

"Why the devil should we? Ali's, in the bazaar, has better food— "

"But some of our colleagues are certain to be dining at Shepheard's. We can consult them about their more promising students."

Emerson studied me suspiciously. "You always have some excuse for forcing me into activities I detest. How do you know there will be any Egyptologists here tonight? You invited them, didn't you? Curse it,
Peabody— "

"I found messages from friends awaiting us, as is always the case. Come along now. It is getting late
and you will want to bathe and change."

"I won't want to, but I suppose I must," Emerson grumbled.

He began undressing as he stamped across the room, tossing collar, shirt and cravat in the general direction of the sofa. They fell on the floor. I was about to expostulate when Emerson came to a sudden stop and gestured emphatically at me to do the same. Head tilted, ears almost visibly pricked, he listened for a moment, and then, with the catlike quickness he could summon when he felt it expedient, he lunged at the door and flung it open. The corridor was dark, but I made out a huddled form crouched or collapsed on the floor. Emerson seized it in a bruising grip and dragged it into the room.

CHAPTER 3

"A woman's instinct, I always feel, supersedes logic."

"For heaven's sake, Emerson," I exclaimed. "It is Mr. Neville. Drop him at once!"

Emerson inspected his captive, whom he held by the collar. "So it is," he said in mild surprise. "What the devil were you doing down on the floor, Neville?"

The unfortunate young man inserted a finger between his cravat and his neck, loosening the former from the latter, before he spoke. "Er . . . the gaslight in the corridor must have expired, it was extremely dark, and I could not be certain I had found the correct room When I tried to look more closely at the number, my spectacles fell off."

Here a fit of coughing overcame him. "Say no more," I said. "Emerson, go and look for Mr. Neville's eyeglasses. I only hope you didn't step on them."

As it turned out, he had. Neville studied the ruined objects ruefully. "Fortunately I have another pair.
I did not bring them with me, however, so perhaps you will be good enough to guide my steps tonight, Mrs. Emerson."

"Certainly. And of course we will replace your spectacles. Really, Emerson, you must get over the habit of leaping on people like that."

Neville was one of the younger generation of archaeologists, who had already demonstrated a remarkable talent for philology. In appearance he was one of the least memorable individuals of my acquaintance, for his beard and hair were of the same buff color as his skin, and his eyes were an indeterminate shade of gray-brown. His character was mild and accommodating, however, and he had a pleasant smile "It was my fault, Mrs. Emerson. From the stories I have heard, you and the professor have good reason to be suspicious of people lurking at your door."

"That is true," Emerson declared. "In this case, however, I owe you an apology. No harm done, I hope?"

He began brushing Neville off with such vigorous goodwill that the young man's head rocked back and forth.

"Stop that, Emerson, and go change," I ordered. "You will have to excuse us, Mr. Neville, we are later than I had expected. There is a manuscript on the table that may interest you, it was in the hope of consulting you about certain passages that I asked you to do me the favor of coming early "

By the time I had closed the bedroom door Emerson was already in the bathroom, splashing loudly I concluded he wanted to avoid a lecture— or inconvenient questions. Emerson is inclined to act hastily,
but he seldom acts without cause (however inadequate that cause may seem to persons of duller intellect). Had he cause for apprehension that he had not seen fit to confide to me?

He gave me no opportunity to pursue the matter at that time, dressing with uncharacteristic speed and lack of fuss while I was performing my ablutions. I had to call him back from the sitting room, where he had gone to entertain our visitor, in order to request his assistance in buttoning my frock. The distractions that often occur during this process did not occur on this occasion.

I was wearing a gown of bright crimson, Emerson's favorite color. It was the latest fashion and I had had to badger my dressmaker to finish it in time. Emerson gave me a cursory glance and remarked, "You look very nice, my dear. I have always liked that dress."

When we returned to the sitting room, Mr, Neville was peering nearsightedly at the manuscript to which
I had directed his attention.

"Fascinating," he exclaimed. "Is this Mr. Walter Emerson's transliteration of The Tale of the Doomed Prince'? It seems much more accurate than Maspero's."

"To compare Maspero's knowledge of hieratic to that of my brother is an insult in itself," said Emerson rudely. "That is a trivial piece of work for Walter, he only transcribed it into hieroglyphs as a favor to Mrs. Emerson. She had a fancy to translate it, and her hieratic— "

"Comparisons are unnecessary as well as invidious, Emerson," I said. "I have never claimed to be an expert at hieratic."

(For the benefit of the ignorant, I ought to explain that hieratic is the cursive, abbreviated form of hieroglyphic writing— so abbreviated, in many cases, that the resemblance to the original form is almost impossible to make out. Walter was one of the leading authorities on this, as on other forms of ancient Egyptian. I was not. Neither was Emerson.)

"It is a fascinating tale," Neville agreed. "What passage in particular— "

"No time for that now," said Emerson. "If we must do this, let's get it over with. Lean on me, Neville,
I won't let you fall. Take my other arm, Amelia, the cursed safragi has let the light go out, I can hardly see where we are going."

The lights at the other end of the corridor burned bright, and we proceeded with greater speed. A thrill
of pride ran through me as we descended the staircase, for all eyes, especially those of the ladies, focused on the form of my husband. Unconscious of their regard, for he is in such matters a modest man, he led the way to the dining salon, where we found our friends waiting.

Such a gathering on the first evening of our return to Egypt had become a pleasant little tradition. As I took my place I was saddened to see that some of the familiar friendly faces were missing— gone forever, alas, until that glorious day when we shall meet again in a better world. I knew the Reverend
Mr. Sayce would sadly miss his friend Mr. Wilbour, who had passed on the year before. Their dahabeeyahs, the Istar and the Seven Hatbors, had been a familiar sight up and down the Nile. Now the Istar would sail alone, until it passed beyond the sunset and joined the Seven Hathors where it glided on the broad river of eternity.

Mr. Sayce's pinched face showed his appreciation when I expressed this poetic sentiment. (Poetry again! Let the Average Reader beware!) "However, Mrs. Emerson, we are consoled for our loss not only by
the knowledge that our friends have simply gone on before us, but by the appearance of new workers in the fields of knowledge."

There were certainly several unfamiliar faces— a young man named Davies, whom Mr. Newberry, the botanist who had worked with Petrie at Hawara, introduced as a promising painter of Egyptian scenes, a square-jawed, clean-shaven American named Reisner, who was serving as a member of the International Catalogue Commission of the Cairo Museum, and a Herr Bursch, a former student of Ebers at Berlin. Emerson studied them with a predatory gleam in his eye, he was considering them as prospective members of our staff.

Another stranger was older and of striking appearance, with golden locks and dark-fringed brilliant gray eyes any woman might have envied. His features were entirely masculine, however, indeed, the shape
of his jaw was almost too rigidly rectangular. Though a stranger to me, he was not unknown to Emerson, who greeted him with a curt, "So you're back. This is my wife."

I am accustomed to Emerson's bad manners, I gave the gentleman my hand, which he took in a firm but gentle grasp "This is a pleasure to which I have long looked forward, Mrs. Emerson. Your husband neglected to mention my name, it is Vincey— Leopold Vincey, at your service."

"You could have had the pleasure earlier if you had chosen to," Emerson grunted, waving me into the chair a waiter was holding. "Where have you been since that scandalous business in Anatolia? Hiding out?"

Our other friends are also accustomed to Emerson's bad manners, but this reference— which meant nothing to me— evidently passed even his normal bounds of tactlessness. A shocked gasp ran around
the table. Mr. Vincey only smiled, but there was a look of sadness in his gray eyes.

Mr. Neville hastened to change the subject. "I have just been privileged to see Mr. Walter Emerson's latest transcription from the hieratic. He has turned The Doomed Prince' into hieroglyphs for Mrs. Emerson."

"So that is to be your next translation of an Egyptian fairy tale?" Newberry asked. "You are becoming something of an authority on that subject, Mrs. Emerson, the— er— poetic liberties you take with the original text are quite— er— quite . . ."

"In that manner I make them more accessible to the general public," I replied. "And there is certainly much of interest in such stories. The parallels to European myth and legend are quite remarkable. You know the story, of course, Mr. Vincey?"

My attempt to compensate for Emerson's bad manners was understood and appreciated. Mr. Vincey
gave me a grateful look and replied, "I confess I have forgotten the details, Mrs. Emerson. It would be
a pleasure to be reminded of them by you."

"I will be Scheherazade then, and amuse you all," I said playfully. "There was once a king who had no son— "

"We all know the story," Emerson interrupted. "I would rather ask Mr. Reisner about his studies at Harvard."

"Later, Emerson So the king prayed to the gods and they granted his— "

It would be senseless to repeat Emerson's interruptions, which broke the smooth narrative I had intended to produce. I will therefore produce it here, for as the reader will discover, it had an unexpected and well-nigh uncanny influence on ensuing events.

"When the young prince was born, the Seven Hathors came to decree his fate They said: 'He shall die
by the crocodile, the snake, or the dog.'

"Naturally the king was very sad at hearing this. He ordered a stone house to be built and shut the prince up in it, along with every thing he could possibly want. But when the prince was older, he went up on the roof one day and saw a man walking along the road with a dog beside him, and he asked that a dog be procured for him. His father, who yearned to please the poor lad, caused a puppy to be given him.

After the prince was grown he demanded his release, saying, "If it is my doom it will come to me, whatever I do." Sadly his father agreed, and the boy set forth, accompanied by his dog. At last he came
to the kingdom of Naharin. The king had only one child, a daughter, and he had placed her in a tower whose window was seventy cubits from the ground, and told all the princes who wanted to marry her
that she would be given to the one who first reached her window.

"Disguised as a chariot driver, the Prince of Egypt joined the young men who spent all their days jumping up at the window of the princess, and the princess saw him. When finally he reached the window she kissed and embraced him. But when the King of Naharin heard that a common chariot driver had won
his daughter, he tried first to send the boy away and then to kill him. But the princess clasped the young man in her arms and said, "I will not stay alive an hour longer than he!"

"So the lovers were wed, and after some time had elapsed, the prince told his wife about the three fates. 'Have the dog that follows you killed!' she exclaimed, but he replied, 'I will not allow my dog, which I raised from a puppy, to be killed.' So she guarded him day and night. And one night while he slept, she set out jars of beer and wine, and she waited, and the snake came out of its hole to bite the prince. But
it drank the wine and became drunk, and rolled over on its back, and the princess took her ax and chopped it to pieces."

"And that is where it ends," said Emerson loudly. "Now, Mr. Reisner, I believe you began in Semitic— "

"That is not the ending," I said, even more loudly. "There is a confused passage which seems to suggest that the faithful dog turned on his master, and that in fleeing the dog, he fell into the clutches of the crocodile. The manuscript breaks off at that point, though."

"It is the mystery of the ending that intrigues you, I suppose," said Mr. Newberry. "Was it the crocodile or the dog that brought the prince to his death?"

"I believe he escaped those fates as he did the first," I said. "The ancient Egyptians liked happy endings, and the brave princess must have played a part in the solution."

"That is the true explanation for your interest, Mrs. Emerson," said Howard Carter, who had come all
the way from Luxor to join the party. "The princess is the heroine!"

"And why not?" I said, returning his smile. "The ancient Egyptians were among the few peoples, ancient or modern, who gave women their due. Not as often as they deserved, of course . . ."

At this point Emerson demanded the floor and, having had my say, I yielded it. He explained the plans
we had discussed earlier

"It will take a great deal of money and produce few results," said the Reverend Sayce. "The public wants monumental statues and jewels,-they are not interested in pottery scraps."

"But that should not be our concern," declared Howard. He was one of the youngest of the group and he had not lost his boyish enthusiasm. "It is a splendid idea, Professor. Exactly what is needed. I don't mean to criticize M. Loret, but you know how he went about locating the tomb last year, don't you? Sondages! Pits, dug at random— "

"I know what the word means," Emerson growled, pushing away his plate of soup. "It is a disastrous technique. The whole area of the Valley needs to be methodically cleared down to bedrock." He reared back as a waiter snatched the empty bowl and deposited the fish course in front of him. "There is small hope of that, though, so long as the Antiquities Department keeps control over the Valley and gives concessions only to its favorites."

"What about Meidum?" the Reverend Sayce suggested. "The pyramid has never been completely
cleared, and there are certainly more masta-bas in the cemeteries around it."

"Or Amarna," said Mr. Newberry. "You worked there some years ago, I believe."

A thrill of emotion ran through me. Pyramids are my passion, as Emerson quaintly puts it, but the name of Amarna will always hold a special place in my heart, for it was there Emerson and I came to know
and appreciate one another. I glanced meaningfully at my husband. He was looking meaningfully at
Mr. Newberry, and I knew, from the glint in his eye, that he was about to say something provocative.

"Yes, we did, and I am giving the site serious consideration. It is of great importance, for it offers clues
to one of the most confusing periods in Egyptian history. The archaeological remains have gone to rack and ruin since we left,- no one has done a cursed thing— "

"Now, Emerson, you exaggerate," I said quickly. "Mr. Newberry was there, and Mr. Petrie was there— "

"For one year. Typical of Petrie." Emerson abandoned his fish. Leaning back in his chair, he prepared
to enjoy himself by goading his friends. "I believe you also dropped in for a brief visit, Sayce."

The Reverend Sayce was, I am sorry to say, one of Emerson's favorite victims. A pinched, meager little man, he was regarded by many as an excellent scholar, though he had no formal training and never published anything. This failure would have been enough to inspire Emeron's contempt, and the reverend's religious convictions, of which Emerson had none, irritated him equally as much.

"I was with M. Daressy in '91," Sayce replied guardedly.

"When he found the remains of Akhenaton?" Emerson's lips stretched into the expression one may see
on the face of a dog just before it sinks its teeth into one's hand. "I read about that incredible discovery and was surprised that it was not given greater prominence. Did you actually see the mummy? Daressy mentions only scraps of mummy wrappings."

"There was a body, or the remains of one," Sayce said warily He had seen that smile on Emerson's face before.

"You examined it, of course."

Sayce flushed. "It was in wretched condition. Burned, torn to bits— "

"Very distasteful," Emerson agreed gravely. "What became of it?"

"It is in the museum, I suppose."

"No, it is not. I have examined the Journal d'Entm. There is no mention of it."

"I hope, Professor, you are not implying that my eyesight or my memory are deficient. I saw that mummy!"

"I am sure you did. I saw it myself, seven years earlier" Emerson looked at me. He was enjoying himself so much I had not the heart to reproach him. I decided a little friendly teasing would not do the reverend any harm. "We didn't bother looking for the cursed thing, did we, Peabody, after it was stolen from us? The villagers must have dumped it near the royal tomb after taking it apart looking for amulets. No loss,
it was only another tedious late mummy, that of some poor commoner."

Newberry was trying to hide his smile. We had not included the extraneous mummy in our publication report, since it had nothing to do with the history of the site, but many of our friends knew of our strange encounter with it. Carter, less tactful, exclaimed, "Good heavens! I had forgotten about your peripatetic mummy, Professor. Do you think it was the one Daressy found?"

"I am certain of it," Emerson replied calmly. "None of the fools who examined it— excuse me, Sayce, I
do not include you, of course— had the sense to see that it was of the wrong period. No doubt someone pointed this out to Daressy later, and he simply disposed of the embarrassing evidence and kept quiet."

"I am still of the opinion— " Sayce began angrily.

"Well, well." Emerson waved his opinion away. "Amarna does offer temptations. The Royal Tomb has never been properly investigated, and there are certainly other tombs in that remote wadi."

He took a bite of fish. Mr. Vincey, who had been listening in modest silence, now spoke. "I too have heard rumors of other tombs, but such rumors are common in Egypt. Have you any evidence?"

His voice was mild and the question was certainly reasonable, I could not understand why Emerson shot him such a hard look. "I don't deal in rumors, Vincey, as you should know. I knew of the Royal Tomb
at least a decade before its 'official' discovery."

It was a testimonial to Emerson's reputation that no one expressed doubt of this statement, but Newberry exclaimed, with unusual heat, "You might have had the courtesy to inform your friends, Emerson. Petrie and I spent hours looking for the confounded place in the winter of '91, and I got myself in hot water when I wrote that letter to The Academy accusing Grebaut of falsely claiming credit for discovering the tomb."

"What's a little hot water, when the cause is just?" demanded Emerson, who might be said to have spent most of his life up to his neck in boiling liquid. "Grebaut is the most incompetent, stupid, tactless nincompoop who ever called himself an archaeologist. Except for Wallis Budge, of course. I do not announce discoveries until I am in a position to deal with them myself. The depredations of the natives are hard enough on the antiquities, the depredations of archaeologists are even worse. Heaven only
knows what meaningful objects were kicked aside by Daressy and Sayce when they— "

Sayce began to sputter, and Mr. Reisner said quickly, "Then you won't be returning to the Sudan? That region fascinates me. There is so much to be done there."

"It tempts me," Emerson admitted. "But Meroitic culture is not my field. Curse it, I can't be everywhere!"

I had hoped to avoid mentioning the Sudan, for I knew what would follow. Archaeologists are no more immune to idle curiosity than the next man. A general stiffening of attention ran round the table, but before anyone could frame a question we were distracted by the arrival of a short, stout individual who swept up to our table with the regal manner of a viceroy— which, in a professional sense, he was.

"M. Maspero!" I exclaimed. "How delightful! I did not know you were in Cairo."

"Only passing through, dear lady. I cannot stay, but upon hearing of your arrival I could not deny myself the pleasure of welcoming you back to the scene of your many triumphs." Ogling me in his amiable Gallic fashion, he continued, "You have the secret of eternal youth, chere madame, indeed you are younger and lovelier than you were that day of our first meeting in the halls of the museum. Little did I know what a momentous day it was! You may not think, gentlemen, that I resemble the little god of love, but I had the honor that day to play Cupid, for it was I who introduced madame to the gentleman who was to win her heart and hand."

With a grandiloquent flourish of his hand he indicated Emerson, who responded to the amused smiles of the others with a stony stare. He had been extremely critical of Maspero when the latter was Director of the Department of Antiquities, but he had detested the latter's successors even more. Now he said grudgingly, "You had better come back to the job, Maspero. The cursed Department has fallen apart since you left. Grebaut was a disaster, and de Morgan— "

"Ah, well, we will talk of that another time," said Maspero, who had

learned from painful experience that it was necessary to cut Emerson short when he began talking about the failings of the Department of Antiquities. "I am in haste, I must go on to another appointment. So you must tell me at once, madame, what all Cairo aches to know. How fares the interesting young lady who owes you so much? Of all your triumphant adventures, this was surely the most magnificent!"

"She is in excellent health and spirits," I said. "How kind of you to inquire, monsieur."

"No, no, you cannot stop there, with conventional courtesy. You are too modest, madame, I will not allow it. We must hear the whole story. How you learned of her plight, what brilliant deductive methods you applied in order to locate her, the perils you faced on the dangerous journey."

Emerson's expression had petrified to such an extent his face might have been carved of granite. The others leaned forward, lips parted and eyes aglow. They would be able to "dine out" on this story for
the rest of the season, since no one had heard it firsthand.

I had not looked forward to telling the tale to our professional colleagues. Unlike the general public, they had the expert knowledge to find the flaws in our little fiction. However, I had known the moment must come and I had prepared for it with my usual thoroughness.

"You do me too much credit, monsieur. I had no idea such a person as Miss Forth existed. As you must have heard, we went in search of her cousin, who had become lost in the desert after he set out to look for his uncle and aunt. Like many other rash travelers, they had vanished when the Mahdi overran the Sudan." I paused to take a sip of wine and select my words carefully. Then I resumed, "Since the region has been pacified, there have been rumors that some of these people in fact survived."

"It was some such idle rumor that sent Mr. Forthright into the desert?"

Maspero shook his head. "Rash and foolish."

"It was Divine Guidance that inspired him," Sayce said reverently. "And led you to the rescue of this innocent child."

I could have kicked the kindly old man. A remark like this was bound to break through Emerson's silence, for he particularly dislikes giving God the credit for his own achievements. Unfortunately I could not kick Emerson, since he was seated across the table from me.

"Divine Guidance inspired him to lose himself in the desert," said my husband. "Having better sense,
we did not rely on— "

Since I could not administer a warning kick on the shin, I had to find another way of stopping him. I knocked over my wineglass. The heavy damask tablecloth absorbed most of the liquid, but a few drops spattered my brand-new frock.

"What did you rely on?" Carter asked eagerly.

"If it was not Divine Guidance, it was pure luck," I said, frowning at Emerson. "We had the usual adventures. You know the sort of thing, gentlemen— sandstorms, thirst, Bedouin attack. Nothing to speak of. From displaced persons we met along the way we heard of the missionaries— they belong to some strange Protestant sect, like the Brothers of the New Jerusalem— you remember them, Reverend
— and finally reached the remote village where they had miraculously survived fourteen years
of war and misery. Mr. and Mrs Forth had passed on, but their child lived. We were fortunate enough
to be able to restore her to her heritage."

The waiter had supplied a fresh glass of wine. I took a hearty swig, feeling I deserved it.

"So you found no trace of poor Mr. Forthright?" Newbeny shook his head sadly. "A pity. I fear his
bones are whitening in some remote spot"

I certainly hoped they were. The young villain had done his best to murder us.

"But did I not hear some story of a map?" Mr. Vincey asked.

My wineglass almost went over again. I managed to get hold of it. It was Maspero who came to the rescue. Laughing heartily, he said, "Willie Forth's famous maps! We have all heard of them, have we not?"

"Even I," Carter said, smiling. "And I did not know the gentleman. He is something of a legend in Egypt, though."

"One of the lunatic fringe always to be found in archaeology," Newberry said disapprovingly. "So his fantasies led him, not to the city of gold he hoped for, but to a village of miserable mud huts and an
early death."

Maspero took his leave. For the rest of the evening the discussion focused on purely archaeological matters.

After we had returned to our rooms Emerson wrenched off his stiff collar. "Thank heaven that is over.
I won't do it again, Amelia. This suit is as archaic as armor and almost as uncomfortable."

The wine had left visible spots on my skirt. I replied gently, "You won't have to wear evening kit to a fancy dress ball, my dear. I was thinking of something along Elizabethan lines. Those close-fitting hose would set off the handsome shape of your lower limbs."

Emerson had removed his coat. For a moment I thought he would throw it at me. Eyes blazing, he said in a muted roar, "We are not going to a fancy dress ball, Amelia. I would as soon attend my own hanging." "It is in four days' time We can find something in the bazaar, I daresay. Please help me with my buttons, Emerson. These spots may come out if I sponge them at once."

However, I was unable to tackle the spots that evening. By the time the buttons were undone I had other things on my mind.

Some time later, as a pleasant drowsiness wrapped around my weary frame, I reflected with pardonable complacency upon the events of the evening. Over the course of the succeeding months, as the story passed from speaker to listener, it would be altered and embroidered beyond recognition, but at least the original fiction had been accepted by those whose opinions counted most. How ironic, I thought, that it was Willoughby Forth's reputation for eccentricity that was primarily responsible for saving his daughter from vulgar gossip and the Lost Oasis from discovery and exploitation.

I was about to remark on this to Emerson when his regular breathing assured me he had fallen into slumber Turning on my side, I rested my head against his shoulder and emulated his example.

*  *  *

I have a methodical mind. Emerson does not. It required prolonged discussion to convince him we ought to sit down with a map of Egypt and make a neat list of prospective sites, instead of rushing around at random. The more I thought about it, the more his plan appealed to me. Although I had enjoyed our vagabond existence, never knowing from one year to the next where we would be the following season, and although no one accepts with greater equanimity the difficulties of setting up a new camp in a new location yearly, often in places where water and shelter were inadequate, insects and disease proliferated, and the chance of snatching a few moments alone with Emerson was slight, especially with Ramses always underfoot . . . Well, perhaps I had not enjoyed it as much as I thought I had! Certainly the idea
of a permanent habitation had considerable attraction. I found myself picturing how it would be: spacious, comfortable living quarters, a photographic studio, an office for the keeping of records . . . perhaps even
a writing machine and a person to operate it. I had mentally selected the pattern of the draperies for the sitting room by the time Emerson, brooding over the map, spoke for the first time.

"I don't believe we want to go south of Luxor, do we? Unless there is some site between there and Assuan that you yearn for."

"None that comes to mind. The Theban area offers a number of interesting possibilities, however."

We had decided to breakfast in our room, for the sake of greater privacy and also because Emerson did not want to get dressed to go downstairs. His shirt was open at the throat and his sleeves had been pushed up to the elbows, the sight of him lounging at ease, long legs stretched out, a pipe in one hand and a pen in the other, almost distracted me from the matter at hand. Unaware of my affectionate regard, he shoved the map at me. "Have a look, Peabody. I have marked my choices, add or subtract as you like."

"I think I had better subtract," I said, looking at the emphatic crosses that marked the map. "We must narrow the possibilities down to half a dozen or less. Beni Hassan, for instance, would not be my first choice."

Emerson groaned feelingly. "The tombs have deteriorated badly since I first saw them. They need to be copied"

"That can be said of almost every site you have marked."

So the discussion proceeded,- after a refreshing hour or so we had reduced the list to three—Meidum, Annarna and western Thebes— and I had agreed to Emerson's suggestion that we inspect the sites before making a final decision.

"It is still early in the season," he reminded me. "And we have not had the leisure to play tourist for several years. I would like to have a look at the tomb Loret found last year. He has left some of the mummies there, bloody fool that he is."

"Language, Emerson," I said automatically. "It would be nice to see the dear old Valley of the Kings again. What do you say we start with Meidum, since we are in the neighborhood?"

"Hardly in the neighborhood. Admit it, Peabody, you favor Meidum because there is a pyramid."

"We must start somewhere. After Meidum we could— "

A knock at the door interrupted me. The safragi entered, carrying a bouquet of flowers. I had already received several floral offerings from our guests of the previous evening, M. Maspero's was the largest and most extravagant. All the vases were in use, so I sent the servant out to find another while I admired the pretty arrangement of roses and mimosa.

"No red roses?" Emerson inquired with a smile. "I don't allow you to accept red roses from gentlemen, Peabody."

In the language of flowers, red roses signify passionate love. It was reassuring to hear him speak jestingly of a subject that had once driven him into a jealous rage. So I told myself, at any rate.

"They are white," I replied rather shortly. "I wonder who . . Ah, here is a card. Mr. Vincey! A gentlemanly gesture, upon my word. I hardly had a chance to speak to him. By the by, Emerson, I have been meaning to ask you— what was the disgraceful business you referred to?"

"The Nimrud treasure. You must have read of it."

"I do remember seeing newspaper accounts, but that was some years ago, before I took a personal interest in archaeology. The cache was a rich one— gold and silver vessels, jewelry and the like, it was sold, as I recall, to the Metropolitan Museum."

"Correct. What the newspapers did not report, because they are well aware of the laws of libel, was that Vincey was suspected of being the agent through whom the museum acquired the collection. He was excavating at Nimrud for Schamburg, the German millionaire"

"You mean he found the gold and did not report the discovery to his patron or the local authorities?
How shocking!"

"Shocking indeed, but not necessarily illegal. The laws regarding the disposition of antiquities and the ownership of buried treasure were even more undefined then than they are today In any case, nothing could be proved. If Vincey did peddle the loot to the Metropolitan, he did it through an intermediary,
and the museum was no more anxious than he to explain the transaction."

I could see that Emerson was beginning to get restless. He tapped out his pipe, shuffled his feet, and reached again for the map. Nevertheless I persisted.

"Then that is why I am not familiar with Mr. Vincey's archaeological career. The mere suspicion of
such dishonesty— "

"Ended that career," Emerson finished. "No one would employ him again. It was a promising career, too. He began in Egyptology— did good work at Kom Ombo and Denderah. There was some talk . . . But
why are we sitting here gossiping like a pair of old ladies? Get dressed and let us go out."

He rose, stretching. The movement displayed his form to best advantage: the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the lean, sinewy shape of the lower portion of his frame. I suspected he had done it to distract me, for Emerson is well aware of my appreciation of the aesthetic qualities of his person. I persisted, however, inquiring, "Were you, by any chance, the one who brought his malfeasance to light?"

"I? Certainly not. In fact, I came to his defense, pointing out that other excavators, including certain officials of the British Museum, were equally unscrupulous in their methods of obtaining antiquities."

"Why, Emerson, what a specious argument! I am surprised at you."

"The treasure was better off at the Metropolitan than in some private collection."

"An even less tenable argument."

Emerson started for the bedroom. It was his little way of indicating he did not care to discuss the subject further. I had, however, one more question.

"Why did you bring up the subject in that rude way? The others were willing to let the past be
forgotten— "

Emerson whirled, his manly countenance aglow with honest indignation. "I, rude? You know nothing about the traditions of masculine conversation, Peabody. That was just a friendly jest."

*  *  *

The succeeding days were very pleasant. It had been a long time since we had had the leisure to wander around Cairo renewing old acquaintances, to linger in the coffee shops fahddling with grave scholars from the university, and to explore the bookshops in the bazaar. We spent an evening with our old friend Sheikh Mohammed Bahsoor, and ate far too much. Not to have stuffed ourselves would have been a grievous breach of good manners, even though I knew I would have to put up with Emerson's snoring all night as a result. He always snores when he has taken too much to eat. The sheikh was disappointed to learn that Ramses was not with us and shook his head disapprovingly when I explained that the boy had remained in England to pursue his education. "What useful matters can he learn there? You should let
him come to me, Sitt Hakim, I will teach him to ride and shoot and govern the hearts of men."

M. Loret, the Director of the Department of Antiquities, was in Luxor, so we were unable to call on him as was proper, but we spent time with other colleagues, bringing ourselves up-to-date on the current state of archaeological excavation and the availability of trained personnel. One day we lunched with the Reverend Sayce on his dahabeeyah in order to meet a student of whom he had great hopes. The Istar was not nearly so fine a boat as the Pbilae, my own beloved dahabeeyah, but it recalled poignant memories of that never-to-be forgotten voyage I could not restrain a sigh when we took our leave, and Emerson glanced questionirigly at me.

"Why so pensive, Peabody? Were you not impressed with Mr. Jackson's qualifications?"

"He seems intelligent and well-trained. I was thinking of the past, my dear Emerson. Do you
remember— "

"Oh, your dahabeeyah. They are picturesque but impractical. We can reach Luxor by rail in sixteen and
a half hours. Shall we go to Meidum tomorrow? The nearest station is Rikka,- we can hire donkeys there."

He went on chatting, seemingly unaware of my failure to respond. As we went along the corridor toward our rooms I began to hear the sounds of what resembled a miniature war— shouts, crashes, thuds. The door to our sitting room stood open. It was from this chamber that the noises came and my astonished gaze fell upon a scene of utter confusion. Striped galabeeyahs billowed like sails in a storm as their wearers darted to and fro, cries and fulsome Arabic curses reverberated.

An even more fulsomely profane shout from Emerson, whose powers along those lines exceed any I
have ever heard, rose over the uproar and stilled it. The men stood still, panting. I recognized our safragi, who had evidently recruited several friends to assist him in whatever endeavor he was pursuing. As their robes fell into place I saw the object of that endeavor.

It had alighted on the back of the sofa, where it stood at bay, fur bristling and tail lashing. For a moment
a sensation of superstitious terror came over me, as if I beheld a supernatural emissary announcing disaster to one I loved. If the demonic Black Dog appeared to herald the death of a member of some noble families, what more appropriate Bane of the Emersons could there be than a large, brindled Egyptian cat?

"Bastet!" I cried. "Oh, Emerson— "

"Don't be absurd, Peabody." Emerson, wise in the ways of cats, cautiously circled around the animal. Its head swiveled to follow his movements and I saw its eyes, they were not golden, like those of our cat Bastet, but a clear pale-green, the color of peridots. "For one thing," Emerson went on, "Bastet is at Chalfont with Ramses. For another . . . Nice kitty then, good kitty . . ." He bent down and squinted at
the posterior of the feline. "It is a male cat. Very definitely male."

It was also bigger and darker in color. Nor did its countenance exhibit the benevolence of Bastet's. I have seldom seen a more calculating look in the eyes of any mammal, human or otherwise.

"Where did it come from?" I asked, and then repeated the question in Arabic.

The safragi held out his hands in appeal. They were bleeding from several deep scratches. The cat must have come in through the window, he had found it there when he entered to deliver a parcel and had tried in vain to evict it.

"So you enlisted an army of heavy-footed friends to help you," I said caustically, looking from the smashed vases and scattered flowers to the shredded curtains. "Go away, all of you. You are only frightening the poor creature."

The wounded safragi returned the animal's stare with one almost as malignant. I must say it did not look frightened. I was about to advance upon it— Emerson, I noticed, had prudently retreated— when the safragi glanced at the open door and exclaimed, "We have found him, Effendi. He is here."

"So I see," said Mr. Vincey. He shook his head. "Bad cat! Naughty Anubis!"

I turned. "Good afternoon, Mr. Vincey. This is your cat?"

His face, so melancholy in repose, brightened in a smile He wore a well-cut afternoon suit which became his trim form very well, but I noticed that though neatly brushed and pressed, the once expensive fabric was sadly worn. "My friend, my companion," he said gently. "But— oh, dear!— I see he has been very naughty indeed. Is he responsible for this chaos?"

"It was not his fault," I replied, approaching the animal "Any creature, when pursued— "

Mr. Vincey's cry of warning came too late. I withdrew my hand, which was now marked by a row of bleeding scratches.

"Forgive me, my dear Mrs. Emerson," Vincey exclaimed. He passed me and scooped the creature into
his arms. It settled down and began to purr in a deep baritone. "Anubis is what one might call a one-person cat. I do hope he didn't hurt you?"

"What an asinine question," commented Emerson. "Here, Peabody, take my handkerchief. Wait a moment— it was here, in my pocket— "

It was not in his pocket. It hardly ever was. I took the one Mr. Vincey offered me and wrapped it around my hand. "It is not the first time I have been scratched," I said with a smile. "No hard feelings,
Mr. Vincey. And Anubis."

"Let me introduce you." Vincey proceeded to do so, addressing the cat as seriously as he would have done a human being. "This is Mrs. Emerson, Anubis. She is my friend and she must be yours. Let him sniff your fingers, Mrs. Emerson . . . There. Now you may stroke his head."

Somewhat amused at the absurdity of the business, I did as he asked, and was rewarded by a renewal of the deep purr. It sounded so much like Emerson's softer tones I could not help glancing in his direction.

He was not amused. "Now that that is settled, you will please excuse us, Vincey. We have just got back and want to change."

Another example of masculine repartee, I assumed I would have called it rudeness.

"I am very sorry," Mr. Vincey exclaimed. "I came in the hope that you would take tea with me. I was waiting for you on the terrace when Anubis slipped his lead and I had to go in search of him. That is how it all came about But if you have another engagement— "

"I would be delighted to join you for tea," I said.

Mr. Vincey's sad gray eyes lit up. They were most expressive optics.

"Please yourself," Emerson grunted. "I have other things to do. Good day, Vincey."

He opened the bedroom door and let out a profane exclamation. The exclamation— though not the profanity— was echoed by Mr. Vincey. "Oh, dear! Was Anubis in that room as well?"

"It appears he was," I replied, studying the crumpled linens and scattered papers with some chagrin. "Never mind, Mr. Vincey, the safragi and his friends did more damage than Anubis, I expect. They
will—"

"Curse it!" shouted Emerson. He slammed the door.

I gathered up my handbag and my parasol, and after directing the safragi to tidy the rooms, I preceded Mr. Vincey into the hall.

"I need not apologize for my husband, I believe," I said. "You know his brusque manner conceals a heart of gold."

"Oh, I know Emerson very well," was the laughing reply. "To be honest, Mrs. Emerson, I am pleased to have you to myself. I have . . . I have a favor to ask."

I had a premonition of what that favor might be, but like the gentleman he was, Mr. Vincey waited to propose it until after we had found a table on the famous terrace and the waiter had taken our order.

We sat in silence for a time, enjoying the balmy afternoon air and watching the picturesque procession of Egyptian life passing along the street. Carriages let off passengers and picked up others, water carriers and vendors crowded around the steps. The tables were almost filled with ladies in light summer gowns and big hats, gentlemen in afternoon garb, and the usual sprinkling of officers. From his pocket Vincey had produced a lead and collar and fastened it on the cat. It submitted to this indignity more gracefully than its conduct had led me to expect, and squatted at its master's feet like a dog.

I found Mr. Vincey a pleasant companion. Our mutual affection for the feline species provided a useful introductory topic of conversation. I told him of the cat Bastet, and he replied with accounts of Anubis's intelligence, loyalty and courage. "For a good many years he has been not only my friend but my best friend, Mrs. Emerson. People talk of the selfishness of cats, but I have not found human friends so loyal"

I recognized this statement for what it was intended to be— a tentative reference to his unhappy history— but naturally I was too well-bred to indicate I knew of that history. I replied with a sympathetic murmur and a look that invited further confidences.

A flush mantled his cheekbones. "You must have guessed what I am about to ask, Mrs. Emerson. Your kindness and sympathy are well known. I had hoped— I am in need ... I beg your pardon. It is difficult for me to sue for favors. I have not lost all my pride."

"Pray feel no self-consciousness, Mr. Vincey," I replied warmly. "Misfortune may come even to the worthy. There is no cause for shame in seeking honest employment."

"How eloquently and with what exquisite tact you express yourself!" Vincey exclaimed. I thought I saw
a glimmer as of tears in his eyes. I looked away until he could conquer his emotion.

It was as I had supposed. Hearing of our plans for an enlarged, permanent staff, he was seeking employment. Once the difficulty of this admission was over, he proceeded to recite his qualifications. They were impressive: ten years of excavation, fluent Arabic, familiarity with the hieroglyphs, a good sound classical education.

"There is only one difficulty," he concluded, with a smile that shoi even white teeth. "Whither I go, Anubis goes. I could not abandon h

"I would think less of you if you did," I assured him. "That is no difficulty, Mr. Vincey. You understand
I cannot promise anything y; our plans are still in the process of being formulated. However, I will speak to Emerson and— without wishing in any way to hold out false hopes— I have every reason to believe
he will be favorably inclined to your offer."

"I cannot thank you enough." His voice broke. "That is the truth,

Mrs. Emerson, you have no idea— "

"Enough said, Mr. Vincey." Touched by his sincerity, respecting his dignity, I pretended to glance at my watch. "Dear me, it is getting late. I must hurry and change. Are you coming to the ball?"

"I had not intended to, but if you will be there—"

"Yes, indeed. I look forward to it."

"What costume are you wearing?"

"Ah, that is a secret," I replied gaily. "We are all to be masked and in disguise. Half the fun will be trying to recognize one's friends."

"I can't believe you have persuaded Emerson to attend," Vincey said. "He used to roar like a chained
bear at the very prospect of a social engagement. How you have civilized him!"

"He roared a bit," I admitted, laughing. "But I have found the perfect costume for him, one he cannot object to assuming"

"An ancient pharaoh?" Relieved of his embarrassment, Vincey was ready to enter into the spirit of the thing. "He would be a perfect Thutmose the Third, the great warrior king."

"Now, really, Mr. Vincey, can you picture Emerson appearing in public attired only in a short kilt and a beaded collar? He is a modest man. Anyhow, Thutmose was only a few inches over five feet in height."

"He would look magnificent in armor."

"Suits of armor are not so easily come by in the bazaar. You won't trap me so easily, Mr. Vincey!
I must be off now."

"And I, if I am to find some fancy dress of my own." He took the hand I had offered him, with a rueful look at the makeshift bandage around it, he raised it, bandage and all, to his lips.

*  *  *