So I took myself off again, without having to be told, and whenever I chanced to look in—which I did from time to time—she was sitting in the chair by the bed, her hands folded, her eyes fixed on his sleeping face. Since it was obvious I was not wanted, I went to sit with David, relieving Fatima of that duty. She was not at all keen on being relieved, but when I asked her to prepare a tray for Nefret she bustled off.

David was awake. He gave me a smile and held out his hand. “Thank you for rescuing me, Aunt Amelia. Every time I opened my mouth she tried to shove a spoon into it.”

He was full of questions. I answered the most important, knowing that nothing would better assist his recovery than the knowledge that those he loved were safe and the danger over.

“So it was Nefret—and you—who saved the day,” he murmured.

I shook my head. “It might be described as a joint enterprise. If you had not made a heroic effort to reach us—if Nefret had not known where to go—if Emerson had not convinced Russell he must not delay…”

“And if Sethos had not acted when he did! I don’t understand that part, Aunt Amelia. Who—”

“Later, my dear. You must rest now.”

It was late when Emerson returned. He refused my offer of dinner with a shake of his head. “I had a bite with Maxwell. Let us see if Ramses is awake and fit for conversation. He and Nefret will want to hear the news too, and there is no sense in repeating myself.”

Ramses’s door was ajar, as I had left it. I tapped lightly before looking in. He was awake; whether he was fit for conversation was another matter. Nefret knelt by the bed. He held her hands in his, and they were looking into each other’s eyes, and I do not suppose they would have cared if the Turks had been shelling the city.

However, I felt certain they would be anxious to hear Emerson’s news. I coughed. I had to cough several times before Nefret tore her eyes from his. Until I saw her do it, I had always thought that a somewhat exaggerated figure of speech.

“A touch of catarrh, Mother?” Ramses inquired.

“Very amusing, my dear. I am glad to see you yourself again.”

“Near enough. Nefret won’t let me get up.”

“Certainly not.” I settled myself comfortably in the chair Nefret had left, since it did not appear that she intended to return to it.

“I want to see David again,” Ramses insisted.

“Perhaps in the morning. What he needs now is rest. So do you, but your father thought you might want to know what has been going on.” I added pointedly, “He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“How inconsiderate,” Ramses said. “Please sit down, sir. I presume the Canal is safe, or you would have mentioned it.”

“They got across,” Emerson said. “At Serapeum and at Toussoum. Our reserves didn’t arrive until a few hours ago, but by then a counterattack had cleared most of the enemy off the East Bank. It was the Indian infantry brigades who saved the Canal. You knew they would, didn’t you?”

“I thought they would. Well, that is good news. Have they had any luck tracking the Turk and his friend?”

Emerson shook his head. “No, they got clean away. Presumably Percy made such a nuisance of himself that they abandoned him and headed for Libya . They won’t want for help along the way. You were right about the chap in the yellow robe; it was the Sherif el Senussi himself.”

“I cleverly deduced that after the Turk called him by name,” said Ramses gravely.

“They’ve got a line on the Turk too,” Emerson said. “He fits the description of Sahin Bey, who has been missing from his usual haunts recently.”

“Good God.” Ramses’s eyes widened. At least one of them did; the other was half-closed by purpling bruises. “He’s become something of a legend in Syria . One of their top men, and high in Enver’s favor. I can’t believe he’d take a personal hand in our little affair.”

“Little?” Emerson’s brows drew together and he spoke with considerable vehemence. “The entire Turkish strategy was based on their expectation of an uprising in Cairo . Without it, they hadn’t a prayer of crossing the Canal. You and David… What are you smiling about?”

“Something Sahin Bey said to me. It doesn’t matter. So, are we in line for parades, the cheers of the populace, and the personal thanks of the sovereign? David deserves all of it.”

“Ha,” said Emerson eloquently. “However, David will be on his way to England , vindicated and pardoned, as soon as he can travel. I was sorely tempted to telegraph Lia this evening, but I didn’t want to raise her hopes until… The boy will be all right, won’t he?”

“The prospect of seeing her and being present at the birth of his son is the best medicine he could have,” I said.

No one spoke for a while. Emerson got out his pipe and made a great business of filling it. Nefret had settled down on the floor beside the bed. She was still holding Ramses’s hand. He didn’t seem to mind.

I suppose we were all reluctant to talk about the rest of it. Great issues of battle and war are remote, almost impersonal, but the other unanswered questions cut too close to the bone.

Nefret was the first to break the silence.

“Percy?”

“He died on the way to hospital,” Emerson said. “Nefret, it wasn’t you who killed him.”

“No? I meant to, you know.” A shadow of that remote, inhuman look passed over her face. Her blue eyes were clear. Guilt over Percy’s death would not come back to haunt her. She had stopped him in the only way she could, and if ever an individual deserved death, it was he.

Women are much more practical about these things than men.

“Oh,” Emerson said. “Er. Well, he’d been hit twice in the chest. A heavier-caliber bullet would have killed him outright. One of the twenty-twos must have nicked an artery. He bled to death.”

“And Sethos.” I sighed. “He redeemed himself in the end, as I had hoped he would. A hero’s death—”

“For the second time!” Emerson’s well-cut lips curled in a snarl. “It’s getting monotonous.”

“Why, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “It is not like you to play dog in the manger.”

“Yes, it is!” Emerson got a grip on himself. “ Peabody , please don’t provoke me. I want to do him justice. I am trying my damnedest to do him justice. I discovered the truth only three days ago, and it hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“But you must have known earlier that Sethos was Major Hamilton,” Ramses said. I thought I detected a certain note of criticism in his voice. Emerson looked uncomfortable.

“I didn’t know for certain, but my suspicions of Hamilton were aroused by the letter he wrote us.”

“Curse it,” I exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you recognized the handwriting. After all these years?”

Emerson grinned. “If it makes you feel happier, Peabody, and I am sure it does, that was a clue you never possessed. I was the only one who saw Sethos’s farewell letter to you.”

“Yes, you ripped it to shreds after you had read it aloud. I told you at the time you shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was an extremely annoying epistle,” said Emerson. “You were right, though. I couldn’t be certain the handwriting was the same, since it had been a long time, but when I remembered how assiduously Hamilton had avoided us, my suspicions increased. Having better sense than some members of this family, I took those suspicions to Maxwell instead of acting on them as I might once have done.

“You can only faintly imagine my astonishment when I learned that Sethos has been, for several years, one of the War Office’s most trusted secret agents. He was sent to Cairo by Kitchener himself. He knew about your little side show, Ramses, but his primary mission was to stop the leaks of information and identify the man responsible for them. It was he who exposed Mrs. Fortescue, whom he had been cultivating in his characteristically flamboyant fashion.

“Maxwell told me all this—he had to, to keep me from going after Sethos myself—but he coolly informed me that Sethos was considerably more valuable than I, and that he would have me put up against a wall and shot if I breathed a word to a living soul. I knew the truth when we stopped by the barracks on our way into the desert. Maxwell had told me Sethos would be there, and ordered me to stay away from him, but—er—well, damn it, I was curious. He’s good,” Emerson admitted grudgingly. “I’d never have recognized him. Of course I had not the intimate knowledge of the scoundrel that some persons—”