“Holding steady,” she said coolly.

“I have sent for Daoud and Kadija,” Fatima whispered. “I hope I did right.”

“Exactly right. She has a healer’s hands, and Daoud is always a tower of strength. Don’t forget, Fatima , if the Professor rings instead of coming, read him that note.”

“Yes.” She smiled a little. “It was good that I learned to read, Nur Misur.”

Nefret hugged her. “Take care of him. Come, Aunt Amelia.”

The horses were ready—Nefret’s Moonlight, and another of the Arabs. As Nefret swung herself into the saddle I said urgently, “Shan’t we take some of the men? Daoud will be here soon, and Ali is—”

“No.” She had taken the reins in her hands and was so anxious to be off she was quivering like a hound at the traces; but she spared enough time to explain. “He’s not dead—not yet—I would know—but if the place were to be attacked openly, they would kill him at once. We must get into the house without being discovered, and find him before help arrives—if it does.”

“And if it does not,” I said, “we will do the job ourselves!”

I had heard of the place but I could never have found it without a guide, nor indeed would I have had any reason to seek it out, since it was without archaeological or artistic interest. How Nefret knew its location I had not had time to inquire. That she knew was all that mattered. Once we had passed the crossroads at Mit Ukbeh there were few people on the road and she let Moonlight out. Never once did she stop or slow her pace, even when she turned off the road onto a scarcely discernible track. Before long the cultivation was behind us and the track grew steeper. The waxing moon was high in the sky; its light and that of the stars must have been enough to show her where to go, for there were few landmarks—a huddle of tumbledown houses, a grove of trees. When she pulled Moonlight to a walk, I saw ahead a dark mass that might have been almost anything, so shapeless were its outlines. We drew nearer, and I began to make out details—fallen stones, a clump of low trees—and a light! The regularity of the shape indicated that it issued from a window somewhere beyond the trees.

Nefret stopped and dismounted and gestured me to do the same. When I would have spoken, she put her hand over my mouth. Then, from her lips, issued the soft but penetrating whistle Ramses used to summon Risha.

It was not long before the stallion’s familiar shape emerged from the night. He came toward us, stepping lightly and silently, and Nefret caught hold of his bridle and whispered in his ear.

If the noble beast could only speak! His presence proved that Ramses was here, somewhere in that ruinous blackness.

There was no need for us to confer; the lighted window was our guide and our destination. We left the horses and crept forward. Once, after stubbing my toe on an unseen rock, I tugged at Nefret’s sleeve and held out my torch. She shook her head and took my hand.

The window was on the ground floor of a small structure well inside the outer walls. It might once have been a pavilion or kiosk. Crouching, picking our way with painful slowness, we approached; then, cautiously, we raised our heads just enough to look inside.

It was a strange place to find in an abandoned palace of the eighteenth century—a poor imitation of a gentleman’s study, with leather chairs and Persian rugs and a few sticks of furniture. In the center of the floor was a large copper brazier or shallow tray; it must have served the former function quite recently, for it was filled with ashes and bits of scorched paper, and the stench of their burning was still strong. Of more immediate interest was the fact that the room was occupied.

Two of the men were unknown to me. One of them was tall and heavily built, gray-bearded and fair-skinned as a European under his tan. The other wore traditional Senussi garb. The third man…

The hair of bright auburn, artistically dulled by gray, was a wig, and his face was turned away, but I would have known that straight, lithe form anywhere. I felt a pang—yes, I confess it. Though he had all but openly confessed his treachery, I had cherished a forlorn hope that I might have misunderstood. There could no longer be the slightest doubt. He was guilty, and if Ramses was a prisoner here, Sethos was one of his captors.

“That is the lot, then,” Graybeard said, in heavily accented but fluent English. “What sort of incompetent is this man? Keeping the documents was bad enough; leaving us to destroy them while he amuses himself with the prisoner is inexcusable. I am tempted to let the thrice-accursed British catch the thrice-accursed imbecile.”

There was not a sound from Nefret, not even a catch of breath. I did not need the painful pressure of her fingers to warn me I must be equally silent.

“One is certainly tempted,” the false Scot agreed. I would have ground my teeth had I dared make the slightest sound. I ought to have known that Sethos would have more than one identity; no wonder he had agreed so readily to give up that of the Count! In his other role he had taken even greater pains to avoid me.

Hamilton , as I knew he must be, continued in the same lazy drawl. “We can’t risk letting him fall into the hands of the police. He knows too much about us, and they won’t have to beat him to get the information out of him; he’ll squeal like a pig.”

The Senussi’s lips curled. “He is a coward and a fool. So we take him with us?”

“By force, if necessary,” Sethos said. “And you had better go at once. Leave the back entrance unlocked for me. I’ll have a final look round to make certain he hasn’t left anything else incriminating.”

“What about the prisoner?” Graybeard asked.

“I’ll take care of him on my way out—if there’s anything left of him.”

The gray-bearded man nodded. “Rather you than me.”

“Squeamish?” Sethos inquired softly.

“This is war. I kill when I must. But he is a brave man, and he deserves a quick death.”

“He will get it.” Sethos opened his elegantly tailored coat, and I saw the knife strapped to his belt.

There was no exchange of farewells or instructions. Graybeard and the Senussi simply walked out of the room, leaving Sethos standing by the smoking brazier. After listening for a moment, his head cocked, Sethos turned, knelt, and began sorting through the half-burned scraps, tossing them carelessly onto the floor after examining each. Whatever it was he was looking for, he did not find it; a soft but heartfelt “Damn!” was heard, and then he rose to his feet.

Nefret was trembling, but she remained motionless, and her well-nigh superhuman restraint helped me to control my own fury and anxiety. We could not take the slightest chance, not now. I had my pistol and she her knife, but Sethos had other weapons of strength and skill that could overcome us both. We must wait until he left the room and then follow him and catch him off-guard before he could carry out his grisly promise.

Sethos drew back his foot and gave the brazier a hard kick that scattered ashes across the rug. He was in a temper! So much the worse for us, or for anyone else who got in his way. He took one of the lamps from the table and strode out of the room, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

Nefret pulled herself up and over the sill, as quickly and neatly as a lad might have done, and then reached down a hand to assist me. Through the open door I saw what appeared to be a narrow hallway, with another door opposite. I indicated this to Nefret, raising my eyebrows inquiringly. Her lips tightened, and she shook her head.

“This way,” she whispered, and led me along the hallway to a flight of narrow stone stairs. The light from the open door of the room we had left and the light of the lantern below enabled us to descend them quickly and noiselessly. There was no sign of Sethos when we reached the bottom of the stairs. He must have entered the room from whose open door the lantern glow came.