“You, of all people, ought to know better! As soon as a monument is exposed it begins to deteriorate. Remember what happened to the mastabas Lepsius found sixty years ago. Many of the reliefs he copied have now disappeared, worn away by weather or vandalized by thieves, nor are the copies as accurate as one would wish. I will not uncover the walls of this tomb until I have taken all possible means to protect them, or go on to the next mastaba until Ramses has recorded every damned scratch on every damned wall! And furthermore—”

I informed him that he had made his point.

One morning a few days after the conversation on the rooftop I had allowed the others to go on before me, since I had to speak to Fatima about various domestic matters. I had completed this little chore and was in my room, checking my pockets and my belt to make certain I had with me all the useful implements I always carry, when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said, as I continued the inventory. Pistol and knife, canteen, bottle of brandy, candle and matches in a waterproof box… “Oh, it is you, Kadija.”

“May I speak to you, Sitt Hakim?”

“Certainly. Just one moment while I make certain I have everything. Notebook and pencil, needle and thread, compass, scissors, first-aid kit…”

Her large dark face broke into a smile as she watched me. For some reason my accoutrements, as I called them, were a source of considerable amusement to my acquaintances. They were also a source of considerable aggravation to Emerson, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that on numerous occasions one or another of them had proved our salvation.

“There,” I said, hooking to my belt a coil of stout cord (useful for tying up captured enemies). “What can I do for you, Kadija?”

The members of our dear Abdullah’s extended family were friends as well as loyal workers, some of them on the dig, some at the house. Since Abdullah’s grandson had married our niece, one might say they were also related to us in some degree or other, though the precise relationships were sometimes difficult to define. Abdullah had been married at least four times and several of the other men had more than one wife; nieces, nephews, and cousins of varying degrees formed a large and closely knit clan.

Kadija, the wife of Abdullah’s nephew Daoud, was a very large woman, taciturn, modest, and strong as a man. Painstakingly and formally she inquired about each member of the family in turn, including the ones she had seen within the past hours. It took her a while to get to Ramses.

“He had a difference of opinion with someone,” I explained.

“A difference of opinion,” Kadija repeated slowly. “It looked to me, Sitt Hakim, as if more than words were exchanged. Is he in trouble of some kind? What can we do to help?”

“I don’t know, Kadija. You know how he is; he keeps his own counsel and does not confide even in his father. If David were here…” I broke off with a sigh.

“If only he were.” Kadija sighed too.

“Yes.” I realized I was about to sigh again, and stopped myself. Really, my own thoughts were gloomy enough without Kadija adding to them! I gave myself a little shake and said briskly, “There is no use wishing things were other than they are, Kadija. Cheer up!”

“Yes, Sitt Hakim.” But she was not finished. She cleared her throat. “It is Nur Misur, Sitt.”

“Nefret?” Curse it, I thought, I might have known. She and Nefret were very close; all the rest had been leading up to this. “What about her?”

“She would be angry if she knew I had told you.”

Now thoroughly alarmed—for it was not in Kadija’s nature to tell tales—I said, “And I will be angry if there is something wrong with Nefret and you do not tell me. Is she ill? Or—oh, dear!—involved with some unsuitable male person?”

I could tell by the look on her broad honest face that my last surmise was the right one. People are always surprised when I hit on the truth; it is not magic, as some of the Egyptians secretly believe, but my profound understanding of human nature.

I had to wring it out of Kadija, but I am good at doing that. When she finally mentioned a name, I was thunderstruck.

“My nephew Percy? Impossible! She despises him. How do you know?”

“I may be wrong,” Kadija muttered. “I hope, Sitt, that I am. It was a closed carriage waiting, on the other side of the road; she was going to the hospital, walking to the tram station, and when she came out of the house a man’s face appeared at the window of the carriage, and he called her name, and she crossed the road and stood talking to him. Oh, Sitt, I am ashamed—I do not spy, I only happened to go to the door—”

“I am glad you did, Kadija. You didn’t hear what they said, I suppose.”

“No. They did not talk long. Then she turned and walked away, and the carriage passed her and went on.”

“You are not certain it was Captain Peabody?”

“I could not swear an oath. But it looked like him. I had to tell you, Sitt, he is an evil man, but if she learned I had betrayed her—”

“I won’t tell her. Nor ask you to spy on her. I will take care of that myself. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone else, Kadija. You did the right thing. You can leave it to me now.”

“Yes, Sitt.” Her face cleared. “You will know what to do.”

I didn’t, though. After Kadija had taken her departure I tried to get my thoughts in order. Not for a moment did I doubt Kadija’s word, or her assessment of Percy. He had been a sly, unprincipled child and he had become a cunning, unprincipled man. He had proposed marriage to Nefret several times in the past. Perhaps he had not given up hope of winning her—her fortune, rather, since in my opinion he was incapable of honorable affection. She would have to meet him on the sly, since he would not dare come openly to the house…

Oh, no, I thought, my imagination is running away with me. It is not possible. Nefret was passionate, hot-tempered and in some ways extremely innocent; it would not be the first time she had fallen in love with the wrong man, but surely she knew Percy’s character too well to succumb to his advances. The callous abandonment of the child he had fathered was only one of his many despicable acts. Nefret knew of that. She knew Percy had done his best to encourage the false assumption that Ramses was responsible. Kadija must have been mistaken. Perhaps the man had been a tourist, asking directions.

I could not confront Nefret directly, but I knew I would never be at peace until I was certain. I would have to watch her and find out for myself.

Spy on her, you mean, my conscience corrected me. I winced at the word, but did not flinch from the duty. If spying was necessary, spy I would. The worst of it was I could not count on anyone else, not even my dear Emerson, for help. Emerson has a forthright manner of dealing with annoyances, and Percy annoyed him a great deal. Punching Percy’s face and pitching him into the Nile would not improve matters. As for Ramses… I shuddered at the thought of his finding out. Neither of them must know. It was up to me, as usual.

However, as I guided my amiable steed along the road to the pyramids, a strange foreboding came over me. It was not so strange, in fact, for I often have them. I knew what had caused this one. I had been thinking about it ever since the night we saw Wardani.

Was Sethos in Cairo , up to his old tricks? I did not—could not—believe he would turn traitor, but the situation was ideal for the kind of skulduggery at which he excelled. Excavations had been cancelled, many archaeological sites were inadequately guarded or not guarded at all, the Services des Antiquitйs was in disorder with Maspero gone and his successor still in France engaged in war work, the police occupied with civil unrest. What an opportunity for a master thief! And with Sethos’s skill in the art of disguise he could assume any identity he chose. A series of wild surmises passed through my mind: Wardani? General Maxwell?