I glanced at my lapel watch. “She is late.”

At this innocuous remark Emerson broke off in the middle of a sentence and turned a formidable frown on me.

“She? Who? Curse it, Peabody , have you invited some fluttery female to join us? I would never have agreed to come here if I had suspected—”

“Ah, there she is.”

She was very handsome in a mature, rather Latin, style, with very red lips and very dark hair, and although she wore the black decreed for recent widows, it was extremely fashionable mourning. Chiffon and point d’esprit filled in the waist opening, and her hat was heaped with black satin bows and jet buckles.

The man whose arm she held was also a newcomer to Cairo . He looked familiar; I stared rather sharply until I realized that the narrow black mustache and the eyeglass through which he was inspecting the lady reminded me of a sinister Russian I had once known. He was not the only man with her; she was virtually surrounded by admirers civilian and military, upon whom she smiled with practiced impartiality.

“Is that her?” Emerson demanded. “I hope you didn’t invite the whole lot of them as well.”

“No.” I raised my parasol and waved. This caught the lady’s eye; with a little gesture of apology she began to detach herself from her followers. I went on, “She is a Mrs. Fortescue, the widow of a gentleman who perished heroically in France recently. I received a letter from her enclosing an introduction from mutual friends—you remember the Witherspoons, Emerson?”

From Emerson’s expression I could tell he did remember the Witherspoons and was about to express his opinion of them. He was forestalled by Ramses, who had been studying the lady with interest. “Why should she write you, Mother? Is she interested in archaeology?”

“So she claimed. I saw no harm in extending the hand of friendship to one who has suffered such a bitter loss.”

“She does not appear to be suffering at the moment,” said Nefret.

Her brother gave her a sardonic look, and I said, “Hush, here she comes.”

She had shed all her admirers but one, a fresh-faced officer who looked no more than eighteen. Introductions ensued; since the youth, a Lieutenant Pinckney, continued to hover, watching the lady with doglike devotion, I felt obliged to ask him to join us. Emerson and Ramses resumed their chairs, and Mrs. Fortescue began to apologize for her tardiness.

“Everyone is so kind,” she murmured. “It is impossible to dismiss well-wishers, you know. I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I have so looked forward to this meeting!”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, who is easily bored and who does not believe in beating around the bush. “My wife tells me you are interested in Egyptology.”

From the way her black eyes examined his clean-cut features and firm mouth, I suspected Egyptology was not her only interest. However, her reply indicated that she had at least some superficial knowledge of the subject, and Emerson at once launched into a description of the Giza mastabas.

Knowing he would monopolize the conversation as long as she tolerated it, I turned to the young subaltern, who appeared somewhat crestfallen by the lady’s desertion. My motherly questions soon cheered him up, and he was happy to tell me all about his family in Nottingham . He had arrived in Egypt only a week before, and although he would rather have been in France , he had hopes of seeing action before long.

“Not that Johnny Turk is much of a challenge,” he added with a boyish laugh and a reassuring glance at Nefret, who had been studying him fixedly, her chin in her hand. “You ladies haven’t a thing to worry about. He’ll never make it across the Canal.”

“We aren’t at all worried,” Nefret said, with a smile that made the boy blush.

“Nor should you be. There are some splendid chaps here, you know, real first-raters. I was talking to one the other night at the Club; didn’t realize it at the time, he’s not the sort who would put himself forward, but one of the other chaps told me afterward he was an expert on the Arab situation; had spent months in Palestine before the war, and actually let himself be taken prisoner by a renegade Arab and his band of ruffians so he could scout out their position. Then he broke out of the place, leaving a number of the scoundrels dead or wounded. But I expect you know the story, don’t you?”

In his enthusiasm he talked himself breathless. When he stopped, no one replied for a moment. Nefret’s eyes were downcast and she was no longer smiling. Ramses had also been listening. His expression was so bland I felt a strong chill of foreboding.

“It seems,” he drawled, “that it is known to a good many people. Would that fellow standing by the stairs be the hero of whom you speak?”

Nefret’s head turned as if on a spring. I had not seen Percy either. Obviously Ramses had. He missed very little.

“Why, yes, that’s the chap.” Young Pinckney’s ingenuous countenance brightened. “Do you know him?”

“Slightly.”

Percy was half-turned, conversing with another officer. I did not doubt he was aware of us, however. Without intending to, I put my hand on Ramses’s arm. He smiled faintly.

“It’s all right, you know, Mother.”

Feeling a little foolish, I removed my hand. “What is he doing in khaki, instead of that flamboyant Egyptian Army uniform? Red tabs, too, I see; has he been reassigned?”

“Red tabs mean the staff, don’t they?” Nefret asked.

“That’s right,” said Pinckney. “He’s on the General’s staff. It was jolly decent of him to talk to a chap like me,” he added wistfully.

With so many eyes fixed on him, it was inevitable that Percy should turn. He hesitated for a moment, and then bowed—a generalized bow, directed at all of us, including the delighted Lieutenant Pinckney—before descending the steps.

I did not think I could endure listening to any more encomiums about Percy, so I attempted to join in the conversation between Emerson and Mrs. Fortescue. However, she was not interested in conversing with me.

“I had no idea it was so late!” she exclaimed, rising. “I must rush off. May I count on seeing you—all of you—again soon? You promised, you know, that you would show me your tomb.”

She offered her hand to Emerson, who had risen with her. He blinked at her. “Did I? Ah. Delighted, of course. Arrange it with Mrs. Emerson.”

She had a pleasant word for each of us, and—I could not help noticing—a particularly warm smile for Ramses. Some women like to collect all the personable males in their vicinity. However, when Mr. Pinckney would have accompanied her, she dismissed him firmly but politely, and as she undulated toward the door of the hotel I saw she had another one waiting! He ogled her through his monocle before taking her arm in a possessive fashion and leading her into the hotel.

“Who is that fellow?” I demanded.

Pinckney scowled. “A bally Frenchman. Count something or other. Don’t know what the lady sees in him.”

“The title, perhaps,” Nefret suggested.

“D’you think so?” The boy stared at her, and then said with a worldly air, “Some ladies are like that, I suppose. Well, I mustn’t intrude any longer. Dashed kind of you to have me. Er—if I happen to be at the pyramids one day, perhaps I might… er…”

He hadn’t quite the courage to finish the question, but Nefret nodded encouragingly, and he left looking quite happy again.

“Shame on you,” I said to Nefret.

“He’s young and lonely,” she replied calmly. “Mrs. Fortescue is far too experienced for a boy like that. I will find a nice girl his own age for him.”

“What the devil was that story he was telling you about Percy?” Emerson demanded. He has no patience with gossip or young lovers.

“The same old story,” Ramses replied. “What is particularly amusing is that everyone believes Percy is too modest to speak of it, despite the fact that he published a book describing his daring escape.”