He’d waited a little too long. The impact of the bullet spun him sideways and knocked him to the ground. He managed to roll into a convenient depression beside a wall and lay there, unable to move and expecting at any moment to see a shadowy form looking down at him and the dark glint of light on the barrel of a gun.

As the seconds passed, so did the numbness in his arm and shoulder. He drew his knife and then froze as footsteps approached his hiding place and an agitated voice called his name. He couldn’t tell which one of them it was; the voice was as high-pitched as a girl’s. Another, equally agitated voice answered. “Farouk! Come back, we must hurry.”

“There was someone in that grove of trees—with a gun! I fired back—”

“You missed, then. No one is there now.”

“But I tell you, I saw him fall. If he is dead, or wounded—”

“He would wish us to go on.” The speaker had come closer. It was Asad, sounding frightfully noble and pompous, but, thank God, sensible enough to follow orders. “Hurry, I say. Someone may have heard the shots.”

Someone almost certainly did, Ramses thought, fighting the waves of faintness that came and went. He had to stop the bleeding and get the hell out of there, but he dared not move while Farouk was nearby. Farouk might or might not be telling the truth when he claimed some unknown party had fired first; in either case, Ramses knew he couldn’t risk being in the tender care of Wardani’s followers. Under close scrutiny there were a dozen ways in which he might betray himself.

Finally the footsteps moved away. He slashed and tore at the fabric of his shirt and bound the uneven strips around his arm. The pain was rather bad by then, but he was able to pull himself to his feet.

The rest of the journey was a blank, broken by brief intervals of consciousness; he must have kept moving, though, because whenever he became aware of his surroundings he was farther along—on the railroad platform at Kurreh, slumped in a third-class carriage, and finally, facedown in an irrigation ditch. That woke him, and he crawled up the muddy bank and examined his surroundings. He had crossed the bridge—he couldn’t remember how—and was on the west bank, less than a mile from the house. Still on hands and knees, he wiped the mud from his face and tried to think. He’d meant to head for Maadi, where David was waiting for him. No hope of getting there now, he’d be lucky to make it home.

The cool water had revived him a little, and he managed to stay on his feet for the remainder of the distance. He covered the last few yards in a staggering run and leaned against the wall wondering how in God’s name he was going to get up to his room. The trellis with its climbing vine was as good as a ladder when he was in fit condition, but just now it looked as long and as steep as the Grand Gallery in the Great Pyramid.

A soft sound from above made him look up. Poised on the edge of the balcony was Seshat. She stared at him for a moment, and then jumped onto the mass of entwined stems and descended, as surefooted as if she were on level ground. He had never known a cat who could do that; they were first-rate climbers, but once they got up they didn’t seem to know how to come down. Even his beloved Bastet…

Teeth and claws sank into his bare ankle, and the pain jarred him back to full awareness. Having got his attention, Sheshat put her large head against his foot and shoved.

One foot at a time, he thought hazily. Right.

She climbed with him, muttering discontentedly and pushing at him when he stopped. Finally he hauled himself over the edge of the balcony and fell to hands and knees. Another shove from Seshat got him to his feet; he hung on to the window frame and looked into the room. It was dark and quiet, just as he’d left it; no trouble there, anyhow, thank God for small blessings. The bed looked as if it were a mile away. He couldn’t think beyond that—reaching the bed, lying down. He took three faltering steps and fell.

When he came back to his senses he saw his mother bending over him, and his father, standing by. The cat was out of the bag now, or soon would be. He didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.

:

My frame of mind was considerably improved next day. David had gone off to Zawaiet alone and Emerson took Nefret with him to Giza , so I was able to spend a little time with Ramses. When I removed the bandages I saw that someone, probably David, had smeared Kadija’s green salve all over the area. Whether it was that, or the mercury and zinc-cyanide paste I had applied, or Ramses’s own recuperative powers, the infection I had feared had not occurred. He was still fussing about Thomas Russell, however, so I told him to stop worrying, that I would deal with the matter. He appeared somewhat alarmed at the prospect.

“I won’t scold him,” I promised. “But if you were to give me a few more details…”

He really had no choice but to do so. By the time I left him I had obtained answers to most of my remaining questions, and as I proceeded along the Giza Road I pondered the information.

After hearing his account of what had happened at the rendezvous and afterwards, I understood why he had been so insistent about carrying out his normal activities. The would-be assassin might have been the Turk, or Wardani’s ambitious lieutenant, or an unknown third party; whoever he was, and whatever his motive, he was probably aware of the fact that “Wardani” had suffered an injury of some sort. Ramses had also admitted, upon interrogation, that he had reason to believe his masquerade was suspected. He refused to elaborate, claiming it was more a sense of uneasiness than a specific fact—“like one of your famous forebodings, Mother.”

I could not quarrel with that, for I knew how significant such feelings could be. There were a number of ways in which the truth about Wardani’s whereabouts might have come out. The peculiar nature of Anglo-Egyptian officialdom had become even more complicated after the formal annexation of the country. Kitchener had been replaced by Sir Henry MacMahon, with the new title of High Commissioner; General Sir John Maxwell was the Commander of the Army; the Cairo Police force was still under the command of Harvey Pasha, with Russell as his assistant and Philippides, the unsavory Levantine, as director of the political CID; the new intelligence department was headed by Gilbert Clayton, who was also the Cairo representative of the Sirdar of the Sudan; under Clayton was Mr. Newcombe and his little group of Oxbridge intellectuals, which included Leonard Woolley and Mr. Lawrence. At the beginning Ramses had dealt only with Russell, whose intelligence and integrity he trusted, as he did not trust some of the others; but it had been necessary to involve higher authorities in order to carry out the supposed deportation of David and the secret imprisonment of Wardani. In theory the only persons who knew of the impersonation were Kitchener himself, MacMahon, General Maxwell, and Thomas Russell.

I didn’t believe it. Unnamed personages in the War Office in London must have been informed; General Maxwell might have confided in certain members of his staff and in Clayton. Men believe women are hopeless gossips, but women know men are. The poor creatures are worse than women in some ways, because they cannot admit to themselves that they are gossiping, or doubt the discretion of the individuals in whom they confide. “Strictly in confidence, old boy, just between you and me…”

Yes, the word would spread, in private offices and in the clubs, and, if I may be permitted a slight vulgarity, in the boudoir. I did not doubt there were agents of the Central Powers in Cairo ; some might have penetrated the police and the intelligence departments. The longer the boys continued their perilous task, the greater the danger that the truth would reach the ears of the enemy. It might already have done so.