"Yes, I see." The news that had driven Vincey to violence must have been the failure of his people in England to kidnap Ramses and Nefret. Ramses's letter had reached me at about that time. "How did you get away from him?" I asked.

"He slept heavily that night," she said. "And the garments he had brought were the very disguise I would have chosen. Veiled and in black I looked like any woman of Luxor. He thought I would never have the will or the courage to leave him, but fear, when it reaches a certain point, can inspire courage. I knew that night what I had been unwilling to admit before: that one day he would kill me, out of rage or suspicion of betrayal."

She had spoken with a pa.s.sion and seeming candor that could not fail to move a sympathetic hearer.

The story made sense, too, as far as it went. I waited for a moment to allow her to calm herself, for her voice had grown hoa.r.s.e and tremulous with remembered terror.

"You do not appear to be in a position to betray very much," I said. "You don't know where he intended to go, or what he intended to do. You cannot describe any of his friends or a.s.sociates?"

"Only the men he hired in Luxor. They could not betray him either, they never knew his real name, only the one he used when he rented the villa."

"Schlange," I murmured. "I wonder why . . Well. Is that all you can tell me, then?"

She nodded vehemently. "Do you believe me? You will not abandon me, unprotected and alone?"

"You don't mean to insult me, I suppose," I said calmly. "But if you imagine I would betray even an enemy to death or torture, you cannot be familiar with the moral code that guides a Briton. The beautiful tenets of the Christian faith require that we forgive our enemies. To that creed we all adhere ... At least,"

I amended, remembering Emerson's unorthodox views on the subject of organized religion, "most of us do."

"You are right," she murmured, bowing her head submissively. "He would not abandon me."

I knew to whom she referred. "None of us would," I said somewhat sharply. "But we face a difficulty. Tomorrow we begin our excavations and for long hours, perhaps for days at a time, we will be away from the dahabeeyah. Are you afraid to stay here alone, with only the crew?"

She indicated, with considerable vehemence, that she was. "He is here, I know it! I have seen shadows moving in the night . . ."

"In your head, you mean. Our guards have seen nothing out of the way. Well, I suppose you will have to come with us. Though heaven knows what I am going to do with you."

In fact, when we left the boat the following morning she blended in quite well with the interested villagers who gathered around our little group. There were women among them, I would not have been able to distinguish her from the other black-robed figures had she not stayed close to me. I had expected she would dog Emerson's heels, but she did not, perhaps because she would have had to contend with the cat for that position.

Our entourage followed us as we pa.s.sed through the village. Some of them hoped to be employed on the dig, others were drawn by idle curiosity. The people of Haggi Qandil had become more accustomed to visitors since the days when we had first worked there, for many of the tourist steamers stopped on their way upriver, but life in these small settlements is extremely dull, any new face, especially that of a foreigner, attracts a crowd. How these people had changed since our first visit! Fair dealing and kindly treatment had converted a once sullen population into ardent supporters, smiles and waves and Arabic greetings- and the conventional demands for baksheesh- followed us along the way. Even the lean, abused dogs slunk along behind at a safe distance,- they had learned that visitors sometimes threw sc.r.a.ps of food to them. I always made a habit of doing so.

A number of men and children continued to follow as we left the village and headed for the cliffs. Emerson led the way as usual. The morning was pleasantly cool and he was still wearing his tweed jacket. I observed with a start of surprise that he had taken the cat up on his shoulder. Ramses had trained the cat Bastet to do the same, but owing to the meager dimensions of that portion of Ramses's anatomy Bastet had to drape herself around his neck. Emerson's frame suffered no such disadvantage,- Anubis sat bolt upright, leaning slightly forward like the figurehead on a ship. I must say they presented an extremely odd appearance, and I wondered how Emerson had won the animal's confidence to such an extent.

Emerson glanced back at the ragtag, cheerful straggle of people and called to Abdullah, "We shan't want diggers and basket children till tomorrow or the next day. Tell them to go back,- we will let them know when we intend to begin hiring."

"I am hiring today," said Cyrus, strolling along with his hands in his pockets.

Emerson slowed his steps and allowed Cyrus to catch him up. They made an amusing contrast, Cyrus in his immaculate white linen suit and solar topi, his lean cheeks closely shaved and his goatee as precisely barbered as the artificial beards worn by Egyptian pharaohs, Emerson in creased coat and trousers, his shirt open at the neck, his boots scuffed and dusty, his uncovered black head shining in the sunlight. The cat was much better groomed

"May I inquire whom you are hiring, and for what purpose?" Emerson inquired politely.

"Allow me to surprise you," Cyrus replied with equal politeness.

As soon as we arrived at the site, Cyrus took his recruits aside and began lecturing them in ungrammatical but effective Arabic. It was not long before the results became apparent. Construction is quick and easy in Egypt, where the most common building material is mud, formed into sun-dried bricks or used as mortar over a foundation of reeds. The architectural techniques are equally simple, and have been employed since time immemorial. It does not require complex equipment to design a square flat-roofed house with a door and a few ventilation slits high up under the eaves. Wide windows are not an advantage in that climate, they admit heat rather than air, and allow the entrance of creatures with whom one would not care to share living quarters.

Emerson ostentatiously ignored the furious activity going on a short distance away, busying himself with a preliminary survey and plan of the area, nor did he refer to it immediately when we stopped for a spot of lunch. Accepting a plate from Bertha, who had appointed herself cook's helper, he spoke to her for the first time that day.

"Sit down and eat. Who told you to wait on us?"

"It was her own idea," I said, knowing full well whom he suspected of having given the order. "And I agree with her, that under the present circ.u.mstances anonymity is to be preferred to the equality of station I would otherwise insist upon."

"Hmph," said Emerson. Taking this for what it was-a tacit admission of the wisdom of my decision- Bertha quietly withdrew.

Cyrus watched her retreating form with narrowed eyes. I had pa.s.sed on to him the information, such as it was, Bertha had given me the night before. Now he said, "I still don't trust the darned woman. I want her watched day and night. I want her inside four walls where n.o.body can get at her without making a racket."

"Ah, it is a prison you are building," Emerson said, gesturing toward the rising walls.

"Cut it out, Emerson, I'm getting tired of your sarcasm. These darned tents aren't my idea of a proper headquarters, canvas walls won't keep out scorpions or sand fleas, much less thieves. If you won't spend the nights on the dahabeeyah- "

"Wherever did you get that idea?" Emerson asked.

"From you, you stubborn, bullheaded- "

"Language, Vandergelt! There are ladies present. You must have misunderstood me." He rose. "But go ahead and build your expedition house if you like. The rest of us have work to do. Charles- Rene- Abdullah- "

So we spent the next three nights on the dahabeeyah. Emerson's experienced eye had been right again, the bricks in the hollow were the foundations of houses- one house, at least- for by the end of the third day the men had uncovered most of it and found part of a thick enclosure wall that must have surrounded the entire area.

Evening social activities were negligible, the two young men were so exhausted they kept slumping forward onto the table during dinner, and sought their beds immediately thereafter. Cyrus avoided me, explaining ingenuously that Emerson had him in such a temper he could not speak civilly even to me. Emerson locked himself in his room and Bertha was locked into hers. I was, of course, perfectly fit and ready for any interesting activity that presented itself, so for me the evenings were extremely tedious- not even an attempted burglary or armed attack to break the monotony.

I was therefore delighted when Cyrus joined me in the saloon on the third evening, looking very elegant in the evening kit he always wore in my honor, and with an expression that suggested his mood had improved. "The mail-boy has just arrived from Derut," he announced, his srnile antic.i.p.ating the pleasure he hoped to bestow upon me.

The thick packet he handed me did indeed bear the Chalfont crest. I hastened to open it, but I suspected my pleasure might not be entirely unalloyed.

There had been a frantic flurry of telegrams before we departed from Luxor. Unhappily, my message announcing Emerson's rescue did not arrive in England until after our dear ones had learned of his disappearance, and the first telegram I received from them was so agitated as to be virtually unintelligible. A second message announced the arrival of mine, expressed relief, and demanded further details. These I supplied as best I could, given the limitations of the medium and the necessity for reticence. I knew perfectly well that the telegraph operators in Luxor were susceptible to bribery, and that the jackals of the press were well aware of this deplorable habit- which is, however, only to be expected in a country whose inhabitants do not possess the advantages of British moral training, or a living wage.

I had promised to write, and had, of course, done so. However, I doubted my letter could have arrived by this time, certainly it had not arrived in time to elicit a response from Ramses. He must have written this even before the dreadful news of his father's disappearance became known to him.

In this last a.s.sumption I was mistaken, as the date heading the letter proved. I looked up at Cyrus, who was still on his feet, unwilling to seat himself until I had invited him to do so, but fairly quivering with the curiosity he was too courteous to express.

"Stay, dear friend," I said. "I have no secrets from you. But first tell me how this missive reached me so quickly. It is dated only eight days ago, and the mail boat takes eleven to reach Port Sa'id. Have you a genie in your employ, or have you hired an inventor to perfect one of those flying machines I have read about? For I know it must be to your good offices, in some manner or other, that I owe this- er- treat."

Cyrus looked embarra.s.sed, as he always did when I praised him. "It must have come overland to Ma.r.s.eilles or Naples, the express takes one or two days, and a fast boat can reach Alexandria in another three. I asked a friend in Cairo to collect your mail the instant it arrived and send it off by the next train."

"And the mail-boy who travels to and from Derut is one of your servants? Dear Cyrus!"

"I'm as curious as you are," Cyrus said, blushing. "Even more so, I reckon, aren't you anxious to read it?"

"I am torn between antic.i.p.ation and apprehension," I admitted. "Where Ramses's activities are concerned, the latter emotion tends to predominate, and this appears to be a long . . . Ah, but not so long as I had thought, Ramses has enclosed a batch of clippings from the London newspapers. Confound them!

'Famed Egyptologist Missing, Feared Dead . . .' The Archaeological Community Mourns the Loss of Its Most Notorious . . .' Notorious! I am surprised at the Times Times, the Mirror, Mirror, perhaps, or ... Oh, curse it! The Mirror describes me as hysterical with grief, under a doctor's care; the World has a sketch of the 'murder scene' complete with a huge pool of blood, the perhaps, or ... Oh, curse it! The Mirror describes me as hysterical with grief, under a doctor's care; the World has a sketch of the 'murder scene' complete with a huge pool of blood, the Daily Yell Daily Yell . . ." The papers drifted from my palsied hand. In a hollow voice I said, "The account in the . . ." The papers drifted from my palsied hand. In a hollow voice I said, "The account in the Daily Yell Daily Yell was written by Kevin O'Connell. I cannot read was written by Kevin O'Connell. I cannot read it, Cyrus, indeed I cannot, Kevin's journalistic style has often inspired me to homicidal fury. I shudder to think what he has written this time."

"Don't read it, then," said Cyrus, bending to collect the scattered papers. "Let's hear what your son has to say."

"His literary style is not much of an improvement on Kevin's," I said gloomily.

In fact, the only part of the letter that calmed my nerves was the salutation.

"Dearest Mama and Papa: My hand trembles with mingled joy and dread as I inscribe that last word for the s.p.a.ce of a few endless hours I feared I might never again be privileged to employ it in direct address. Endless, I say, and so they seemed, though in fact less than twelve of them elapsed before Mama's telegram brought renewed hope to hearts sunk deep in the depths of woe. Uncle Walter bore the news with manly fort.i.tude, though he aged a year for every hour that pa.s.sed. Aunt Evelyn wept unceasingly. Jerry and Bob had to be restored by copious applications of beer, Rose by copious applications of cold water and smelling salts. I cannot speak of Nefret's pallid, silent, suffering grief, and words fail me when I attempt to describe my own. Only Gargery remained steadfast. 'I don't believe it,' he declared stoutly. 'It ain't true.' (I quote Gargery literally, dear parents, excessive emotion always has an adverse effect upon his grammar.) 'They couldn't kill the professor, not even if they run over him with a locomotive, which are scarce in Egypt anyhow, I am told. And if they did, madam wouldn't be under no doctor's care, she'd be rampaging up and down the country breaking heads and shooting people. It ain't true. You can't believe nothing you read in those newspapers.

My reading of this remarkable literary effort was interrupted by a series of strangled sounds from Cyrus. Taking out his handkerchief, he applied it to his streaming eyes and gasped, "I beg your pardon, my dear, I couldn't help it. He is- he really is- does he talk that way too?"