CHAPTER 6



"I do not scruple to employ mendacity and a fictitious appearance
of female incompetence when the occasion demands it."

I fear my behavior thereafter did me no credit. The sight of the cat strolling toward me sent me into a frenzy, I snatched it up and shook it, and I think I shouted at it, demanding to know what it had done with Emerson This action appeared to surprise it, instead of struggling and scratching, it hung limp in
my hands and let out an inquiring mew. When its mouth opened I saw there was something caught on
one tooth. It was a shred of dirty cotton that might have come from a native robe.

After a time I heard one of my rescuers remark in a worried voice, "Say, boys, the lady's gone off her head. She'll hurt herself tearing around like that, how about I give her a little sock on the jaw?"

"You can't sock a lady, you lummox," was the equally worried reply. "Damned if I know what to do."

The words penetrated the fog of horror that had enveloped me. Shame overcame me, common sense returned. I was shaking from head to foot, the lantern swayed in my hand, but I believe my voice was fairly steady when I spoke.

"I am not 'tearing around,' gentlemen, I am searching for my husband. He was here. He is not here now. They have carried him off. There is another door— they must have gone that way. Pray don't stop me"
— for one of them had taken hold of my arm— "let me go after them. I must find him!"

My rescuers were none other than the young Americans who had behaved in so ungentlemanly a manner at the hotel. They had been in the carriage that had passed us. Falling into the ditch must have sobered them, for they were quick to understand and respond to my plea, and very kind, in their peculiar American fashion. Two of them immediately went off to follow the trail of the kidnappers and another insisted I return to the carriage.

"You can't go running around the fields dressed like that, ma'am," he said, when I would have resisted. "Leave it to Pat and Mike, they're as good as coon hounds on a trail. How about a nip of brandy? For medicinal purposes, you know."

Perhaps it was the brandy that cleared my head. I prefer to believe it was the resurgence of my indomitable will. Though every nerve in my body ached to join the search, I saw the strength of his argument, and it then occurred to me that there was better help close at hand. One of the young men— there were five of them in all— agreed to go to the house of Abdullah's uncle and tell our reis what had transpired. It was not long, though it seemed an interminable interlude to me, before Abdullah and Daoud were with me. I came perilously close to breaking down when I saw Abdullah's familiar face, distorted by worry and disbelief, Emerson had seemed to him like a god, immune to ordinary danger.

Assisted by the young Americans and a posse of their relatives, Abdullah and Daoud searched the fields and the nearby houses, ignoring the (legitimate) complaints of their occupants. But too much time had passed. He had been carried off and by now could be miles away The dusty road kept its secret, too much traffic had passed along it.

Dawn was pale in the sky before I could be persuaded to return to the Castle. The driver had only been struck unconscious, restored by brandy and baksheesh, he turned the horse and the carnage. Daoud and the cat went with me. Abdullah would not leave the spot. I believe I had the courtesy to thank the Americans. It was not entirely their fault if they regarded the business as an exciting adventure.

*  *  *

I find it difficult to recall my sensations during the succeeding days Events stand out in my memory sharp and clear as detailed engravings, but it was as if I were enveloped by a shell of clear cold ice that impeded neither vision nor touch nor hearing, but through which nothing could penetrate.

When the news of Emerson's disappearance became known, I was overwhelmed with offers of assistance. This should have touched me. It did not, nothing could touch me then. I wanted action, not sympathy The local authorities were hustled and badgered into a show of efficiency uncommon to them,- they arrested and questioned every man in Luxor who had cause to hold a grudge against my husband. The list was fairly extensive. At one time half the population of Gurnah, whose inhabitants resented Emerson's war against their tomb-robbing habits, were in the local prison. Hearing of this from Abdullah (several of whose distant kin were among the prisoners), I was able to bring about their release Abdullah had his own methods of dealing with the men of Gurnah, and I knew Emerson would himself have interfered to forbid the kinds of interrogation the local police employed. Beating the soles of the feet with splintered reeds was a favorite method.

Our friends rallied around. Howard Carter visited me almost daily Despite the differences of opinion that had often marked his relationship with Emerson, Neville was the first to offer his crew to help in the search. Telegrams arrived from Cairo, and from Cairo came, in person, Cyrus Vandergelt. He had abandoned his beloved dahabeeyah, he had not even waited for the regular train. Ordering a special, he had set out as soon as it was ready, leaving his luggage behind, and his first words to me were words of comfort and reassurance

"Don't you fret, Mrs. Amelia. We'll get him back if we have to tear this two-bit town apart. Some good old American know-how is what is wanted here, and Cyrus Vandergelt, U.S.A., is the man to supply it!"

The years had been kind to my friend. There might be a few more silver threads in his hair and goatee, but their sun-bleached fairness looked just the same. His stride was as athletic and vigorous, the clasp of his hand as strong, and his wits as keen as ever. He brought to our problem a cynical intelligence and a knowledge of the world no one had been able to supply When, in answer to his questions, I described the imprisonment of the Gurnah thieves, he shook his head impatiently.

"Sure, I know those Curnah crooks detest my old pal, but this isn't their style. They're more inclined to throw knives or rocks. This smacks of something more sinister. What have you and the professor been
up to lately, Mrs. Amelia? Or has that young rascal Ramses pulled another shady deal?"

I was tempted to tell him what I suspected, but I did not dare. I cleared Ramses, as was only proper,
but replied that I could not explain the event.

Cyrus was too shrewd to accept this— or perhaps he knew me so well he sensed my hesitation. He was also too much of a gentleman to question my word. "Well, I'll tell you what I think. He isn't dead. They'd have found the ... er ... found him by now. This has got to be a question of ransom. Why else would they hold him prisoner?"

"There are other reasons," I replied, repressing a shudder. "Now put that out of your head, Mrs. Amelia. Money is a lot more powerful incentive than revenge. I'll bet you you'll get a ransom note. If you don't, why, we'll offer a reward."

It was something to do, at least. The following day every tree and wall in Luxor bore the hastily printed placards. For reasons of my own which I could not explain to Cyrus, I did not expect results, and indeed, the message that arrived that evening was only indirectly related, if at all, to the offer.

It was carried by a ragged fellah, whose willingness to be detained supported his claim of innocence. He was a messenger only, the man who had given him the letter, with a modest tip and an assurance of greater reward upon delivery, had been a stranger to him. Few people are good observers, but it seemed evident from the messenger's confused description that there had been nothing distinctive about the
man's dress or appearance.

We sent the messenger away with promises of untold riches if he was able to supply any further information. I thought he was honest. But if he was not, we were more likely to win him over by bribes than by punishment.

Cyrus and I had been in the library. After the messenger had gone, I sat turning the letter over and over
in my hands. It was addressed to me, in large printed letters. The envelope bore the name of one of the
Luxor hotels.

"If you would like to be alone when you read it . . ." Cyrus began. He had asked my permission to
smoke and held one of his long thin cheroots.

"That is not why I hesitate," I admitted. "I am afraid to open it, Cyrus. It is the first ray of hope I have beheld. If it proves false . . . But such cowardice does not become me."

With a firm hand I reached for a letter opener.

I read through the letter twice. Cyrus held his tongue, the effort must have been difficult, for when I looked at him he was leaning forward, his face drawn with suspense. Silently I handed him the letter.

I might have given it to an individual I trusted less than I did my old friend without fear of betraying the deadly secret. It was the most suavely villainous, discreetly threatening epistle I have ever read. I felt contaminated by the mere touch of the paper.

Your husband is disinclined to confide in us [it began], He claims his memory is faulty. It
seems incredible that a man could forget so remarkable a journey in so short a period of time,
but recent experiences may well have had an adverse effect upon his mind as well as his body.
I do not doubt your recollection is more accurate, and that you would be more than pleased to share it with us, in writing or in person. I will be sitting on the terrace of the Winter Palace
Hotel tomorrow evening at five, in the hope that you will join me for an aperitif. Let me add only that, as one of your greatest admirers, I would be gravely disappointed if you sent a substitute.

Cyrus flung the paper to the floor. "Amelia," he cried in poignant accents. "You aren't going, are you? You wouldn't be such a blamed fool?"

"Why, Cyrus!" I exclaimed.

My friend shook out an enormous snowy-white linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "Pardon me. I took a liberty."

"By using my first name? Dear Cyrus, no one is better entitled than you. You have been a pillar of strength."

"No, but see here," Cyrus insisted. "You're as smart at reading between the lines as I am. I don't know what it is this dirty yellow dog wants, but sure as shooting he isn't going to exchange poor old Emerson for anything in writing. How'd he know you were telling the truth? This is just a trick to get ahold of you. Emerson's a tough nut and stubborner than any mule. You couldn't get him to talk if you stuck his feet in the fire or pulled out his . . . Oh, shucks, honey, I'm sorry. They aren't going to do anything like that, they know it wouldn't work. But if they had you in their filthy hands, he'd spill the beans all right."

"As would I, rather than be forced to watch while they ..." I could not complete the sentence.

"You've got the idea. This ugly cuss needs both of you. That was a cute stunt of Emerson's, pretending
to have amnesia, but it won't hold up for five seconds after he sets eyes on you. You can't take the chance, Amelia. It's for Emerson's sake as well as yours, they won't damage him permanently so long
as you're on the loose"

"I realize that, my dear Cyrus. But how can I not go? It is our first, our only lead. You noted that the— dirty yellow dog seems a fitting description— that he gave no clue as to how I might identify him. That implies that he is someone I know."

Cyrus slapped his knee. "I've said it before and I'll say it again— you're the sharpest little lady of my acquaintance. But we've got to give this a lot of thought, Amelia. If I were running this scam, I wouldn't be at the Winter Palace. I'd have some innocent bystander pass you a note instructing you to go someplace else— someplace not so safe. You'd do it, too. Wouldn't you?"

I could not, did not, deny it. "But," I argued, "if I were accompanied— not by you, Cyrus, you are too recognizable— but by Abdullah and his friends— "

"Abdullah is as easily recognizable as I am. And be sure, my dear, that you would be led on and on by one means or another until you were beyond the reach of friends."

I bowed my head. I don't believe I had ever felt such ah agonizing sense of helplessness By risking capture I would endanger not only myself but Emerson. Our unknown enemy would have no recourse but to murder us once we had told him what he wanted to know. Only by remaining free could I preserve a life dearer to me than my own And the loathsome letter had given me that much comfort at least He lived. Cyrus's voice broke in on my painful thoughts. "I haven't asked for your confidence, Amelia, and
I won't. But if you could tell me what it is this devil wants, I might be able to come up with an idea."

I shook my head. "It would not help, and it might endanger you as well. Only two other people . . ."

It was like a hammer smashing through the shell of frozen calm that had enclosed me. My only excuse
is that I had been so absorbed with Emerson I had neglected other, if lesser, responsibilies. They now came crashing in upon me. With a shriek that echoed among the rafters, I leapt to my feet.

"Ramses! And Nefret! Oh, heaven, what I have I done— or, to be more accurate, neglected to do? A telegram! Cyrus, I must send a telegram at once!"

I was rushing toward the door when Cyrus caught me up. Taking me by the shoulders, he strove to restrain me. "Don't go riding off in all directions! You shall send your telegram, sit down, compose it, while I find a man to take it over to Luxor." Leading me to the desk, he thrust pen and paper into my hands.

Desperation and remorse gave me the strength to write. When Cyrus returned I had finished the message. I handed it to him. Without looking at the paper he took it to the servant waiting at the door.

"It will be in London tomorrow," he said, returning.

"If it traveled on the wings of the wind, it could not arrive too soon for me," I cried. "How could I have failed to realize . . . But it was not until now that I knew for certain "

"I prescribe a little brandy," Cyrus said.

"I believe ..." I had to stop to collect myself before I went on. "I believe I would prefer a whiskey and soda, please."

When Cyrus brought it to me, he dropped onto one knee like a medieval page serving his master.
"You're not only the sharpest little lady I know, but the coolest and bravest," he said gently. "Don't give way now. I reckon I've an idea now what this is all about. You and Emerson, young Ramses and the girl— Willy Perth's daughter, isn't she? Uh-huh. Say no more, Mrs. Amelia, my dear And don't worry about the kiddies. If half of what I've heard about that son of yours is true, he can take care of himself— and the girl too."

I always say there is nothing like a whiskey and soda to calm the nerves. After a few sips I was able to speak more composedly. "What a comfort you are, Cyrus No doubt you are right. All the same, I don't know how I am going to endure the suspense until I hear from them. It will take at least three days to
get a reply."

But a benevolent Providence spared me that suspense. No doubt It felt I had quite enough to bear already When Cyrus's servant returned from Luxor he carried another telegram with him. I had already retired to my rooms, but I was not asleep. Cyrus himself brought the message to my door. How long it had been sitting in the telegraph office I never determined, Egyptians do not share our Western concern about haste. It was addressed to Emerson, but I did not let that deter me from opening it, for I had seen
whence it came.

"Warning received and acted upon," Walter had written. "All is well. Guard yourselves. Letter follows. Guard yourselves."

I handed it to Cyrus. He had refused the chair I offered him and stood by the door, hands behind his back, looking extremely uncomfortable. What Puritans these Americans are, I thought in amusement. Only affectionate concern could have brought him to the room of an unchaperoned married lady after nightfall. And I in deshabille, too! I had snatched up the first garment that came to hand when I heard
his knock, it was a particularly frivolous, ruffled, beribboned, lace-trimmed peignoir of yellow silk.

The message made Cyrus forget the ruffles and ribbons. "Thank heaven," he said sincerely. "That relieves one source of anxiety. 'All is well,' he says."

"Evidently I am more skilled at reading between the lines than you, Cyrus. Why does he repeat
'Guard yourselves?' Something must have happened."

"Now that is just your mother's anxiety, my dear. You don't know what Emerson said in his message.
He must have sent a telegram to his brother some days ago, warning him of danger."

"Apparently that is the case. He did not tell me he had done so, no doubt he supposed I would jeer at his concern, as I did on the occasions when he tried to convince me of our peril. How cruelly Heaven has punished me for failing to heed him!" Cyrus's eyes followed me as I paced back and forth, the skirts of my robe swirling around me. "I will take what comfort I can from Walter's reassurance," I went on. "There is nothing more I can do."

"Get some sleep," Cyrus said kindly. "And don't worry. I will do whatever I can to serve you."

But it was not he who served me best.

Needless to say, I did not sleep. I lay awake as I had done every night since it happened— not tossing
and turning, for that is an exhibition of weakness I do not allow myself— but trying to discover a possible course of action. At least this night I had new information to consider I went over and over every word, every phrase, every comma, even, in that malevolent missive. Every word and every phrase contained
sly threats all the more terrifying for being left to the imagination of the reader. (Especially an imagination as active as mine.) The man who had composed them must be a veritable fiend.

And an arrogant fiend. He had not even bothered to conceal his nationality, his English was as good, his syntax as elegant, as my own. I felt confident he was not a guest at the hotel. Anyone could have
stolen stationery from the writing room. As for his aim in proposing a rendezvous . . . Well, Cyrus's reasoning was irrefutable. It agreed with my own. Even if I were cad enough to break my word and betray a helpless people in exchange for my husband's life . . .

But, oh, Reader! You know little of the human heart if you suppose that honor is stronger than affection or that cool reason can overcome loving fear. If the villain had stood before me at that moment with one hand outstretched and the other holding the key to Emerson's prison, I would have thrown myself at his feet and begged him to take what he wanted.

Emerson's suspicions had been logical but unsubstantiated. The letter had turned them from surmise into certainty. It was the location of the Lost Oasis the fiend was after. But what, precisely, would satisfy his demands?

A map? THE map? Either he knew it existed, or he had deduced that it must. The journey we had made led into the waterless, featureless desert, and only a madman would set out unless he had precise directions The dirty yellow dog must know we had followed a map of some kind.

To the best of my knowledge, only one copy was still in existence. There had been five to begin with,
and to complicate the matter still further, two of the five had been deliberately, fatally inaccurate I had destroyed mine— one of the false maps Ramses's copy, the one we had used to reach the oasis, had
been lost or mislaid during our rather precipitate departure from the place. Emerson's copy had disappeared even before we left Nubia. That left two, one accurate, one false.

The other false copy had belonged to Reggie Forthright. He had left it with me when he set off on his expedition into the desert, and, as he had requested, I had passed it on to the military authorities, together with his last will and testament, before we went into the desert. Presumably these documents had been sent to his sole heir, his grandfather, when he failed to return. This copy of the map did not concern me, for it would only have led the one who followed it to a very dry, prolonged, and unpleasant death.

The original copy of the map had been in the possession of Lord Blacktower, Reggie's grandfather It
was now in Emerson's strongbox in the library at Amarna House. Blacktower had given it up, along with the guardianship of Nefret, at Emerson's emphatic request. I had urged that it be destroyed, but Emerson had overruled me. One never knew, he had said. There might come a time, he had said . .

Had it come? For the second and, I am happy to say, last time, my integrity wavered under the impact
of overpowering affection. I had to bite down hard on the linen pillowcase before reason again prevailed.

I could not trust the honor of a man who clearly had none. Nor would he trust mine. He could not afford to release his hostage until he was certain the information I had given him was accurate—and how
could he know that until he had made the journey and returned? I could not have retraced our route or remembered the compass readings, but I did not doubt that Emerson could. He had held the compass
and followed the directions. The villain did not need a map if he could force Emerson to speak.

No, the rendezvous was a ruse. Our only hope was to find Emerson and free him before . . .

Where could he be? Somewhere in the vicinity of Luxor still, I felt sure. The search had been intensive and was proceeding, but it could not penetrate into every room in every house, especially the houses of foreign residents. Egypt enjoyed the blessings of British law, which proclaims that a man's home is his castle. A noble ideal, and one with which I thoroughly agree— in principle. Noble ideals are often inconvenient. I well remembered the story of how Wallis Budge had smuggled his boxes of illegal antiquities away while the police waited outside his house, unable to enter until the warrant arrived from Cairo We needed a warrant, and for that we must have grounds. That was what my devoted friends
were trying to obtain— talking with their informants in the villages, following up gossip about strangers
in the city, investigating rumors of unusual activity— and I pinned my hopes on their endeavors.

I had especially counted on Abdullah and his influence with the men of Gurnah, who were reputed to know every secret in Luxor, but as I lay sleepless in the dark, I had to confess I was sorely disappointed in him. I had seen very little of him in the past few days. I knew one reason why he avoided the house, he looked like a white-bearded, turbaned John Knox when he saw me and Cyrus together. Not that Abdullah would have insulted me by supposing I had the least interest in another man. He was jealous of Cyrus on his own account, resenting anyone who wanted to assist me and Emerson in the slightest way, and resenting Cyrus all the more because his own efforts had proved futile. Poor Abdullah. He was old, and this had been a terrible blow to him. I doubted he would ever fully recover.

God forgive me for such doubts. For it was Abdullah who served me best.

Cyrus and I were seated at luncheon next day, discussing how we should deal with the matter of the proposed rendezvous, when one of the servants entered and said that Abdullah wanted to speak with me.

"Have him come in," I said.

The servant looked scandalized. Servants, I have found, are greater snobs than their masters. I repeated the order,- with a shrug the man went out and then returned to report Abdullah would not come in. He wished to speak to me in private

"I can't imagine what he has to say that he could not say in front of you," I said, rising.

Cyrus smiled. "He wants to be your sole prop and defender, my dear. Such loyalty is touching, but blamed aggravating. Go ahead."

Abullah was waiting in the hall, exchanging sour glances— and I think low-voiced insults— with the doorkeeper. He would not speak until I had followed him out onto the veranda.

When he turned to face me, I caught my breath. His sour frown had vanished, to be replaced by a
glow of pride and joy that made him look half his age.

"I have found him, Sitt," he said.

*  *  *

"You must not tell the Amerikani!" Abdullah took hold of my sleeve and held me back when I would have rushed back into the house with the news. Drawing me farther away from the door, he went on
in an urgent whisper, "He would not let you go. It is dangerous, Sitt Hakim. I have not told you all."

"Then for God's sake, tell me! Have you seen him? Where is he?"

Abdullah's story gave me pause and forced me to curb my raging impatience. He did not need to caution me that we must move with the utmost discretion— especially since he had not yet set eyes on his master.

"But what other closely guarded prisoner could there be, so close to Luxor? The house is outside the town, near to the village of El Bayadiya. It is rented by a foreigner, an Alemani or Feransawi. A tall black-bearded man, an invalid, it is said, for he is pale and walks with a cane when he goes out, which
is not often. His name is Schlange. Do you know him, Sitt?"

"No. But it is surely not his real name, nor, perhaps, his true appearance. Never mind that now,
Abdullah. You have a plan, I know. Tell me."

His plan was the very one I would have proposed myself. We could not demand entry to the house until we were certain Emerson was there, and we could not be certain until we had entered it. "So we will go ourselves," said Abdullah. "You and I, Sitt. Not the Amerikani."

He went on to list all the reasons why Cyrus should not make one of the party. Obviously he was reluctant to share the glory, but his arguments had merit. The strongest of them was that Cyrus would
try to prevent me from going— and that was unthinkable. I would go mad if I had to sit waiting for news like some feeble heroine of romantic fiction, and I could trust no one but myself to act with the ruthlessness and determination the situation might well demand.

I arranged to meet Abdullah in an hour, in the garden behind the house, and assured him I would find
a way of deceiving Cyrus. Do I sound calm and collected? I was— then. I knew I had to be. When I returned to the table where Cyrus awaited me, I gave one of my most convincing performances— a
brave, sad smile, a forced cheerfulness.

"He is still pursuing idle rumors," I said, taking up my napkin. "I am sorry I was so long, Cyrus, but I
had to comfort him and make him feel his efforts were useful. Poor Abdullah! He takes this very much
to heart."

We returned to discussing our plans (only his part in them, had he but known) for the afternoon. I allowed myself to become increasingly agitated as he continued to insist I not keep the appointment. "Someone must go," I cried at last "I could not bear it if we failed to pursue even the frailest hope."

"Why, sure, my dear. I have it all figured out. I'll go in person to direct operations, as soon as you promise me you'll not leave the house till I get back."

"Very well. I yield only because I must— and because I know it is the safest course, for him. I shall go
to my room now, Cyrus, and stay there, with the door locked, until you return. I think I may take a little something to make me sleep, otherwise the minutes will drag too slowly. Godspeed and good fortune,
my friend."

Cyrus patted me clumsily on the shoulder. Handkerchief to my eyes,

I fluttered out of the room.

When I reached my room I found Anubis stretched out on the bed. How he had got there I did not
know, he came and went as he pleased, as mysteriously as the afreet the servants believed him to be. Abdullah hated him as much as he feared him, blaming the poor creature for Emerson's capture. Of course that was nonsense. Cats cannot be held guilty for their actions, since they have no morals to
speak of. If I had been given to superstitious fancies, I would have imagined Anubis regretted his inadvertent involvement in the disaster. He spent a good deal of time wandering about the house as if in search of something— or someone?— and he was often in my room, tolerating and even inviting my caresses. The feel of a compliant cat's fur has a surprisingly soothing effect

After greeting the cat in an appropriate if hurried manner, I hastened to change. I dared not wait until
after Cyrus had left the house, Abdullah and I had to cross the river and travel a considerable distance, and I wanted to reach the suspected house before nightfall. A surreptitious entry into unfamiliar territory
is hazardous in the dark. It took only a few minutes to rip off my ruffled gown and replace it with my working costume. I reached automatically for my belt, a voice audible only to my inner ear stopped me. "You jangle like a German brass band, Peabody," it reminded me. Sternly repressing the emotion that threatened to overcome me, I abandoned my belt, slipping revolver and knife into my handy pockets I locked my door— making certain Anubis was inside— and went onto the balcony. The cursed vine I
had counted upon to assist my descent proved to be too far away. I had to hang by my hands and drop
a considerable distance. Fortunately there was a flower bed below. Cyrus's petunias and hollyhocks cushioned my fall nicely.

Abdullah was waiting. I did not question or commend at that time the arrangements he had made—the donkeys, the felucca ready to sail, the horses waiting on the other side. One thought permeated every
cell in my frame.  Soon I would see him— touch him— feel his arms around me. For, as I am sure I
need not say, I did not mean to content myself with a cautious reconnoiter and strategic withdrawal.
My fingers touched the pistol in my pocket. If he was there, I would have him out, that day, that instant, no matter what or who stood between us.

The path Abdullah took followed an irrigation ditch through fields of cabbages and cotton. Half-naked workers straightened and stared after us as we galloped past, children playing in the courtyard of a
house waved and called. Abdullah slackened speed for neither man nor beast. When a careless billy goat— whose goatee and long face gave it a certain resemblance to my friend Cyrus— wandered out
into the road, Abdullah dug his bare heels into the horse's flank and soared over the goat. I followed his example.

He drew rein at last amid a huddle of huts, where another path crossed ours. Following his example,
I dismounted The place was strangely deserted, only a few men, drinking coffee at tables under a rude shelter, were to be seen. One of them came to us and handed Abdullah a bundle of cloth before leading the horses away.

"We must go on foot from here," said Abdullah. "Will you wear this, Sitt?"

He shook out the bundle—a woman's enveloping robe of somber black, with the accompanying burko,
or face veil. After I had put it on, he nodded approval. "It is good. You must walk behind me, Sitt, and not stride like a man. Can you remember?"

His bearded lips were twitching. I smiled back at him. "If I forget, Abdullah, you must beat me. But I
will not forget."

"No. Come then. It is not far."

As we walked, I glanced at the sun. After so many years in Egypt I had learned to read its position as readily as the hands of a clock, even now Cyrus's agents must be in their positions on the terrace of the Winter Palace Hotel. Was he there, the unknown villain who had laid such a dastardly plot? I prayed he was. If he was absent from his house, our mission of rescue would be easier.

My heart gave a great leap when I saw a high mud-brick wall ahead. Palms and dusty-leaved acacias surrounded it, and the tiled roof of a house showed over the top. It was a sizable establishment— an estate, in Egyptian terms— house, gardens and subsidiary buildings surrounded by an enclosure wall for privacy and protection Abdullah passed it without breaking stride, I shuffled humbly after him, my head bowed and my heart thudding. Out of the corner of my eye I noted that the wall was high and the wooden gate was closed.

When we reached the end of the wall, some sixty feet farther on, Abdullah darted a quick glance over
his shoulder and turned aside, pulling me after him. The wall continued now at right angles to the road Another turn brought us to the third side of the enclosing wall, and after a short distance Abdullah stopped, gesturing.

His meaning was plain, and I could only approve his decision. Behind us a field of sugarcane formed a green wall that hid us from casual passersby. We were now at the back of the estate, as far from the
main house as was possible. Mud-brick, the ubiquitous building material of Upper Egypt, is convenient but impermanent, the bricks and their plastered outer surface had crumbled, leaving chinks and crevices
"I will go first," he whispered. "No, you will not," I replied. "We must reconnoiter before we attempt
to enter, and I am younger . . . that is, I am a lighter weight than you. Give me a hand up."

I threw off the muffling black robe and veil. No disguise would save us if we were discovered inside.
I put the toe of my boot into a convenient hole, Abdullah— who had learned early on that it was a waste of time to argue with me— cupped his hands under the other boot and lifted me till I could see over the wall.

I had hoped to see a garden, with shrubs and trees that could offer concealment. No such amenities appeared, only a bare open space littered with the usual household discards— scraps of broken pots,
rusty bits of metal, rotting melon rinds and orange peel. Of such detritus are formed the kitchen middens dear to the hearts of archaeologists, and they are still in the process of formation in Egypt, for householders commonly dump their trash casually in their yards. This was as nasty a place as any I
had seen— clear evidence that the present occupant of the house was a transient, unconcerned about sanitation or appearance. The only unusual feature was the absence of animal life. No chickens scratched in the dirt, no goats or donkeys nibbled at the scanty weeds.

An open shed roofed with bundles of reeds had once served as an animal shelter, to judge by the scattered straw and other evidence. A row of straggling, dusty tamarisk trees half-hid the back of the mansion. There was one other structure visible: a small, windowless building some ten feet square. Unlike the rest of the place, it showed signs of recent repair. There were no gaps in those walls, every chink had been filled with fresh plaster that showed pale against the older gray-brown surface. The flat roof was solid, not the usual covering of reeds overlaid with mortar.

Something of value must be within, or the owner of the property would not have taken such precautions. Hope renewed weakened my limbs, Abdullah gave a pained grunt as my weight pressed heavily on his hands. I was on the verge of completing the ascent, for exultation had momentarily overcome prudence, when a dampening thought occurred to me. Surely something so valuable would not be left unguarded? I could only see the back and one side of the building. There were no windows, but there must be a door on one of the walls I could not see.

I motioned to Abdullah to lower me. He was glad to do so, I believe. He was perspiring heavily, and not only from my weight, suspense gnawed at his vitals as it did at mine.

Quickly I described what I had seen. "We must assume there is a guard," I whispered. "Can you move like a shadow, Abdullah?"

The old man's hand went to the breast of his robe. "I will deal with the guard, Sitt."

"No, no! Not unless we must. He may cry out and summon others. We will have to get on the roof. There is an opening of some kind there—"

"I will go first," said Abdullah, his hand still at the breast of his robe.

This time I did not argue.

The evening breeze had arisen, rustling through the cane and stirring the leaves. The small sounds
blended with the equally soft noises we could not avoid making, but they were few, for all his size Abdullah glided up the wall and over it like the shadow I had mentioned. He was waiting to lift me down when I reached the top, without pausing we crept toward the building It was low— a kennel for a dog or some other beast. Abdullah lifted me up and followed me onto the roof.

There was a guard Silently though we had moved, something must; have alerted him, I heard a mutter and the rustle of fabric as he rose and then the soft pad of bare feet. We flattened ourselves behind the low parapet and held our breaths. He went round the perimeter of the building, but it was a perfunctory performance and he did not look up, people seldom do when they are searching. Finally he settled down again and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in a thin gray curl, wavering in the breeze like a writhing serpent. Then and only then did we dare crawl toward the opening. It was closed by a rusted grille whose crossbars were set so close together that a finger could barely be inserted in the gaps.

I have not described my sensations, nor will I attempt to do so. The greatest of literary giants could not begin to capture their intensity. I pressed my face to the rusty metal surface of the grille.

The interior of the place was not entirely dark. There was another opening, a narrow slit over the door
on the wall opposite the one we had climbed. Through it enough light entered to enable me to see the interior of the reeking den. The walls were bare and windowless, the floor was of beaten earth. There
was no rug or carpet, only a flat square shape that might have been a piece of matting. The furnishings consisted of a table holding a few jars and pots and other objects I could not identify, a single chair— shockingly out of place in that setting, for it was a comfortable armchair of European style,
upholstered in red plush— and a low bed. On it lay the motionless form of a man.

Abdullah's face was so close to mine I felt his breath hot against my cheek. Then the sinking sun sent a golden arm through the gap over the door, illumining the interior. I had not needed light to know him. I would have known that outline, that presence, in the darkest night. But if there had been breath in my lungs I would not have been able to restrain a cry when I saw the familiar features— familiar, yet so dreadfully changed.

The beard banished by my decree had returned, blurring the firm lines of jaw and chin, spreading up his cheeks toward his hairline. His closed eyes were sunken and his cheekbones stood out like spars. His
shirt had been opened, baring his throat and breast . .

The memory of another time, another place, assaulted me with such force my brain reeled. Was THIS how a mocking Providence had answered my unspoken appeal for a return to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when Emerson and I had been all in all to one another— before Ramses? So had he appeared on that never-to-be-forgotten day when I entered the tomb at Amarna and found him fevered and delirious. I had fought death to save him then, and won. But now . . . he lay so still, his features pinched and immobile as yellowed wax. Only eyes as desperately affectionate as my own could have marked the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his breast. What had they done to reduce a man of his strength to such a state in only a few days?

The dying light, glinting off an object on the table, gave me the answer. It was a hypodermic needle.

Scarce had the horror of that sight penetrated my mind when I saw something else. I had observed that his arms were stretched over his head in a stiff, unnatural position. Now I realized why. From the manacles on his wrists a chain looped over and through the bars of the headboard of the narrow bed.

I cannot explain why that detail affected me so powerfully. It was certainly a reasonable precaution, in fact, anyone who wished to keep Emerson in a place where he did not care to remain would have been
a fool to neglect such restraints Nevertheless, it did upset me a great deal, and perhaps the intensity of
my outrage accounts for what— as I am told— happened next.

I had been vaguely aware of voices at the door The guard had been joined by another man, they were talking loudly and, I suppose, telling improper stories, for there was a good deal of raucous laughter. The sounds faded into a dim insect-buzzing. A black cloud enveloped me, and a roaring fury filled my ears.

I came back to my senses to find Abdullah's alarmed face nose-to-nose with mine. One of his hands
was clamped over my mouth. "The guards have gone, to fetch beer, but they will return," he hissed.
"Do you hear me, Sitt? Has the demon departed?"

I could not speak, so I blinked at him. Finger by finger, watching me nervously, he loosened his grip. I became aware of a sharp, shooting pain in my hands. Looking down, I saw that I had seized the heavy grille and lifted it up out of the framework on which it rested My fingers were torn and bleeding.

Abullah was muttering in Arabic—spells and incantations, designed to ward off the powers of evil

"The— er— demon has gone," I whispered "How very curious. This is the second time such a thing
has happened, I believe. I laughed at Emerson when he told me of the first occasion. I must tell him,
and apologize for doubting him, when he ... when we...

To my consternation, I found I could not control my voice. I lowered my head onto my folded arms

A hand, gentle as a woman's, stroked my hair. "My daughter, do not weep. Dost thou believe I would dare to call myself a man and a friend if I left him to lie there? I have made a plan."

Abdullah had never spoken to me except with formal respect, nor used a term of endearment. I had known the depth of his regard for Emerson, "love" would not be too strong a word, had not that word been corrupted by European romanticism, but I had not been aware that in his own fashion Abdullah loved me too. Infinitely moved, I replied in kind.

"My father, I thank thee and bless thee. But what shall we do? He is drugged or sick, he cannot move.
I had counted on his strength to help us."

"I feared we would find him thus," Abdullah replied. "One does not chain the lion without clipping his claws, or cage the hawk without— "

"Abdullah, I love and honor thee as a father, but if thou dost not get to the point I am going to scream."

The old man's bearded jaws opened in a smile. "The Sitt is herself again We must go quickly, before
the guards return. My men wait at the crossroads."

"What men?"

"Daoud and the sons and grandsons of my uncles. They all have many sons," Abdullah added proudly. "The sun is setting, it is a good time to attack, at nightfall."

It did not occur to me for a moment to protest this dangerous and illegal procedure, but when he tugged
at my sleeve I resisted. "I cannot leave him, Abdullah. They may carry him away or kill him if they are attacked."

"But, Sitt, Emerson will have my heart to eat if you— "

"So long as he is alive to eat it. Hurry, Abdullah. And— take care, my dear friend."

His hand gripped mine for a moment and then he was gone. I twisted around to watch, and saw him vanish over the wall as silently as he had come.

I had, of course, no intention of remaining on the roof. My normal strength might not have sufficed to
lift the grille, fortunately that little matter had been taken care of. One side of the heavy metal square
now rested on the lip of the opening, I had only to push it aside. The opening was, I thought, just large enough to admit my body. It would have to, for I meant to get in by one means or another.

Before I could carry out this scheme I heard the men returning. Their voices were more subdued this time, and after a moment another voice broke in. It spoke Arabic, but I knew from the accent and the tone of command that the speaker was not an Arab. Fear— for my husband, not for myself— and fury strengthened every sinew. He was here— the leader, the unknown villain who had perpetrated this foul deed.

The group paused outside the door and I hesitated, hands clenched on the metal, scarcely feeling the
pain of my bleeding fingers. I must not act prematurely They had no reason as yet to suspect rescue
was imminent.

Then the speaker switched to English "Wait here until I come for you. I want him wide awake and rational when he sees you"

To my astonishment the voice that responded, in the same language, was that of a woman. "I tell you,
he is not so easily deceived. He will know I am not—"

"That, my dear, is the point of this exercise— to test the truth of his claim of amnesia In that costume
and in the gloom, with a gag hiding the lower part of your face, you look enough like her to deceive an affectionate spouse— for long enough, at least, to win a betraying cry of alarm from him That will tell
me what I want to know. And if he believes you are she, I will have at last the means of persuading
him to tell me what I want to know."

A wordless murmur from the woman brought a mocking laugh from the leader. "The threat will be enough, I believe. If not— well, my dear, I won't damage you any more than I can help."

Every violent emotion I had repressed during the days of waiting now boiled within me, with raging curiosity added to the mix. I had an inkling of what the villain planned, and I was on fire to see my double. His despicable trick might succeed, if the copy was faithful enough.

The door swung open, admitting a glow of light. It did not come from the sun, which was now below
the horizon The man who entered carried a lamp. You may believe, Reader, I studied his face intently. His voice had been familiar, but the features I saw did not match the appearance I expected. They were distorted by shadows, and masked by a heavy black mustache and imperial It might be he, I could not
be certain.

Putting the lamp on the table, he bent over Emerson and shook him roughly. There was no response. Straightening, the monster swore under his breath and turned toward the door. "I told you to keep out!"

The woman's voice was almost inaudible "He lies so still."

"The last dose of opium must have been too strong. Never mind, I'll have him awake and cursing in a moment."

He picked up the needle and plunged it into a bottle. The whisper came again.

"You use too much. He will die."

"Not until it suits my purpose," was the calloused response. "Now get back. He'll come round before long."

I forced myself to watch and remain passive. The needle went into a vein, with a careless skill that suggested some medical expertise. I made a note of this, even while my skin crawled with loathing and hatred. Whatever the substance was, it was effective. Moments later Emerson stirred. His first word
was a feeble but heartfelt oath. Tears came to my eyes, and I promised myself I would never again complain of any language he chose to employ.

His adversary laughed. "Awake, are we? Another word or two, if you please, I want to be certain you
are able to appreciate the treat I have for you."

Emerson obliged with a pithy description of his captor's presumed parentage. The fellow laughed again.

"Excellent. I presume you are still unwilling to admit me to your confidence?"

"Your conversation has become tedious," said Emerson. "How many times must I repeat that I have
not the faintest idea what you are talking about? Even if I were able to supply the information you want
I would not, I have taken a dislike to you."

"Give up any hope of rescue." The other man's voice hardened. His toe nudged the square object,
which I now saw to be a wooden hatch or cover. "Have you also forgotten what lies beneath this?"

"Again you repeat yourself," was the bored reply "I don't know where you get these melodramatic notions. Out of some novel, I suppose."

This comment seemed to madden the villain. He darted forward, for a moment I thought he would strike his helpless prisoner. Mastering himself with an effort that made his upraised hand quiver, he hissed,
"The well is at least forty feet deep. If anyone attempts to force his way in here, the guard will see that you have the opportunity to measure its precise depth."

"Yes, yes, you said that." Emerson yawned.

"Very well. Let us see if I have found a means of persuading you to change your mind."

Leaving the lamp on the table, he went to the door. Emerson's eyes followed him, the pupils were so dilated they looked black instead of blue. After a moment the door opened again and the man entered, pushing a slighter form before him.

She would have deceived ME. The costume she wore was an exact copy of my old working uniform— Turkish trousers, boots, and all— even a belt hung with tools. Her hair was the same jet-black, it
tumbled over her shoulders, as if it had been loosened in a struggle. Her supposed captor's arm pinned hers to her sides and held her back out of the light, so that her features would have been hard to make
out even if a white cloth had not covered the lower part of her face.

"A visitor to see you, sir," said the unknown, in a mocking parody of a butler's announcement. "Haven't you an affectionate greeting for your wife?"

Emerson's face was impassive. Only his eyes moved, from the top of the woman's head to her boots,
and back again. "She does appear to be female," he said, in an offensive drawl. "Hard to tell at first, in that outlandish garb . . ."

"You claim you don't recognize your own wife?"

"I don't have a wife," Emerson said patiently. "I seem to have forgotten a good many things, but of that
I am certain."

"You contradict yourself, Professor. How can you be certain if you claim to be suffering from amnesia?"

A gasp of laughter came from Emerson's cracked lips. "Whatever else may have slipped my mind, I
could hardly forget something so monumentally stupid. Never in my weakest moment would I be
damned fool enough to saddle myself with a wife." Narrowing his eyes, he went on, "Is she, by any chance, the female who brought me food and water yesterday ... or the day before . . . can't
remember . . ."

His eyes closed. The woman had bowed her head—in shame, I hoped. The man who held her loosened his grasp. She shrank back against the wall and pulled the gag from her face.

"He is fainting," she whispered. "Let me give him something—water, at least . . ."

Fists on his hips, the villain studied her with a sardonic smile. " 'O Woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please . . . When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!
I Minister, then. If he dies before I can get that damned woman into my hands I'll have no means of persuading her to talk." He turned to the door, adding, over his shoulder, "Don't be long."

She waited until the door had slammed before relaxing. A long sigh issued from her lips.

"I have never understood the female sex," said a voice from the bed. "Why do you tolerate such treatment?"

She spun around to face him. "You are awake? I thought so. You only pretended. . ."

"Not . . . entirely," said Emerson.

She knelt by the bed, holding a cup of water to his lips and supporting his head while he drank thirstily. He thanked her, in a stronger voice. She lowered his head gently onto the hard mattress and stared at
her stained fingers.

"It will not heal," she murmured. "Does it pain you?"

"I have the devil of a headache," Emerson admitted.

"And your poor hands . . ." Her fingers slid slowly up his right arm and touched the swollen, bloody
flesh of his wrist.

"It would be pleasant to stretch a bit." His voice had changed. I knew that purring note, and a shiver
ran through me. I dislike, even now, admitting the emotion that prompted it. I believe it is not necessary for me to do so.

Emerson went on, in the same tone, "If my arms were free I could better express the appreciation I feel for your kindness."

She let out a little laugh, in which coquetry and defiance were mingled. "Well, why not? You cannot
pass the guards, you are not strong enough, and if you think you can win freedom by holding me
hostage you deceive yourself.  No English gentleman would harm a woman. He knows that."

The key to his manacles were on the table. I appreciated the refinement of cruelty that left freedom in sight, but unattainable. As she bent over him to unlock them a tress of her hair brushed his face.

Well! I would like to believe I could have held firm, even in the face of what was obviously about to transpire, but I had seized the edge of the grille with both hands and my muscles were tensed, when
there was an outcry from the direction of the house. Voices shouting, the rattle of gunfire! My faithful Abdullah and his valiant friends had arrived! Rescue was at hand! The time for action had come!

One heave of my shoulders pushed the grille aside. I inserted my feet into the opening and.. and stuck,
at a region I prefer not to specify. There was not a moment to lose, gritting my teeth, I squeezed myself through, landing with bent knees, upright and ready. Pulling out my pistol, I leveled it at the door.

In the nick of time! And I might not have been in time, owing to that moment of delay, had she not
flung herself at the yielding door. Her strength was not great enough, even as I aimed my pistol she
was crushed behind the opened panel. The sounds of combat rose in pitch and a dark form rushed in, intent on obeying his leader's dastardly command

There was no time for a reasonable discussion I fired I could hardly avoid hitting him, for his body filled the doorway, but the wound was not mortal, his cry, as he recoiled, held more surprise than pain. Curse it, I thought, and fired again. I believe I missed him entirely on that occasion. However, the effect was gratifying. With another howl, he fled. These hired thugs are never reliable

I now turned my attention to the woman, who had emerged from behind the door and stood watching
me It gave me an odd sensation to see her—the shadowy image of myself.

Emerson had swung his feet to the floor and sat up. Further effort was obviously beyond him, his face was ashen and his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. The very act of moving them must have been unutterably painful. He looked from me to the woman at the door and back to me, but he did not speak.

"Let me go," she whispered. "If your people catch me I will go to prison . . . or worse . . . Please, Sitt!
I have tried to help him."

"Go, then," I said. "Close the door after you." With one last, flashing look at Emerson, she obeyed.
Then, at last, at last, I could go where I yearned to go. I rushed to his side and knelt beside him.
Emotion stifled breath and speech.

He stared blankly at me, a faint frown furrowing his brow. "One female in trousers is confusing enough, but two is a bit much for a man in my condition. If you will excuse me, madam, I believe I will take advantage of my freedom from restraint to ... Oh, damnation!"

It was his last word, a bitter acknowledgment of his inability to do as he had planned. He fell to his
knees and collapsed face-down onto the floor.

I was too numbed by shock to prevent it The pistol dropped from my nerveless hand. But I was holding
it leveled at the door, and cradling Emerson's unconscious head in the other arm, when Abdullah's shout informed me that our saviors had arrived. He burst through the door and stopped short, horror replacing the triumph on his face "You weep, Sitt! Allah be merciful—he is not . . ."

"No, Abdullah, no. It is worse than that! Oh, Abdullah—he does not know me!"

CHAPTER 7

"Marriage should be a balanced stalemate between equal adversaries."

Of course I did not mean what I said to Abdullah. There may be conditions worse than death, but there are few, if any, as irreversible. Gladly would I have searched the length and breadth of Egypt for my husband's dismembered body, as Isis did for Osiris, cheerfully I would have taken up my Orphean lyre and descended into the nethermost pits of Hades to fetch him back— had such deeds been possible. Unfortunately they were not, fortunately they were not necessary There was a light at the end of this Stygian tunnel. So long as he lived, anything was possible. And if a thing is possible, Amelia P. Emerson will tackle the job.

It took a while to sort things out. My first task was to comfort Abdullah, he sat down on the ground and blubbered like a child, with relief and with distress at seeing his hero laid so low. Then he wanted to rush out and kill a few more people, but there were none, our victory had been complete, and since our men had not been concerned with taking prisoners, the survivors of the battle had run or crawled or crept away. Among the fugitives, I was chagrined to learn, was the leader. "But we will find him," said Abdullah, grinding his teeth. "I saw him in the fight, before he ran away, it was a bullet from his
weapon that wounded Daoud. I will remember him. And Emerson will know . . ."

He broke off, with a doubtful glance at me. "Yes," I said firmly. "He will. Now, Abdullah, stop ranting and be sensible. Daoud is not seriously injured, I hope? And your other men?"

Miraculously, none of our defenders had been killed, though several had been wounded. Daoud, who soon joined us, bore his bloody sleeve like a badge of honor and insisted on helping to carry the litter
on which Emerson was borne away. I hated to move him, but the alternatives would have been more dangerous,- we could not remain there, and the village offered no accommodations in which I would
have put a sick dog. Emerson was deeply unconscious and did not stir, not even when the cart Abdullah had commandeered jolted along the path to the riverbank.

It goes without saying that I did not leave his side for an instant. Though I had not brought my medical kit, my expertise (derided though it often had been by Emerson) assured me that his heart beat strong
and steady and his breathing, though shallow, showed no evidence of distress. The drugs he had been given were enough to account for his present state, though I had reason to suspect he had been kept
short of food and water as well. His injuries were superficial except for the wound on the back of his head. That concerned me most, for it must be connected with his loss of memory.

What I had taken to be a clever ruse to avoid questioning was the terrible truth. He had not been
delirious or off his head, his remarks had been rational, his mind clear. Except in one rather important
particular.

As we approached the Castle I saw that it was lit from cellar to attics. I ran on ahead, in order to lose
as little time as possible in making Emerson comfortable. When I reached the gate Cyrus was waiting.

I will not endeavor to reproduce his remarks. American profanity is apparently unrelated to the mother tongue or to any other language known to me. Determined as I was to make myself heard, I could not stop the flow of his eloquence. Not until the litter bearers came in sight with their precious burden did Cyrus break off, with a sound that must have hurt his throat.

Taking advantage of his momentary paralysis of speech, I said, "No questions now, Cyrus. Help me
get him to bed. And make sure the doctor is admitted at once. I sent Daoud to fetch him when we
passed through Luxor."

After I had put my stricken spouse to bed (for I would permit no other than myself to perform that
tender duty), Cyrus joined me. Arms folded, he stood looking down at Emerson. Then he leaned
forward and lifted one sunken eyelid.

"Drugged."

"Yes."

"What else is wrong with him?"

I had done all I could. Tucking in the last end of the bandages I had wrapped around his lacerated
wrists, I sat back and nerved myself to admit the painful truth.

"Apparently they realized, as anyone who knows Emerson must realize, that torture would only stiffen
his resistance. He is not seriously injured, except . . . We agreed, you remember, after we had read the message, that he must be pretending to have amnesia. He was not pretending, Cyrus. He— he did not know me."

Cyrus sucked in his breath. Then he said, "Opium produces strange delusions."

"He was perfectly rational. His replies were sensible— sensible for Emerson, that is. Hurling insults and sarcastic remarks at a man who holds one a chained prisoner is not, perhaps, very wise."

Cyrus let out a brief bark of laughter. "Sounds like Emerson, all right. Still— "

"There can be no mistake, Cyrus. Would that there were! Not only did he look me straight in the face
and call me 'madam' but earlier he said .he said he would never be damned fool enough to saddle himself with a wife."

Cyrus's efforts to comfort me were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor. He was not the pompous
little Frenchman with whose medical inexpertise ! had been forced to deal on a previous occasion, but
an Englishman who had retired, for reasons of health, to a warmer clime. Evidently the desired effect
had been achieved, though his beard was gray and his body cadaverously thin, he moved with the vigor
of a young man, and his diagnosis assured me that we were fortunate to have found him.

We could only wait, he said, for the effects of the opium to dissipate.

Though the dosage had been large, the patient had not been under its influence for long, there was every hope, given his splendid physique, that the process of recovery would be neither prolonged nor unduly arduous. The only serious injury was the wound on the back of the head, but this concerned Dr. Wallingford less than it had me. "There is no fracture of the skull," he murmured, probing the area with sensitive fingers "A concussion, perhaps . . . We cannot assess that until the patient has recovered consciousness."

"His loss of memory," I began.

"My dear lady, it would be a wonder if his memory were not confused, after such a blow on the head
and daily doses of opium! Be of good heart,  I have no doubt he will make a full recovery."

He left after promising to return the following day and after giving me directions I did not need but which further reassured me, since they agreed in every particular with my own intentions: Keep the patient warm and quiet, try to get him to take nourishment. "Chicken broth," I murmured abstractedly.

A murmurous, musical mew sounded, as if in agreement. The cat Anubis had entered, as silently as the shadow he resembled. I stiffened as the animal jumped onto the bed and inspected Emerson from feet
to head, pausing to sniff curiously at his face. Abdullah's antipathy toward the beast was based on ignorance and superstition, but— weary and worried as I then was— I found myself beginning to sympathize with him. Had the bearded blackguard who held Emerson captive been Anubis's master?
I had not been able to make out his features. The voice had reminded me of Vincey's, but I could not
be certain even of that, for its sneering tone had been quite unlike the gentle, well-bred accents of the
man I had known so briefly. Anubis returned to the foot of the bed, where he lay down and began washing his whiskers. I relaxed, feeling a trifle foolish.

Cyrus returned after showing the doctor out. He announced that the cook was boiling a chicken and
asked what else he could do to help me.

"Nothing, thank you. He has taken a little water, that is a good sign. I am very impressed with
Dr. Wallingford."

"He has an excellent reputation. But if you would like to send to Cairo—"

"We will wait awhile, I think. I expect you are full of questions, Cyrus. I will answer some of them
now if you like"

"I know most of the story. I gave myself the pleasure of a little chat with Abdullah." Seating himself in
an armchair, Cyrus took out one of his cheroots and asked my permission to smoke.

"By all means. Emerson loves his nasty pipe, the smell of tobacco smoke may rouse him. I hope you were not too hard on Abdullah."

"I couldn't bawl him out, could I, for succeeding when I failed? Nor for letting you bully him into going along. You've got him right under your little thumb, Amelia."

"It was his devotion to Emerson that inspired him. But, yes, I think he is fond of me too. I never realized that. It was a touching moment when he opened his heart to me as he had never done before."

"Huh," said Cyrus. "I suppose I can't persuade you to get some rest while I keep an eye on my old pal."

"You suppose correctly. How could I sleep? Go to bed, Cyrus. You must be tired. I need not ask if
your mission to the hotel was unsuccessful."

"I'm plumb wore out, it's true, but what did it was coming back here and finding you gone. I was afraid the message had been a stunt to get me out of the way so they could carry you off. I don't want to spend another couple of hours like those."

"Dear Cyrus. But all's well that ends well, you see."

"Let's hope so." Cyrus crushed out the cheroot. His hand was a trifle unsteady, and this evidence of affectionate concern moved me deeply. "Well, I'll leave you to your vigil. Call me if ... Oh, shucks, I almost forgot. The mail came this afternoon. There's a letter for you from Chalfont."

"The promised letter!" I cried. "Where is it?"

Cyrus indicated a pile of letters on the table The one on top was the one I wanted,- its bulk suggested
that the writer had quite a story to tell, and so it proved.

A brief note from Walter introduced the missive

I have decided to let young Ramses have his say, his epistolatory style has a panache mine lacks. You know your son well enough not to be misled by his tendency toward exaggeration. Have no fear for us, we have taken all precautions, as you will see. It is for you, dear brother and sister, that we are anxious. Please keep us informed.

There followed several pages closely written in a hand with which I was only too familiar. I can do no better than copy out this extraordinary document in its entirety, for it is impossible to summarize Ramses

Dearest Mama and Papa [it began],

I trust this finds you well. We are all well. Aunt Evelyn assures me my hair will soon grow back.

After I had recovered from the effect of this startling statement, I read on.

< style="font-style: italic;">Your telegram was of great assistance in preventing a more serious event than actually occurred, but I already had reasons for suspecting that a game of some sort was afoot. While making my usual rounds of the estate in order to run off poachers and look for traps, I came upon a roughly dressed individual who, instead of running away when I challenged him, ran at me with the evident intention of taking hold of me. Retreating, as discretion seemed to indicate (for he was approximately twice my bulk), I led him through a thorn thicket and left him hopelessly entangled in the branches my lesser height and greater knowledge of the terrain enabled me to avoid. He was shouting loudly and profanely as I departed the scene, but when Uncle Walter and I and two of the footmen returned, he had fled.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">Uncle Walter, I regret to report, scoffed at my claim that the fellow's behavior roused the direst suspicions as to his motives for being there. After Papa's telegram arrived, however, Uncle
Walter was gentlemanly enough to apologize and intelligent enough to reconsider the case. After
a council of war we determined to take defensive measures. As I pointed out, it was safer to err
on the side of excess than to fail from lack of caution.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">Aunt Evelyn wanted to call the constable. She is a very kind person, but not practical. Uncle Walter and I persuaded her that we had no grounds for requesting official assistance, and that
in order to convince officialdom of the validity of our reasons for concern we would have to disclose matters we had sworn to keep secret. Our defensive force, therefore, consists of the following:
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">I. Gargery. He was very pleased to be asked.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">2. Bob and Jerry. As you know, they are the strongest of the footmen, and familiar with our habits. You will recall that Bob was of great assistance in our attack on Mauldy Manor, when
I was fortunate enough to effect your escape from the dungeon.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">3. Inspector Cuff. I should say, "former Inspector Cuff," since he has retired from the force and
is growing roses in Dorking. I spoke to him personally on the telephone (a most useful device,
we must install one at Amarna House], and after he stopped sputtering and listened to what I
had to say he was persuaded to join us. I believe he is bored with roses. Do not fear, Mama
and Papa, we did not disclose the SECRET. I flatter myself that the Inspector has enough confidence in my humble self to believe my assurance that the matter is serious. Uncle Walter's confirmation was of some small assistance in this regard.
< style="font-style: italic;">
It was fortunate (or, if you will permit me to say so, farsighted) that these measures were instituted/ for Inspector Cuff, the last to arrive, had not been in the house twenty-four hours
before the anticipated attack occurred.

It came about in this wise.

Finally! I thought, turning the page—and ground my teeth when instead of telling me what I ached to know, Ramses went off on another tangent.

If I have not mentioned Nefret you may be certain it is not because she was inactive or
deficient in courage and intelligence. She is ... [Here several words had been scratched out. Either Ramses's vocabulary had been inadequate to express his feelings, or he had repented of having expressed those feelings so openly.] She is a remarkable person. She. . . But perhaps
an account of what occurred will demonstrate her Dualities more effectively than mere words
of mine could do.

I had anticipated—erroneously, as it turned out, but not without reason—that Nefret would be the person most in need of protection. For, if Papa's hints in his telegram and my own deductions based on those hints were correct, she was the one most directly connected with the aforesaid SECRET. It is true that my theory ignored the fact that the disheveled gentleman had apparently been intent on seizing ME, so perhaps chivalry had clouded my ordinarily acute reasoning powers. I once remember thinking that being a little gentleman seemed more trouble than it was worth. The incident I am about to relate confirmed that opinion, as you will see.

"I certainly hope so," I muttered, wishing I had the little "gentleman" with me so I could shake him and force him to get to the point.

Nefret had set out in the carriage that day as usual, to go to the vicarage for a Latin lesson and religious instruction. She was attended not only by Gargery, who insisted on driving, but by
Bob and Jerry as well. Uncle Walter felt this would be protection enough, but I had a certain foreboding (such as Mama often has) about the expedition, and so I took one of the horses and went after them, remaining at a discreet distance, for I had reason to suppose that Gargery,
Bob, Jerry, and perhaps Ne/ret herself, would object to this procedure.

They had let their guard down, as they later admitted, when they were almost at their destination. After passing along that deserted stretch of road (you remember it) where ambush might be expected and where nothing of the sort ensued, they were within a hundred yards of the first
house of the village when another carriage appeared around the curve in the road, coming
toward them at a considerable speed. Gargery drew to one side to let them by. Instead of doing
so the driver pulled up and even before the wheels had stopped rolling, men burst out of the carriage.

I saw everything that transpired, for the road runs straight at that point and nothing impeded
my vision. I am sure I need not tell you I reacted promptly and swiftly, urging my steed to a gallop. Before I was able to reach the scene of action, Gargery had taken a cudgel (his favorite weapon) from under his coat and smashed it down on the head of the individual who was attempting to pull him from the seat. Bob and Jerry were grappling with three other miscreants.
A fifth man tugged at the door of the carriage.

A cry burst from me at this terrible sight and I fear I so forgot myself as to kick poor Mazeppa
in an attempt to induce greater speed. This turned out to be unwise as well as unkind. Unaccustomed to such treatment, Mazeppa came to a sudden halt, and I fell off. I landed on my head. Undaunted, despite the blood that flowed freely from the wound, I was crawling toward
the scene of battle when rough hands seized me and a voice shouted, "I've got him! Come on,
lads, hold 'em off!"

Or words to that effect. The lads held them off with such success that my captor reached the criminous carriage and transferred his grip to the back of my neck and the seat of my trousers, preparatory, one must suppose, to pitching me inside.

At that moment, when all seemed lost, I heard an odd whistling sound, followed by a soft thud.
The man in whose grip I hung helpless and dizzy (for a blow on the head, as you know, has the effect of disorienting the recipient to a considerable degree) shrieked aloud and dropped me.
I am happy to report that discretion prevailed over the lust for battle that had brought me to my predicament. I rolled under the carriage, out the opposite side, and into a convenient ditch.

I was plucked from this refuge a few moments later by Gargery, in time to see the miscreants' vehicle retreating in a cloud of dust. My knees were a trifle unsteady, so Gargery very kindly
held me up by my collar, while my eyes sought the object of my chief concern. "Nefret?"
I gurgled. (I had swallowed a quantity of rather muddy water.)

She was there, leaning over me, an angelic vision . . . [Ramses had crossed this out, but the
words were legible.] . . . her face pale with concern . . . for ME.

"Dear brother," she cried in poignant accents. "You are wounded: You are bleeding!" And with her own hand, careless of the mud and gore that stained her spotless white gloves, she parted
the hair on my brow.

It was not my injury but the sight of what she held in her other hand that struck me dumb
(a state, Mama might claim, that is uncommon with me). The object was a bow.

Swooning, I was carried away by Gargery and we soon found ourselves safe at home. Unfortunately I came back to my senses before the doctor stitched up my head. It was cursed painful. That was when some of my hair was cut off, but Aunt Evelyn says it will soon grow
back. Everyone else was unhurt except for bumps and bruises.

It was Nefret herself, as you may have deduced, who saved the day. The villain who was attempting to open the carriage door went sprawling, his nose bloodied, when she slammed it
into his face, and the villain who carried me off was deterred by an arrow directed with a skill worthy of Robin Hood himself (if legend is to be trusted, which I doubt it is).

The bow she had concealed under her heavy cloak (the weather being quite chilly) was the one
she had brought with her from Nubia. Unlike the composite bows carried by the military, hers
is a single-staff weapon only twenty-nine inches long, employed ordinarily for hunting. But why, one might ask, had she deemed it expedient to carry such a weapon? I did in fact ask, and she answered the question after my affectionate friends had gathered around my bedside for a
council of war.

"I have kept a weapon close at hand ever since the Professor's telegram arrived," she explained coolly. "He is not a man to start at shadows, and although I am deeply grateful for the loyal protection of our friends, it is not in my nature to cower in a comer while others risk their lives
in my defense. The Professor made it clear that Ramses and I were the ones in danger, not of assassination but of abduction. We know what the abductors want. Who could give them that information? Only your mother and father, Ramses, they alone know the way to the place the villains seek."

"I could retrace my steps— " I began with some indignation. She raised a finger to her lips.
"I know that, dear brother. But in this world children are treated like pet animals, without sense or memory, and you are one of the few who could do what you claim. I could not. If they want
you, it can only be as a hostage, to wring information from those who love you."

"And you," I hastened to assure her.

"Those who threaten us may reason so. Fear not, I will defend myself/ I carry a knife as well as
a bow and will use either if I must." Her face grew grave. "It is not for us I fear, but for the Professor and Aunt Amelia. They have not our strong protectors. They are in the greatest danger." Her wise words made me realize, dear Mama and Papa, that in my concern for her I had not given enough attention to your predicament. I should be at your side. I proposed this to Uncle Walter, but he absolutely refused to buy a steamship ticket for me, and since I only possess one pound eleven shillings sixpence I cannot carry out the transaction without his financial assistance. Please telegraph at once and tell him to let me come. I am reluctant to leave Nefret, but the duty (and of course affection of a son supersedes all other responsibilities. Besides, she has Gargery and the others. Besides, she does very well without me. Please telegraph immediately. Please be careful.

Your loving (and at this point in time extremely anxious) son,

Ramses.

P.S. Gargery was very disappointed that he could not rescue Nefret like Sir Galahad.

P.P.S. If you telegraph immediately I can be with you in ten days' time.

P.P.P.S. Or thirteen at the most.

P.P.P.P.S. Please be careful.

It would have required a great deal to turn my attention from Emerson at that moment, but this astonishing epistle almost succeeded. I recalled having mentioned to Ramses, on one occasion, that literary flourishes were best restricted to the written form. Obviously he had taken the suggestion to
heart, but his questionable literary devices (swooning, indeed! What had the child been reading?) did
not conceal his genuine emotion. Poor Ramses! To be rescued instead of rescuer— to fall off a horse,
to be dragged out of a ditch and held up like a sack of dirty laundry, dripping with muddy water, before the eyes of the girl he yearned to impress . . . His humiliation had been complete.

And he had taken it like a man and an Emerson! He had only praise for her whose achievements had
cast his into the shade. And how touching to a maternal heart was that piteous admission: "She does
very well without me." Poor Ramses indeed.

As for Nefret, her behavior confirmed my initial impression of her character and convinced me that she would be a worthy addition to our little family. She had acted with the same vigor and independence I would have displayed, and as effectively. I am not accustomed to cower in corners either.

The very idea of Ramses at my side trying to protect me chilled the blood in my veins, and I only hoped Walter could prevent him from robbing a bank or playing highwayman in order to get the money. Not
that I doubted the sincerity of his protestations. I must remember to telegraph next day, though how precisely to couch the message presented some difficulty. To inform without alarming them . . .

At that moment the rustle of linen brought me flying to Emerson's side. He had turned his head! It was only a slight movement and he did not stir again, but I hovered over him the rest of the night counting every breath and tracing every line of that beloved face with gentle fingers.

The beard would have to go, of course. Unlike his hair, Emerson's beard is very stiff and prickly. I objected to it as well on aesthetic grounds, for it hid the admirable contours of his jaw and chin, as
well as the cleft in the latter organ.

In time of emotional distress the mind tends to focus on petty details. That is a well-known fact and accounts, I believe, for my failure to consider several problems rather more important than Emerson's beard. They were brought to my attention the following morning, when Cyrus entered to fetch me a breakfast tray and inquire how we had passed the night. I persuaded him— without difficulty— to join
me in a cup of coffee, and entertained him by reading excerpts from Ramses's letter.

"I must telegraph at once, to reassure them," I said. "The question is, how much shall I tell them?
They know nothing of what has transpired— "

"My dear Amelia!" Cyrus, who had been chuckling and shaking his head over the letter, immediately sobered. "If they don't know already, they soon will. We made no secret of his disappearance— heck,
we plastered the whole town with notices. Unless I miss my guess, the English newspapers will get
wind of the story from their Cairo correspondents and then we'll be in the headlines. You and your husband are news, you know."

The seriousness of the matter was immediately apparent to me. With Cyrus's help I determined on a course of action. We must telegraph at once, assuring our loved ones that Emerson had been found
and that we were both safe and well, and warning them not to believe anything they read in the newspapers. "For I shudder to think what garbled versions of the facts those confounded journalists
will report," I said bitterly. "Curse it, Cyrus, I ought to have anticipated this I have had enough
unpleasant encounters with the 'gentlemen' of the press."

"You had other things on your mind, my dear. The most important thing is to get poor old Emerson
back on his feet and in possession of his senses He'll take care of the reporters."

"No one does it better," I replied, with a lingering glance at the still face of my spouse. "But the danger is not over. The man responsible for this dastardly act got clean away. We dare not assume he will abandon the scheme. We cannot relax our vigilance for an instant, especially while Emerson lies helpless."

"Don't worry about that" Cyrus stroked his goatee. "Abdullah's relatives have surrounded the place like
a band of Apaches besieging a fort. They've already manhandled my cook and beat up a date peddler."

With my mind at ease on this point, and the telegram having been dispatched, I could return my attention to where my heart already lay. It was a trying time, for as the effects of the opium wore off, other, more alarming, symptoms appeared. They were due, Dr. Wallingford thought, to the other drugs Emerson had been given, but treatment was impossible since we did not know what they were.

Abdullah had returned to the prison to find the place swept clean. The police denied having taken anything away, and I was prepared to believe them, since they would not have had the sense to search
the scene of the crime. It was evident that the kidnapper had returned to remove any evidence that might incriminate him. This was an ominous sign, but I had no leisure to consider the ramifications or contend with the reporters who, as Cyrus had predicted, besieged us clamoring for news. Dr Wallingford moved into one of the guest rooms and concentrated on his most interesting patient. His full attention was required, for coma was succeeded by delirium, and for two days it required all our efforts to prevent Emerson from harming himself or us. "At least we know his physical strength is not seriously impaired,"
I remarked, picking myself up off the floor where Emerson's flailing arm had flung me.

"It is the unnatural strength of mania," declared Dr. Wallingford, rubbing his bruised shoulder.

"Nevertheless, I find it reassuring," I said. "I have seen him this way before. It is my own fault, I ought
to have known better than . . . Get hold of his feet, Cyrus, he is trying to get out of bed again!"

Anubis had prudently retired to the top of the dresser, where he squatted, watching with wide green eyes. In the brief lull that followed Emerson's fit of agitation I became aware of a low rumbling sound. The cat was purring! Abdullah would have taken it for another sign of diabolical intelligence, but I felt a strange, irrational surge of renewed hope— as if the creature's purr were a good omen rather than the reverse.

I needed all the encouragement I could find during the dreadful hours that followed, but finally, after midnight on the third night, I dared to believe the worst was over. At last Emerson lay still. The rest of
us sat round the bed, nursing our bruises and catching our breath. My eyes blurred, I was giddy and light-headed from lack of sleep. The scene was unreal, like a two-dimensional photograph of some
past event— the smoky lamplight casting its shadows over the strained faces of the watchers and the emaciated features of the sick man, the silence unbroken except for the rustle of leaves outside the
open window and Emerson's slow, regular breathing.

My senses did not dare to register that sign at first. When I rose and tiptoed to the bed, Dr. Wallingford came with me His examination was brief. When he straightened, his tired face wore a smile.

"It is sleep— sound, natural sleep. Get some rest now, Mrs. Emerson He will want to see you smiling
and well when he wakes in the morning."

I would have resisted, but I could not, Cyrus had to half-carry me into the adjoining dressing room,
where a cot had been placed for me. The unconscious mind— in which I firmly believe, despite its questionable status— knew I could now abandon my vigil, and I slept like the dead for six hours.
Waking, filled with energy, I bounded from bed and rushed to the next room.

At least such was my intention. I was brought to a sudden stop by an apparition that appeared before me— shockingly pale, dreadfully disheveled, wild-eyed and unkempt. It was several seconds before I
recognized my own image, reflected in the mirror over the dressing table.

A quick glance into the adjoining chamber assured me that Emerson still slept and that the good doctor, eyeglasses askew and cravat loosened, dozed in the chair next to the bed Hastily I set about making a
few essential repairs, smoothing my hair, pinching color into my cheeks, assuming my most elaborately ruffled and beribboned dressing gown. My hands shook, I was as tremulous as a young girl preparing
for an assignation with her lover.

Sounds from the next room brought me flying to the door, for I recognized the querulous grunts and groans with which Emerson was wont to greet the day. If he was not himself again, he was producing
a good imitation.

Cyrus, who must have been listening outside the door, entered when I did. Dr. Wallingford waved us back. Leaning over the bed, he said, "Do you know who you are?"

He was weary, poor fellow, or no doubt he would have found more felicitous phraseology. Emerson stared at him. "What a damned fool question," he replied. "Of course I know who I am. More to the point, sir, who the devil are you?"

"Please, Professor," Wallingford exclaimed. "Your language! There is a lady present."

Emerson's eyes swept the room in a slow survey and came to rest on me where I stood with hands clasped to my breast in order to still the telltale flutter of the ruffles that betrayed my wildly beating
heart. "If she doesn't care for my language she can leave the room. I did not invite her."

Cyrus could contain himself no longer. "You blamed fool," he burst out, clenching his fists. "Don't you recognize her? If she had not dropped in uninvited a few days ago, you wouldn't be alive and
blaspheming this morning."

"Another confounded intruder," Emerson muttered, glowering at Cyrus. He looked back at me ... And
this time there could be no mistake. The brilliant blue orbs were clear and conscious, and cool with indifference. They narrowed and his brows drew together. "Wait, though— the features are familiar, though the costume is not. Is she the unsuitably attired female who popped into my pleasant little room last night, like a cork forced into a bottle, and then proceeded to pepper the empty doorway with bullets? Females should not be allowed to handle firearms."

"It wasn't last night, it was three days ago," snapped Cyrus, his goatee quivering. "She saved your life with that pistol, you— you— " He broke off, with an apologetic glance at me.

A gleam of white teeth appeared amid the tangle of Emerson's beard. "I do not know you, sir, but you appear to be a hot-tempered fellow— unlike myself. I am always calm and reasonable. Reason compels me to confess that the doorway may not have been empty, and that this lady may have rendered me some small assistance. Thank you, madam. Now go away."

His eyes closed. A peremptory gesture from the doctor sent both of us from the room. Cyrus, still quivering with indignation, put a protective arm around me. Gently but decisively I removed it.

"I am quite composed, Cyrus. I do not require to be soothed."

"Your courage amazes me," Cyrus exclaimed. "To hear him deny you— sneer at your devotion and daring— "

"Well, you see," I said with a faint smile, "it isn't the first time I have heard such remarks from
Emerson. I had hoped, Cyrus, but I had not really expected anything else. Having nerved myself to
expect the worst, I was prepared for it."

In silence he placed his hand on my shoulder. I allowed it to remain, and neither of us spoke again until the doctor emerged from Emerson's room.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Emerson," he said gently. "Pray don't be disheartened. He has not forgotten everything. He knows his name and his profession. He asked after his brother Walter, and declared his intention of proceeding at once to his excavations."

"Where?" I asked intently. "Did he say where he intended to work this season?"

"Amarna," was the reply. "Is that important?"

"It was at Amarna that he was working when we became . . . well acquainted."

"Hmmm. Yes. You may have found the clue, Mrs. Emerson. His memory of events is clear and precise up to a period approximately thirteen years ago. He remembers nothing that has happened since that time."

"Since the day we . . became acquainted," I said thoughtfully.

The doctor put his hand on my other shoulder. Men seem to think this gesture has a soothing effect. "Don't despair, Mrs. Emerson. He is out of danger, but he is still much weaker than his— er— peremptory manner might lead you to believe. It may be that his memory will return as his health improves"

"And maybe it won't," muttered Cyrus. "You're pretty doggoned nonchalant about it, Doc, isn't there anything you can do?"

"I am not a specialist in nervous disorders," was the huffy reply. "I would certainly welcome a second opinion "

"No offense meant," Cyrus said quickly. "I guess we're all pretty tired and short-tempered. A specialist
in nervous disorders, you said . . Hey! Wait a minute!"

His face lit up and he stopped twisting his goatee, which had gone quite limp under his attentions.
"I guess the good Lord must be on our side after all. One of the world's greatest experts in mental disorders is on his way to Luxor at this very moment, if he is not already here. Talk about the luck
of the devil!"

"What is his name?" the doctor asked skeptically.

"Schadenfreude. Sigismund Schadenfreude. He's a crackerjack, take my word for it."

"The Viennese specialist? His theories are somewhat unorthodox— "

"But they work," Cyrus declared enthusiastically. "I was a patient of his myself a few years ago."

"You, Cyrus?" I exclaimed.

Cyrus looked down and shuffled his feet like a guilty schoolboy. "You remember, Amelia— that business with Lady Baskerville? I gave my heart to that woman, and she smashed it to smithereens. I went around like a droopy-eared hound dog for quite a while, and then I heard about Schadenfreude. He set me straight in a matter of weeks."

"I am very sorry, Cyrus I had no idea."

"Water over the dam, my dear. I've been footloose and fancy-free ever since. I told Schadenfreude
when we parted company to let me know if he was ever in Egypt and I'd show him what an archaeological dig was like. He must have arrived in Cairo right after I left Got his letter a few days ago—paid no attention to it at the time—other things on my mind— but if I remember rightly, he
planned to be in Luxor sometime this week. What do you say I run over and see if he's available?"

Of course the matter was not so easily arranged as Cyrus's sympathetic enthusiasm led him to hope.
It was evening before he returned, towing the famous Viennese physician along like a pet dog
Schadenfreude was a curious figure— very thin in the face and very round in the stomach, his cheeks
so pink they looked rouged, his beard so silvery-bright it suggested a halo that had slipped its moorings. Myopic brown eyes peered uncertainly through his thick spectacles. There was nothing uncertain about his professional manner, however.

"A most interrrresting case, to be sure," he declared. "Herr Vandergelt has given me some of the particulars. You have not forced yourself upon him, gnadige Frau?"

I stiffened with indignation, but a wink and a nod from Cyrus reminded me that the famous doctor's imperfect command of English must be responsible for this rude question.

"He has slept most of the day," I replied. "I have not insisted upon my relationship with him, if that is what you mean. Dr. Wallingford felt that might be unwise, at this stage."

"Sehr gut, sehr gut." Schadenfreude rubbed his hands together and showed me a set of perfect white teeth. "I will alone the patient examine. You permit, Frau Professor?"

He did not wait for my permission, but flung the door open and vanished within, closing said door
with a slam.

"Peculiar little guy, isn't he?" Cyrus said proudly, as if Schadenfreude's eccentricities proved his medical prowess.

"Er— quite. Cyrus, are you certain— "

"My dear, he's a wonder. I'm a living testimonial to his talents."

Schadenfreude was inside quite a long time. Not a sound emerged— not even the shouts I fully
expected to hear from Emerson— and I was getting rather fidgety before the door finally opened

"Nein, nein, gnadige Frau" said Schadenfreude, holding me back when I would have entered. "It is
a discussion we must have before you speak so much as a single word to the afflicted one. Lead us,
Herr Vandergelt, to a place of discussion and supply, bitte, something of refreshment for the lady."

We retired to my sitting room. I refused the brandy the doctor tried to press upon me— the situation was too serious for the temporary consolation of spirits— and he applied himself to the beer he had requested with such gusto that when he emerged from the glass his mustache was frosted with foam. However, when he began to speak I had no inclination to laugh at him.

Many people at that time were skeptical about the theories of psychotherapy. My own mind is always receptive to new ideas, however repellent they may be, and I had read with interest the works of psychologists such as William James and Wilhelm Wundt. Since some of their axioms— particularly Herbart's concept of the threshold of consciousness— agreed with my own observations of human nature, I was inclined to believe that the discipline, when refined and developed, might offer useful insights. Herr Doktor Schadenfreude's theories were certainly unorthodox, but I found them horribly plausible.

"The immediate cause of your husband's amnesia is physical trauma— a blow on the head. Has he
often suffered injury to that region?"

"Why— not to an excessive degree," I began.

"I don't know about that," Cyrus demurred. "I can remember at least two occasions during the few
weeks we were together at Baskerville House There's something about my old pal that makes people want to beat him over the head."

"He does not avoid physical encounters when he is defending the helpless or righting a wrong," I declared.

"Also. But the blow was only the catalyst, the immediate cause. It broke not only his head but the invisible membrane of the unconscious mind, and from this rent, this weakened part of the fabric,
rushed fears and desires long suppressed by the conscious will. In short— in lay terms, gnadige Frau
und Herr Vandergelt— he has forgotten the things he does not want to remember!"

"You mean," I said painfully, "he does not want to remember ME."

"Not you as yourself, Frau Emerson. It is the symbol he rejects." When a man gets to talking about his own subject he is inclined to be verbose. I will therefore summarize the doctor's lecture. (I must warn
the Reader that some of his statements were quite shocking.)

Man and woman, he declared, were natural enemies. Marriage was at best an armed truce between individuals whose basic natures were totally opposed. The need of Woman, the homemaker, was for peace and security. The need of Man, the hunter, was for the freedom to prey upon his fellowmen and upon women (the doctor put this more politely, but I caught his meaning). Society aimed to control these natural desires of man, religion forbade them. But the walls of constraint were constantly under attack by the brute nature of Man, and when there was a rent in the fabric, the brute burst forth

"Good gracious," I murmured, when the doctor paused to wipe his perspiring brow.

Cyrus had gone beet-red and was biting his lip to repress strangled noises of indignation and denial. "Doggone it, Doctor, I have to object to your language in the presence of Mrs. Emerson— and to your slur upon the masculine gender. We aren't all— er— ravening beasts. You did say 'ravening,' didn't you?"

"Ravening and lusting," said Schadenfreude happily. "Yes, yes, that is the nature of man. Some of you repress your true natures successfully, mein Freund; but beware! The greater the control, the more the pressure builds, and if there is a rent in the fabric of the walls— BOOM!"

Cyrus jumped. "Now see here, Doc— "

"Be calm, Cyrus," I urged "The doctor is not being rude, he is being scientific. I am not offended, and indeed, I find some sense in his diagnosis. However, I am not so much interested in a diagnosis as in a cure. To employ your own metaphor, Doctor (and a striking one it is), how do we force the— er—
beast back behind the wall and what kind of plaster do we use to mend it?"

Schadenfreude beamed approvingly at me. "You have an almost masculine directness, Frau Emerson
The procedure is obvious. One does not employ brute force against brute force, the ensuing struggle might wound both combatants mortally."

"Striking as the metaphor is, I would prefer a more practical suggestion," I said. "What am I to do?
Would hypnosis— "

Schadenfreude shook a playful finger at me. "Aha, Frau Emerson! You have been reading the works of my more imaginative colleagues. Breuer and Freud are correct in stating that the operative force of the idea which was not abreacted by allowing its strangulated effect to find a way out in speech or action must be relived—brought back, in other words—to its status nascendi. But hypnosis is only a showman's toy that may do more harm than good by substituting the practitioner's own preconceptions for the psychical processes of the patient."

I believe I have rendered accurately the general sense of his discourse. He had to pause for breath at this point—not surprisingly—and when he went on, it was in more specific terms.

"The memory is like a lovely Rower, gnadige Frau it cannot be brought into existence fully formed, it must grow slowly and naturally from the seed. The seed is there in his mind. Return him to the scenes
he does remember. Do not force memories upon him. Do not insist on facts he honestly, sincerely, believes to be false. This would be disastrous in his case, for if I read his character correctly, he is the
sort of man who will insist on doing precisely the opposite of what you have told him to do."

"You've got that right," Cyrus agreed.

"But your suggestions are still too general," I complained. "Are you saying that we ought to take him
back to Amarna?"

"Nein, nein! You take him nowhere. He goes where he wishes to go, and you accompany him. Amarna was the place he kept mentioning. An archaeological site, is it?"

"It's just about the most remote, desolate site in Egypt," Cyrus said slowly. "I don't think it would be
such a smart idea for— for various reasons."

The doctor folded his delicate hands across his rounded stomach and smiled placidly at us. "You have
no choice, my friend Vandergelt. Short of imprisonment, which is against the law, your only alternative
is to have him declared incompetent. No reputable physician would sign such papers. I would not. He is not incompetent. He is not insane, within the legal definition of the word. If it is the unavailability of medical attention at this place— Amarna— that concerns you, do not be concerned. Physically he is
on the road to recovery and will soon be himself again. There is no danger of a recurrence."

There was danger, however, though not of the sort of recurrence the good doctor meant After he had departed Cyrus burst out, "I'm sadly disappointed in Schadenfreude. Of all the insulting theories . He never told me I was a ravening beast."

"He is an enthusiast. Enthusiasts tend to exaggerate. But I am forced to agree with some of his theories. What he said about marriage being a truce . . ."

"Hmph. That's not my notion of what the wedded state ought to be, but I guess you know more about
the condition than a sorry old bachelor like me. But I'm dead-set against Amarna. You and Emerson would be like ducks in a shooting gallery out in that wilderness."

"I disagree, Cyrus. It is easier to guard oneself in a howling wilderness than in a teeming metropolis."

"In some ways, maybe. But— "

"Now, Cyrus, argument is a waste of time. As the doctor said, we have no choice. It will be good," I mused, "to see dear Amarna again."

Cyrus's stern face softened "You don't fool me, Amelia. You are the bravest little woman I know, and that stiff upper lip of yours is a credit to the whole British nation, but it isn't healthy, my dear, to
suppress your feelings this way. I've got a pretty broad shoulder if you want one to cry on "

I declined the offer, with proper expressions of gratitude. But if Cyrus had seen me later that night, he would not have had such a high opinion of my courage. Huddled on the floor of the bath chamber, with the door locked and a towel pressed to my face to muffle my sobs, I wept until I could weep no more. It did me good, I suppose. Finally I rose shakily to my feet and went to the window. The first pale streaks of dawn outlined the eastern mountains. Drained and exhausted, I leaned on the sill looking out, and as the light strengthened I felt a slow renewing trickle of the courage and hope that had temporarily abandoned me. My fists clenched, my lips tightened I had won the first battle, against all odds, I had found him and brought him back to me. If other battles had to be fought, I would fight and win them too.

CHAPTER 8

"When one is striding bravely into the future, one cannot watch one's footing."

Years had passed since I last beheld the plain of Amarna, yet in eternal Egypt a decade is no more than the blink of an eye. Nothing had changed— the same wretched villages, the same narrow strip of green along the riverbank, the same empty arid plain behind, enclosed by frowning cliffs like the fingers of a cupped, stony hand.

It might have been only yesterday that my eyes last rested upon the scene, and this impression was further strengthened by the fact that I saw it from the deck of a dahabeeyah—not my beloved Philae,
on which I had traveled during my first visit to Egypt, but an even grander and more luxuriously appointed sailing vessel.

These graceful floating apartments, once the most popular means of travel for well-to-do tourists, were fast disappearing. Cook's steamers plied the river, the railroad offered quick if uncomfortable travel between Cairo and Luxor. The spirit of the new century was already upon us, and although modern devices were no doubt more convenient, it was with a sigh that I contemplated the loss of dignity,
leisure, and charm the dahabeeyahs had emplified.

A few traditionalists clung to the old customs. The Reverend Mr. Sayce's boat was still a familiar sight along the river, and Cyrus also preferred the comfort of a dahabeeyah when traveling and when visiting sites where suitable accommodations were lacking. In fact, there was not a clean, much less comfortable, hotel to be found between Cairo and Luxor. Visitors who wished to stay at Amarna overnight had to camp out or request the hospitality of the local magistrate. This individual's house was only a little larger and hardly less filthy than those of the fellahin, so I was extremely pleased when Cyrus announced he
had ordered his reis to bring his dahabeeyah to Luxor so that we might travel on it to Amarna.

I had seen The Valley of the Kings, as his boat was named, before, so you may conceive of my surprise when I beheld a new and astonishing sailing vessel awaiting us at the dock the day we left Luxor. Twice the length of the other boat, gleaming with fresh paint, it bore the name Nefertiti in elaborate gilt lettering on the prow.

"I figured it was time the old Valley was retired," Cyrus said negligently, after I had expressed my admiration "Hope the decor meets with your approval, my dear, I had one suite fixed up to suit a lady's taste, in the hope that one day you might do me the honor of sailing with me."

I concealed a smile, for I doubted I was the only lady Cyrus had hoped to entertain. He was, as he had once said, "a connoisseur, in the most respectable sense, of female loveliness" Certainly no female could have been other than delighted at the facilities this rough-hewn but gallant American had provided, from the lace-trimmed curtains at the wide windows to the daintily appointed dressing room adjoining the bath, everything was of the finest quality and most exquisite taste.

The other guest rooms— for the boat had eight— were equally splendid. After a silent, contemptuous survey of the accommodations, Emerson selected the smallest of the chambers.

He had not accepted this means of transport without a considerable fuss. The arguments of
Dr. Wallingford, who insisted that a few more days' recuperation would be advisable, had their effect,
so did the arguments of Cyrus, who had presented himself to Emerson as the financier of that season's work.

It was in matters such as these that my afflicted husband's loss of memory served to our advantage. He knew there were gaps in his memory, the (to him) overnight whitening of Abdullah's grizzled beard
would have been proof enough had there been no other evidence. He dealt with this difficulty, as I
might have expected Emerson to do, by coolly ignoring it. However, he was thus forced to accept
certain statements as true because he could not assert they were false. It was quite the usual thing for wealthy individuals to finance archaeological expeditions. Emerson disapproved of the practice— and
said so, rather emphatically— but being unaware of his own financial situation, he was forced in this
case to agree.

Did I hope that the tranquil voyage, the moonlight rippling along the water, would bring back fond memories of our first such journey together— the journey that had culminated in that romantic moment when Emerson had asked me to be his? No, I did not. And it is just as well I didn't, for my dream would have been doomed to disappointment. In vain did I flaunt my crimson flounces and my low-cut gowns (for I thought it would not hurt to try). Emerson fled from them like a man pursued by pariah dogs. The only time he condescended to notice my existence was when I wore trousers and talked of archaeology.

I wore my new working costume at luncheon the day after we left Luxor (the crimson gown having had the aforesaid result the previous night). I was late joining the others, for I had, I admit, gone through my entire wardrobe before deciding what to wear. Cyrus got to his feet when I entered. Emerson was slow
to follow his example, and he gave me a long look, from boots to neatly netted hair, before doing so

"This is just the sort of inconsistency I object to," he remarked to Cyrus. "If she dresses like a man and insists on doing a man's work, why the devil should she expect me to jump to my feet when she enters a room? And," he added, anticipating the reproof that was hovering on Cyrus's lips, "why the devil can't
I speak as I would to another fellow?"

"You can say anything you like," I replied, thanking Cyrus with a smile as he helped me into my chair. "And I will say what I like, so if my language offends you, you will have to put up with it. Times have changed, Professor Emerson."

Emerson grinned. "Professor, eh? Never mind the academic titles, they aren't worth— er— considering. Times certainly have changed, if, as Vandergelt here tells me, I have employed a female for the past several years. An artist, are you?"

Women had occasionally served in that capacity on archaeological digs, they were generally considered unfit for more intellectually tax ing activities. I decided not to remind Emerson of the two ladies who had excavated the temple of Mut at Karnak a few years earlier, for even at the time he had been critical of their methods. But to do him and them justice, he was equally critical of the efforts of most male
archaeologists.

Calmly I replied, "I am an excavator, like yourself. I am a fair draftsman, I am acquainted with the use
of surveying instruments, and I can read the hieroglyphs. I speak Arabic. I am familiar with the principles of scientific excavation and I can tell a pre-dynastic pot from a piece of Meidum ware. In short, I can do anything you ... or any other excavator . . . can do."

Emerson's eyes narrowed. "That," he said, "remains to be seen." To my affectionate eyes he was still painfully thin, and his face had not regained its healthy tan. Not much of it was visible, he had irritably refused to trim his beard, and it had spread up his cheeks and formed a jetty bush around jaws and chin. It looked even worse than it had when I first met him. But his eyes had regained their old sapphirine fire, they shot a challenging look at me before he applied himself to his soup and relapsed into ominous silence.

No one broke it. Emerson might not be entirely himself again, but there was enough of him to dominate any group of which he made a part, and the two young men who were at the table with us shrank into near invisibility in his presence.

I beg leave to introduce to the Reader Mr. Charles H. Holly and M. Rene D'Arcy, two of Cyrus's assistants. If I have not presented them before, it is because I had never met either of them, they were
of the new generation of archaeologists, and this was Charlie's first season in Egypt. A mining engineer
by profession, he was a ruddy-cheeked cheerful young man with hair the color of Egyptian sand. At
least he had been cheerful until Emerson got at him.

Rene, as pale and soulful-looking as a poet, was a graduate of the Sorbonne and a skilled draftsman. The ebon locks that fell gracefully over his brow matched the mustache that drooped with corresponding grace over his upper lip He had a very pleasant smile. I had not seen the smile since Emerson got at him.

Emerson had quizzed them like students at a viva-voce examination, criticizing their translations of hieroglyphic texts, correcting their Arabic, and deriding their stumbling descriptions of excavation technique. One could hardly blame them for not coming off well under that blistering interrogation,
I had heard distinguished scholars stutter like schoolboys when Emerson challenged their theories. The poor lads could not know that, and they took pains to avoid my husband thereafter. Neither of them
knew the SECRET, as Ramses would have called it, but they were aware of the fact that the peril
from which Emerson had escaped might still pursue us. Cyrus assured me they were devoted to him,
and good men in a fight, as he put it.

Not until he had finished eating— with good appetite, I was happy to see— did Emerson speak again. Throwing down his napkin, he rose and fixed a stern look on me. "Come along, Miss— er— Peabody.
It is time we had a a little chat."

I followed him, smiling to myself. If Emerson thought to catch me out or intimidate me as he had the
poor young men, he was in for a salutary shock.

The Reader may be surprised at my calm acceptance of a situation that should have induced the strongest feelings of anguish and distress. Fortitude in the face of adversity has always been my way, tears and hysteria are foreign to my nature. Could I ever forget that supreme accolade I had once received from Emerson himself? "One of the reasons I love you is that you are more inclined to whack people over
the head with your parasol than fling yourself weeping onto your bed, like other women."

I had had my night of weeping— not on a comfortable bed, but on the hard floor of the bathroom at the Castle, huddled in a corner like a beaten dog. Never doubt that there were other moments of pain and despair. But what purpose would a description of them serve? None were as severe as that first uncontrolled outburst of anguish, I had purged myself of useless emotions that terrible night, now every nerve, every sinew, every thought, was bent on a single purpose. It was as if I had forced myself to lose those same years Emerson had lost— to return in my mind to the past. In this I was following the dictates of Dr. Schadenfreude. "You," he had informed me, on the eve of our departure, "you, Frau Emerson,
are the crux. My initial impression has been confirmed by all that I have seen since. It is from the bonds of matrimony that his memory retreats. In all else he is receptive, he accepts with relative equanimity what he is told. On that subject alone he remains obdurate. Follow him into the past. Recapture the indifference with which you once regarded him. Act upon it. And then . . . act upon what follows."

Cyrus had become sadly disenchanted with Dr. Schadenfreude since that distinguished gentleman expressed his views on marriage and the reprehensible habits of the male sex. Like most men, Cyrus was a secret romantic, and hopelessly naive about people. Women are more realistic — and I, I believe I may say without fear of contradiction, am a supreme realist. The doctor's advice appealed to certain elements of my character. I enjoy a challenge, the more difficult the task, the more eager I am to roll up my
sleeves and pitch in. I had won Emerson's heart before, against considerable odds, for he had been a confirmed misogynist and I am not and have never been beautiful. If the spiritual bond between us, a bond transcending the limits of time and the flesh, was as strong as I believed, then I could win him
again.  If that bond existed only in my imagination ... I would not, could not, concede it was so.

So with limbs atingle and brain alert I followed him to the saloon, which also served as a library and Cyrus's study. It was a symphony in crimson and cream, with touches of gold. Even the grand piano
had been gilded — one of Cyrus's few descents into execrable trans-Atlantic taste. Emerson flung
himself into an armchair and took out his pipe. While he was messing with it, I took up a manuscript
from the table. It was the little fairy tale I had been reading in Cairo, I had taken it up again in order
to distract my mind.

"It is my turn to be tested, I presume," I said composedly. "Shall I translate? This is The Doomed
Prince,' a tale with which you are no doubt familiar."

Emerson glanced up from poking at his pipe. "You read hieratic?"

"Not well," I admitted. "This is Walt — er — Maspero's hieroglyphic transliteration." And without
further ado I began, "There was once a king to whom no son was born. So he prayed the gods he
served for a son, and they decreed that one should be born to him. Then the Hathors came to decree
his destiny. They said, 'He shall die by the crocodile or the snake or the —

An invisible hand gripped my throat. Superstition is not a weakness to which I am prone, but the parallel suddenly struck me with such force I felt like the unhappy parents hearing the doom prophesied for
their child.

At the beginning of our acquaintance at Amarna, Emerson and I had faced an adversary I had described as a veritable crocodile, waiting on the sandbank to destroy the lover seeking his sweetheart. Now
another enemy threatened us — a man who had used the name Schlange. In German, Schlange
means snake.

Nonsense, said the rational part of my much-tried brain. Fanciful you may be, but this is the grossest
kind of pagan morbidity. Dismiss it! Let common sense prevail over the affectionate fear that has weakened the ratiocinative process!

Unaware of the painful struggle going on under his very eyes, Emerson said sarcastically, "Is that the extent of your preparation?"

"I can go on if you like."

"Never mind. I did not request a private interview in order to review your qualifications. If Vandergelt
can be believed, I have already accepted them."

"You have."

"And you were present on the presumed expedition concerning which my gentle host was so curious?"

"I was."

"It did take place?"

"It did."

"At least she doesn't talk as incessantly as most women," Emerson muttered to himself. "Very well,
then, Miss— er— Peabody. Where the devil did we go, and why? Vandergelt claims to be ignorant
of those facts."

I told him.

Emerson's eyebrows performed a series of alarming movements. "Willie Forth? It seems only yesterday
I spoke with him . . . You say he is dead?"

"And his wife. The details do not matter," I continued, for I was not anxious to recall some of those details. "What does matter is that someone has learned that Mr. Forth's lost civilization is not a fantasy, and that we alone can lead him to it. We swore we would never disclose its location— "

"Yes, yes, you explained that. Forgive me," Emerson continued, with poisonous politeness, "If I express
a certain degree of skepticism about the whole affair. I told Willie Forth he was mad, and thus far I have seen no evidence that contradicts that judgment. You and your dear friend Vandergelt might have invented this story for reasons of your own."

"You still bear the evidence of someone's interest in your affairs," I said indignantly. "Your bruised head and that horrible beard— "

"What does my beard have to do with it?" Emerson clutched protectively at the appendage in question. "Leave my beard out of this, if you please. I grant you that someone appears to be taking an impertinent interest in my personal affairs, but he was not as specific as you— "

"How could he be? He knows nothing about the place except that it holds incredible riches— "

"Do you always interrupt people when they are talking?"

"No more than you. If people go on and on— "

"I never interrupt," Emerson shouted. "Pray allow me to finish the point I am endeavoring to make."

"Pray make it," I snapped.

Emerson drew a deep breath. "There are a number of individuals who hold grudges against me. I am not ashamed of that, indeed, it is a source of modest pride to me, for in all cases their resentment stems
from my interference with their illegal or immoral activities. I am also, as you may have observed, close-mouthed— discreet— taciturn. I don't tell people everything I know. I don't trumpet my
knowledge to the world. I never speak unless— "

"Oh, good Gad," I exclaimed, jumping to my feet "I quite agree with the premise you are suggesting,
at such unnecessary length: there are undoubtedly dozens of people who would like to murder you for dozens of different reasons. You want evidence that this particular individual is after one particular
piece of information? I will give you evidence. Come with me."

He had no choice but to obey or leave his curiosity unsatisfied, for I was on my way to the door even
as I spoke. Stamping heavily and muttering under his breath, he followed me until I reached my room
and flung the door open.

"Here!" he exclaimed, starting back. "I refuse to— "

Exhilarated, amused, and exasperated, I got behind him and gave him a shove. "If I make a rude
advance you can scream for help. When you see what I have to show you, you will understand why
I prefer not to remove it from this room. Sit down."

Eyeing the canopied bed as if it might extend ruffled tentacles to grasp him, Emerson circled around
it and lowered himself cautiously into a chair. He stiffened when I went to the bed, but relaxed a little after I had taken the box out from under the mattress and handed it to him.

The sight of the contents brought a soft whistle to his lips, but he did not comment until after he had examined both scepters thoroughly, and when he raised his eyes to my face they glittered with the old blue fire of archaeological fever. "If they are fakes they are the finest I have ever seen, and you and Vandergelt have gone to considerable trouble to deceive me."

"They are genuine. We are not deceiving you. Not even Cyrus has seen these, Emerson. He knows no more about the matter than does our unknown enemy, who put together the same clues Cyrus— "

"Unknown? Not to me."

"What?" I cried. "You recognized him?"

"Of course. He had grown a beard and dyed it and his hair, and he looked older . . . which," Emerson mused, "is only to be expected, since he was older. No doubt about it, though. Well, well. This explains why he was so bad-mannered. I could not imagine why he was put out with me, since I had been one
of the few to defend him. What a sad world it is, when greed proves stronger than gratitude and the
lust for gold overcomes friendship— "

"Men are so naive," I exclaimed. "The commonest reaction to favors rendered is resentment, not gratitude. He probably detests you even more than he does those who condemned him. So it was
Mr. Vincey. I thought I recognized his voice."

"You know him?"

"Yes. That is his cat." I indicated Anubis, who was curled up on the sofa. "He asked us— curse his insolence!— to care for the animal while he went to Damascus."

"He certainly was not in Damascus," Emerson said. "Very well, let us get down to business instead of wandering all around the subject the way you women are inclined to do. Vincey is on the loose and it would be extremely careless of us to assume he has given up his little project. He has all the more
reason to be vexed with me now, after I got away from him so neatly. I could . . . What's the matter? Something caught in your throat? Have a glass of water and don't distract me."

It did not seem an opportune moment to remind him that his escape had been neither neat nor due to
his efforts. Choking on my indignation, I remained silent. Emerson went on thoughtfully, "I could track him down, I suppose, but I will be damned if I allow him to interfere with my professional activities any more than he already has. If he wants me, he will come after me. Yes, that will be best. I can get on
with my work, and if he turns up, I'll settle the fellow."

I was meditating how best to respond to this complacent statement when I heard someone approaching. The steps were those of Cyrus, the rapidity of their pace made my scalp prickle with apprehension. He was almost running, and as he neared my door he began to call out.

"Amelia! Are you there?"

"Just a moment," I called, snatching the box from Emerson and hastening to restore it to its hiding place. "What is it, Cyrus? What has happened?"

"Big trouble, I opine. We have found a stowaway!"

*  *  *

As soon as I had the box concealed, I admitted Cyrus. In my excitement I had overlooked the fact that Emerson's presence might cause some embarrassment— particularly to Emerson—until I saw Cyrus's
jaw drop and color flood his lean cheeks. Emerson had gone equally red in the face, but he decided to brazen it out.

"You are interrupting a professional discussion," he growled. "What's all the fuss about?"

"A stowaway," I reminded him. "Who? Where?"

"Here," Cyrus said.

One of the sailors pushed her into the room. One had to assume she was female from her dress, though the worn black robes completely covered her shape and the dusty veil hid all but a pair of terrified dark
eyes.

"It is some poor village woman fleeing a cruel husband or tyrannical father," I cried, my sympathies immediately engaged.

"Hell and damnation," Emerson exclaimed.

Her eyes found him where he sat bolt upright, hands clutching the arms of his chair. With a sudden
effort she tore herself free and flung herself at his feet.

"Save me, O Father of Curses! I risked my life for you, and now it hangs by a thread."

Exaggeration seemed to be in the air that day, I thought to myself. She had tried to keep the murderous guard from entering Emerson's prison, but how could her dread master know of that? Was this even the same woman? Her voice sounded different—huskier, deeper, and with a distinct accent.

"You are safe with me," Emerson said, studying the bent black head with— I was happy to observe—
a rather skeptical expression. "If you speak the truth."

"You doubt me?" Still on her knees, she sat back and wrenched the veil from her face.

I cried out in horror. No wonder I had not recognized her voice, the prints of fingers showed dark on
her bruised throat. Her face was equally unrecognizable, swollen and stained by the marks of brutal blows.

"This is what he did to me when he learned you had escaped," she whispered.

Pity had not altogether wiped out my suspicions. "How did he learn ..." I began.

Replacing the veil, she turned to me. "He beat me because I had shown compassion and because . . . because he was angry."

Emerson's face was impassive. Those who had never beheld a demonstration of the seething sea of sentiment his sardonic exterior conceals might have believed him to be unmoved,- but I knew he was thinking of the child-woman he had been unable to save from her murderous father.* Nothing of this showed in his voice when he said gruffly, "Find her a room, Vandergelt. God knows you've enough useless space on this boat."

She kissed his hand, though he tried to stop her, and followed Cyrus out. Frowning, Emerson took out
his pipe. I heard Cyrus summon his steward after directing the fellow to show the lady (he stumbled a
bit over the word, but I had to give him credit for the effort) to a vacant stateroom, he returned.

"Are you loony, Emerson? The da— er— darned woman's a spy."

"And her bruises were incurred in an effort to give verisimilitude to an otherwise unconvincing story?" Emerson asked dryly. "How devotedly she must love her tormentor."

Cyrus's lean face darkened. "That's not love. It's a kind of fear you'll never know."

"You are right, Cyrus," I said. "Many women know it— not only the helpless slaves of a society such
as this, but Englishwomen as well. Some of the girls Evelyn has taken in off the streets ... It does you credit, Cyrus, that you can understand and sympathize with a condition so alien from any you could
ever have experienced."

"I was thinking of dogs," Cyrus said, blushing at my praise but too honest to accept it when it was undeserved. "I've seen 'em come fawning back to the feet of the varmint that had beaten and kicked them. You can reduce a man to that state too, if you go about it right."

Emerson blew out a great cloud of blue smoke. "If you two have quite finished your philosophical discussion, we might try to settle this matter. The girl's arrival raises another point which I was about
to make when Miss— er— Peabody got me off the track. Vincey may not be the only one involved."

Cyrus expressed surprise at the name, and I took it upon myself to explain. "I thought at the time his voice was familiar, Cyrus, but he had disguised his appearance so well I could not be certain. Emerson has just now confirmed my assumption, and I suppose he could hardly be mistaken. Do you know
Mr. Vincey?"

"By reputation," Cyrus replied, frowning. "From what I've heard I wouldn't put such a trick past him "

"He certainly was not the only one involved," I went on. "Abdullah claims to have killed at least ten
of the enemy."

This little sally produced a smile from Cyrus, but not from Emerson. "Local thugs," he said curtly.
"Such men can be hired in any city in Egypt or in the world. The girl is another such tool. Vincey has
an unsavory reputation as regards women."

"Women of the— of that class, you mean," I said, remembering Vincey's grave courtesy toward me,
and remembering as well Howard's veiled hints about his reputation. Repressing my indignation, I went on, "I find your use of the word 'tool' interesting. She may still be serving him in that capacity. Cyrus is right— "

"I am not so naive"— Emerson shot me a malignant glance— "as to accept the girl's story unreservedly.
If she is a spy, we can deal with her. If she is telling the truth, she needs help"

"Must have been a good-looking woman before he got to work on her," said Cyrus.

This apparent non sequitur, which was of course nothing of the kind, did not escape Emerson. His
teeth showed in a particularly unpleasant smile. "She was, yes. And will be again. So behave yourself, Vandergelt, I don't allow distractions of that nature to interfere with my expeditions."

"If it were up to me, I'd kick her off the boat tonight," Cyrus declared indignantly.

"No, no. Where's that famous American gallantry? She stays." Emerson turned the singularly unpleasant smile on me. "She will be company for Miss Peabody."

*  *  *

After they had gone, I gathered up a few things and went to the woman's room. The door was locked from the outside, but the key was in the lock. I turned it, announced my presence, and entered.

She was sprawled across the bed, still swathed in her dusty black robe. It was with some difficulty that
I persuaded her to discard it, and she refused to allow me to attend to her injuries, so I handed her the clean nightgown I had brought and allowed her to attend to her ablutions in private. When she emerged from the bathroom she seemed startled to see me still there. Averting her face and cringing like the dog with which Cyrus had compared her, she hurried to the bed and got under the covers.

"I don't know what we are to do about clothing," I said, hoping to put her more at ease by discussing a subject that seldom fails to interest females. "My traveling wardrobe is not extensive enough to equip
you as well."

"Your gowns would not fit me," she muttered. "I am taller than you, and not— not so— "

"Hmph," I said. "I will procure fresh robes for you when we stop at the next town, then. This one is filthy."

"And a veil— please! It would hide me from watching eyes."

I doubted it would prove a sufficient disguise to deceive the man she feared so desperately, but since
my aim was to soothe her and win her confidence, I decided not to raise unpleasant subjects. Under
my tactful questioning she unbent so far as to tell me something of her history.

It was a sad story and, sadly, not uncommon. The child of a European father and an Egyptian mother, she had fared better than the offspring of most such alliances, for her German father had at least had
the decency to provide a home for her until she reached the age of eighteen. His death left her at the mercy of his heirs, who disclaimed any responsibility and denied any relationship. Her efforts to support herself in a respectable occupation had been frustrated by her age and her sex, while employed as a housemaid she had been seduced by the eldest son of the family and cast out onto the street when his parents discovered the affair. Naturally they blamed her and not their child. She had used the last of her savings to return to the land of her birth, where she found her maternal relatives as hostile as those of
her father, alone and despairing in Cairo, she had met . . . HIM.

Seeing she was trembling with fatigue and agitation, I bade her rest. Her reticence could not be allowed
to continue indefinitely, of course. I was determined to know all she knew. But that could wait till
another time and, perhaps, a more persuasive questioner.

When we tied up for the night I sent one of the servants to the village bazaar to purchase clothing for Bertha—for such, she claimed, was her name. It certainly did not suit her, conjuring up (to me at least) images of blond Germanic placidity.

I had not achieved my aim of picking Bertha's brain by the time we arrived at our destination. Emerson refused to have anything to do with the matter. "What can she tell us— that Vincey is a brute, a liar, and
a seducer of women? His past activities, criminal or otherwise, are of no interest to me, I am not a police officer. His present address— even supposing he were fool enough to return to any location known to her— is equally irrelevant. When I want the bastard, I will find him. Just now I don't want him. I want
to get on with my work, and I will do it, come hell or high water, miscellaneous criminals, or female busybodies!"

*  *  *

For a stretch of almost forty miles along the Nile in Middle Egypt the cliffs of the high Eastern Desert
rise sheer from the water's edge except in a single spot where they curve back to form a semicircular
bay some six miles long by three miles deep. The barren, level plain seems even more forbidding than
do other abandoned sites, for this is a haunted place— the site of short-lived splendor, of a royal city
now vanished forever from the face of the earth.

Here, equidistant from the ancient capitals of Thebes to the south and Memphis to the north, the most enigmatic of Egyptian pharaohs, Akhenaton, built a new city and named it Akhetaton after his god Aton— "the only one, beside whom there is no other." By pharaoh's order the temples of other gods were closed even their names were obliterated from the monuments. His insistence on the uniqueness of his deity made him a heretic in ancient Egyptian terms— and in our terms the first monotheist in history.

The portraits of Akhenaton show a strange haggard face and an almost feminine body, with broad hips and fleshy torso. Yet he was not deficient in masculine attributes, as the existence of at least six children proves. Their mother was Akhenaton's queen Nefertiti— "lady of grace, sweet of hands, his beloved", and his romantic attachment to this lovely lady, whose very name meant "the beautiful woman has come," is shown in numerous reliefs and paintings. Tenderly he turns to embrace her,, gracefully she perches on his knee. These depictions of marital accord are unique in Egyptian art, and uncommon anywhere.

They had a particular attraction for me. I do not believe it is necessary for me to explain why that was so.

Some scholars view Akhenaton as morally perverse and physically deformed, and decry his religious reformation as nothing more than a cynical political maneuver. This is nonsense, of course. I do not apologize for preferring a more uplifting interpretation.

I trust the Reader has not skipped over the preceding paragraphs. The aim of literature is to improve
the understanding, not provide idle entertainment.

We were all at the rail on the day of our arrival, watching as the crewmen maneuvered the dahabeeyah
in toward the dock at the village of Haggi Qandil. The period of rest had done Emerson good, tanned
and bursting with energy, he was almost his old self again— except for the confounded beard. He was
also in a high good humor for, though it had almost choked me to do it, I had not pressed him on the subject of Mr. Vincey and Bertha. However, Cyrus and I had discussed the matter at length and had agreed upon certain precautions.

Waiting on the quay were twenty of our faithful men from Aziyeh, the little village near Cairo which produced some of the most skilled diggers in Egypt. I had sent Abdullah to fetch them to Amarna,
and the sight of their keen, smiling faces was more reassuring to me than that of a troop of soldiers
would have been. They had worked for us for years, Emerson had trained them himself, and they
were devoted to him body and soul.

Emerson climbed over the rail and jumped ashore. He was still thumping backs and shaking hands and submitting to fervent embraces when I joined the group. I was not the second one ashore, however.
The cat Anubis preceded me down the gangplank.

Abdullah drew me aside and gestured at the cat, which was giving each set of sandaled feet a thorough inspection. "Have you not rid yourself of that four-footed afreet, Sitt Hakim? He was the betrayer of Emerson— "

"If he was, it was inadvertent, Abdullah. Cats cannot be trained to lead people into ambushes— or to
do anything else they don't want to do. Anubis has become very attached to Emerson, he stayed with him, on the foot of his bed, all the while he was ill. Now, Abdullah, have you warned the other men
that Emerson is still in danger from the man who called himself Schlange, and told them of the subjects they must not mention?"

"Such as the subject that you are the wife of the Father of Curses?" Abdullah spoke with a sarcasm worthy of Emerson himself, and his prominent hawklike nose wrinkled critically. "I have told them Sitt. They will obey, as they would obey any command you gave, though they do not understand your reasons. Nor do I. To me, this is a foolish way of bringing back a man's memory."

"For once we see eye to eye, Abdullah," said Cyrus, joining us. But I reckon we've got to go along.
When the Sitt Hakim speaks, the whole world listens and obeys."

"No man knows that better than I," said Abdullah. Emerson's shout brought us gathering around "Abdullah has set up camp for us," he announced.

"And I have washed the donkeys," said Abdullah.

Emerson stared at him. "Washed the donkeys? What for?"

"He was following my orders," I said. "The little animals are always in wretched condition, covered
with sores and inadequately tended.  I do not allow . . Well, that is beside the point. Will you now condescend to tell us where we are going and what you propose to do— and why we require a
campsite when we have the dahabeeyah?"

Emerson turned the stare on me. "I have no intention of staying on that cursed boat. It is too far
from the tombs."

"Which tombs?" I asked, stepping heavily on Cyrus's foot to still the objection he was about to make.

"All the tombs. The southern group is a good three miles from her and the northern group is even farther There is another interesting area in a hollow behind that low hill near the center of the arc of the cliffs."

"There are no tombs there," I objected. "Unless the brickwork..."

Emerson gestured impatiently. "I will make my final decision tonight. My object today is to make a preliminary survey, and the sooner you stop arguing, the sooner we can get at it. Well? Any further objections?' He wheeled suddenly on Rene, who had edged closer. There were no further objections.

Before the day was over, any doubts as to Emerson's physical condition were removed. He declared we did not need the donkeys— a statement with which everyone disagreed but to which everyone except myself was too cowed to object. I knew perfectly well that he was testing us— me, especially— and so
I did not object either. We must have walked almost twenty miles, counting the perpendicular distances
we covered scrambling over piles of rocky scree and climbing up and down the cliffs.

The easiest way of describing this hegira is to envision the area as a semicircle, with the Nile forming the straight side. The cliffs of the high desert curve like a bow, at the extreme north and south ends they almost touch the riverbank. Haggi Qandil is somewhat south of the midpoint of the straight line, so we were a good three miles from the nearest section of the cliffs.

The path led through the village and the surrounding fields out onto the plain— an undulating, barren surface littered with pebbles and potsherds. The ruined foundations of Akhenaton's holy city lay under
the drifted sand. It had stretched the entire distance from the north end of the plain to the south. The portion we had excavated during the years we worked at Amarna lay farther to the south, but I felt sure the slow, inexorable hand of nature had reclaimed the site and buried all evidence of our labor as it had that of the ancient builders.

Emerson struck briskly out across the plain. Quickening my pace, I caught up to him. "I take it,
Emerson, that we are going to the northern tombs?"

"No," said Emerson.

I glanced at Cyrus, who shrugged and smiled and invited me, with a gesture, to walk with him. We allowed Emerson to forge ahead, with only Abdullah close on his heels. No one else seemed eager for
his company.

We did, in fact, visit some of the northern tombs, but not until after Emerson had indicated another
kind of monument he wanted to examine in detail that season.

Around the rocky perimeter of his city Akhenaton had carved a number of commemorative markers defining its boundaries and dedicating it to his god. Emerson and I had found and copied three of them ourselves. These stelae, as they are called, were similar in form, a central round-topped marker bearing a long hieroglyphic inscription under a scene in bas-relief that depicted the king and his family worshiping their god Aton, in the form of a sun-disk extending rays that ended in small human hands. Statues of the royal family stood on either side. Most of the boundary stelae were in ruinous condition,- some portions had been deliberately destroyed by the royal heretic's enemies after his death and the restoration of the old gods he had denied.

"There are two series of inscriptions, one earlier in time than the other," said Emerson. Hands on his
hips, bareheaded in the baking sunlight, he stood staring up at the cliff that towered over us. "This is one of the earlier,- there are two princesses shown with their parents. The later stelae show three daughters."

Cyrus took off his solar topi and fanned himself with it. "How the dickens you make that out I don't know. The top of the darned thing has to be thirty feet off the ground and the cliff is absolutely sheer."

"It cannot be approached except from above," said Emerson. He turned. Charlie was trying to hide
behind Abdullah, whose tall form and voluminous robes offered a good-sized shelter, but Emerson's
eyes went straight to him. With ferocious good humor Emerson said, "The boundary stela are your responsibility, Holly. A healthy young fellow like you should enjoy the challenge of copying texts while you dangle at the end of a rope."

A precipitous path led us up to the ledge on which the northern group of nobles' tombs were located. Once they had gaped open, vulnerable to the depredations of time and tomb-robbers. Recently the Antiquities Department had put up iron gates at the entrances to the most interesting of them. Emerson studied these gates, which had not been there in our time, with critical curiosity.

"Isn't there an American saying about locking the barn door after the horse is stolen? Ah, well, better
late than never, I suppose. Who has the keys?"

"I can get them," Cyrus replied. "Since I did not know— "

"I may want them later," was the curt reply.

He refused to say more until we had reached Abdullah's campsite. Knowing Abdullah, I was not surprised to see that his efforts had consisted of putting up a few tents and gathering camel dung for a fire.

"Very nice, Abdullah," I said. The reis, who had been watching me out of the corner of his eye, relaxed, and then stiffened again as I went on, "Of course nothing is as commodious as a nice, convenient tomb. Why can't we— "

"Because we are not going to work at the tombs," said Emerson. "This site is equidistant between the
two groups, northern and southern."

"Site?" Cyrus repeated indignantly. "What the dev------ the dickens do you want to waste your time on
this area for? There can't be any houses out here, so far from the main city, and no one has found any evidence of tomb shafts."

Emerson's well-shaped lips— now, alas, virtually hidden from my fond eyes by bristling black hair— curled in a sneer. "Most of my colleagues couldn't find a tomb shaft if they fell into it. I told you,
Vandergelt, explanations will have to wait till this evening. We have quite a distance yet to cover,
follow me."

The sun was now directly overhead and we had been walking (to use that term loosely) for several
hours. "Lead on," I said, taking a firm grip on my parasol.

Emerson had already eyed this appendage askance, but had not asked about it, so I saw no reason to explain that a parasol is one of the most useful objects an individual can carry on such an expedition.
Not only does it provide shade, but it can be used as a walking stick or, if need be, as a weapon. My parasols had frequently been employed in the latter capacity. They were specially made, with a heavy steel shaft and a pointed tip.

Like the gallant gentleman he was, Cyrus came to my rescue. "No, sir," he declared. "It's high noon
and I'm famished. I want my lunch before I stir another step."

Emerson was ungraciously pleased to agree.

The shade of the tents was welcome. One of Cyrus's servants unpacked the hampers his chef had provided, and we consumed a luncheon far more elegant than most field archaeologists enjoy. While we ate, Emerson condescended to lecture again. He directed most of his remarks at the two young men.

"The brickwork Miss— er— Peabody referred to is on the slopes and at the bottom of the hollow behind us. Some of it probably belongs to tomb chapels. The ruins on the floor of the hollow are clearly of another nature. I will start there tomorrow with a full crew. You, Vandergelt, and Miss —er— "

"If the title bothers you so much, you may dispense with it," I said calmly.

"Hmph," said Emerson. "You two will assist me. I trust this meets with your approval, Miss Peabody?"

"Quite," I said.

"Vandergelt?"

"I can hardly wait," said Cyrus, with a grimace

"Very well." Emerson jumped to his feet. "We have dawdled long enough. Let us be off."

"Back to the dahabeeyah?" Cyrus asked hopefully. "Since you have decided where you mean to excavate— "

"Good God, man, there are a good six hours of daylight left, and we have seen less than half of the area. Hurry up, can't you?"

Enviously the others watched Cyrus's servant strike off toward the river with the empty hampers then
the procession formed again, with Emerson's entourage trailing after him.

I presumed he meant to complete the circuit of the cliffs, and my heart beat high at the thought of seeing again the southern tombs where we had dwelt for so many happy years. But somehow I was not surprised when he led us into the foothills toward an opening in the rocky ramparts. Cyrus, ever at my side, let out a stifled American oath.

"Great jumping Jehoshaphat! I had a horrible premonition about this. The royal wadi! It's a three-mile hike each way and I'll bet you the temperature is high enough to fry an egg on a rock."

"I'll bet you it is," I agreed.

As I have already explained, but will reiterate for the benefit of less attentive readers, the wadis are canyons cut through the high desert plateau by past floods. The entrance to this one was located midway between the southern and northern groups of tombs. Its proper name is the Wadi Abu Hasah el-Bahri,
but for reasons that should be evident, it is commonly referred to as the main wadi. The royal wadi proper is a narrow offshoot of this larger canyon, approximately three miles from the entrance to the latter. Here, in a spot as remote and desolate as a lunar valley, Akhenaton had caused his own tomb to
be built.

If the southern tombs brought back poignant memories, the royal tomb recalled scenes that had impressed themselves indelibly upon my heart. In the gloomy corridor of that sepulcher I had felt Emerson's arms about me for the first time, along the rubble-strewn floor of the wadi we had raced by moonlight to save those we loved from a hideous death. Every foot of the way was familiar to me, and the spot was as fraught with romance as a garden of roses might be to one who had led a more boring life

Shortly after we entered it the valley curved, cutting off our view of the plain and the cultivation beyond. After approximately three miles the rocky sides closed in and smaller wadis opened up on either side. Emerson had already disappeared,- following, we saw him trotting along one of the narrow side canyons, whose floor rose as it proceeded to the northeast.

"There it is," I said, in a voice pent with emotion. "Ahead and to the left."

Soon the others saw it too—a dark opening framed by masonry, above a scree of tumbled rock. Charlie groaned. His clean-shaven countenance already showed signs of what promised to be a painful sunburn. Even a hat cannot entirely protect those of fair complexion from the effects of Egypt's burning solar orb.

When we had climbed to the ledge in front of the tomb, Emerson was there, glowering at the iron gate that barred entry. "We will certainly need this key," he said to Cyrus. "Make sure I have it tomorrow
morning."

By the time Emerson announced we were finished for the day, I was as much in the dark about his intentions as was Cyrus. He had scrambled around the foot of the cliffs to the north and south of the royal tomb for over an hour, poking into holes like a ferret after a rat.

"Where are we going?" Cyrus asked, as we trudged wearily back along the rock-strewn path. "See here, Emerson, there's no earthly reason why we can't spend the night on the dahabeeyah."

"I never said there was," said Emerson, with an air of innocent astonishment that left Cyrus gnashing
his teeth.

When we reached the gangplank I saw that Anubis was waiting for us. Where he had been or how he
had spent his time I could not imagine, but when we approached he rose, stretched, yawned, and accompanied us onto the boat.

"We will meet in the saloon in half an hour," said Emerson, heading for his room. The cat followed him.
I heard him say "Nice kitty," as he stumbled over it.

I had barely time to bathe and change in the time he had arbitrarily allotted, but I managed it, hastily selecting a garment that required no prolonged process of hooking up, and no assistance with regard to buttons. (I cannot imagine how women lacking husbands or personal maids ever manage to get dressed. Gowns that fasten up the back are impossible except for a contortionist.)

Emerson was already there, brooding over a heap of papers and plans spread across the table. His eyebrows lifted when he saw my pink flounces and ruffles (the garment to which I have referred was
a tea gown), but he made no comment, and only grunted when I ordered the steward to serve tea.

I was pouring when Cyrus came in, followed closely by the two young men. Apparently they felt there was safety in numbers. Poor Charlie was as red as an English brick, and Rene's mouth repeated the downward droop of his mustache.

Emerson sat tapping his fingers on the table and looking pointedly patient while I dispensed the genial beverage. Then he said, "If the cursed social amenities are concluded to your satisfaction, MISS
Peabody, I would like to get on with it."

"Nothing has prevented you from doing so," I said mildly. "Take this to Professor Emerson, Rene,
will you please?"

"I don't want any damned tea," said Emerson, taking the cup. "I thought you were all burning to know where we are going to excavate."

"You told us," Cyrus said, while Emerson sipped his tea. "The stelae— "

"No, no, they won't occupy us for the entire season," Emerson interrupted. "You American dilettantes
are always after royal tombs. What do you say to the tomb of Nefertiti?"

CHAPTER 9



"Martyrdom is often the result of excessive gullibility."

Emerson enjoys making dramatic announcements. I fear the results of this one disappointed him. Instead of expressions of rapturous enthusiasm or scornful disbelief (he is quite happy with either), he got only a skeptical grunt from Cyrus The two young men were afraid to commit themselves by speaking at all, and I raised my eyebrows and remarked, "She was buried in the royal tomb, with her husband and child."

Emerson had finished his tea. He held out his cup to be refilled and girded himself for the kind of battle
he much enjoys and in which (I must confess) he generally triumphs.

"Fragments of his sarcophagus have been found, none that might have been hers. If Nefertiti died before her husband—"

"No one knows when she died," I said. "If she survived into the reign of Tutankhamon, she may have gone with him to Thebes and been buried— "

"Yes, yes," Emerson said impatiently. "All that is idle speculation. But it was you who informed me that in recent years objects bearing her name have appeared on the antiquities market, and that there are rumors of fellahin carrying a golden coffin across the high desert behind the royal valley."

(It was Charlie who had informed him, actually, hoping to distract him from the evening inquisition by relating archaeological gossip. The distraction had not succeeded.)

"There are rumors like that about every site in Egypt," said Cyrus— but though his tone dismissed the story, the light in his eyes indicated his rising interest. To a man of Cyrus's romantic temperament there could be no more thrilling discovery than the last resting place of the heretic pharaoh's exquisite queen.

"Certainly," said Emerson. "And I put no great faith in the golden coffin. Such a unique object could
not have been marketed without leaving signs of its passage through the dirty world of dealers and collectors. Note, however, the significant word 'gold.' Any artifact made of or covered with gold could start the gossip mills grinding and lead to the usual exaggeration that distinguishes their operation. The appearance of inscribed objects on the antiquities market is even more significant. That, if you recall,
was how Maspero got onto the cache of royal mummies in 1883. The Gurnawis who had found the hiding place began marketing objects from it, the names on those objects indicated they must have
come from a tomb unknown to archaeologists."

"Yes, but— " I began.

"But me no buts, MISS Peabody. There are other tombs in the royal wadi. I have known of some of them for years, and I feel certain there are others. The royal tomb itself has not been properly explored, are there passages and chambers as yet undiscovered? Certain of the existing ones seem strangely incomplete. Curse it, Akhenaton had thirteen years after his arrival at Amarna in which to prepare a
tomb. It would have been one of his first acts. The boundary stelae mention his intention of doing so— "

"Those same inscriptions suggest that the queen shared his tomb," I interrupted." There shall be made
for me a tomb in the eastern mountain; my burial shall be therein . . . and the burial of the Great Royal Wife Nefertiti shall be therein— '"

"Ah, but does 'in it' refer to the tomb itself or to the eastern mountain?" Emerson leaned forward, his
eyes glittering with the joy of argument— or, I should say, learned debate. "He goes on to say, 'If she (Nefertiti, that is) shall die in any town north, south, west or east, she shall be brought and buried in Akhetaton.' He does not say 'in my tomb in Akhetaton— '"

"There was no need for him to say it, given the context. He meant— "

"Will you two stop that?" Cyrus demanded. His goatee quivered with the muscular contractions of his jaws and chin. "The man's been dead for over three thousand years, and anyhow, his original intentions don't mean a curse. What I want to know is, where are those other tombs you were talking about, and why the— er— dickens haven't you excavated them?"

"You know my methods, Vandergelt," said Emerson. "Or at least you claim to. I never excavate unless
I can finish the job without delay. Opening a site or a tomb invites the attentions of thieves, or of other archaeologists, who are almost as destructive. I have knowledge of or strong suspicions about at least
six other sites . . ."

He let the words trail off. Then he said deliberately, "We will excuse you, Charles and Rene. No doubt you want to freshen up before dinner."

Two men cannot constitute a stampede, but they tried.

Emerson had reached for his pipe and was spilling tobacco all over his papers. As soon as the door  closed he said, "I trust you have no objection to my dismissing your employees, Vandergelt?"

"It wouldn't do a whoop of good if I did object," said Cyrus. "But I think I see where you're heading,
and the less those two innocents know about the other business, the better. Are you suggesting Vincey was trying to pick your brain about those unknown tombs?"

"Nonsense," I exclaimed. "We know exactly what Vincey wants, and it has nothing to do with— "

"May I remind you," said Emerson, in the growling purr that usually heralded a particularly devastating remark, "that it was I the gentleman questioned, not you."

"You need not remind me, since I was the first to observe the results of his questioning," I snapped.
"But may I remind you that you have not seen fit to confide the details to me or to Cyrus. What the
devil did he ask you?"

"My state of mind was a trifle confused," said Emerson, with one of those infuriating volte-faces men employ to avoid a direct answer. "The details elude me."

"Oh, really!" I exclaimed. "Now see here, Emerson— "

"Don't waste your time, my dear," said Cyrus, as Emerson grinned at me in a particularly trying fashion. "Can we get back to the question of the tombs in the royal wadi? I take it that is your real goal this season. So what's the point of messing around with that brickwork in the hollow?"

Emerson opened his eyes very wide. "Why, I intend to do both, of course. And copy the boundary
stelae. We'll start in the hollow, as I said." He rose, stretching like a great cat. "I must change for dinner.
I trust, MISS Peabody, that you intend to do the same, that garment seems more suitable to the boudoir than the dinner table. The proprieties must be observed, you know."

After he had gone, Cyrus and I stared silently at one another. His craggy face was soft with the sympathy he dared not express aloud, and since I felt no desire for sympathy I did not invite him to express it.

"Curse the man," I said pleasantly. "You know what he is up to, I suppose."

"Oh, yes. Emerson's mind is an open book to me. His memory may be flawed, but his essential
character is unaltered."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"As is my habit whenever possible, I am going to follow the advice set forth in Scripture. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof is, in my opinion, one of the wisest statements in that wonderful Book. I will deal with Emerson's lunatic scheme when he tries to put it into effect. Who knows what may transpire before that time? And now, if you will excuse me— "

"Are you going to change?" Cyrus asked.

I smiled. "Certainly not."