“Oh.” Emerson released his grip. “Sorry. Show me.”

As I have explained, the tombs of this period consist of one or more rooms aboveground that served the funerary cult of the deceased. The mummy and its grave goods lay at the bottom of a deep shaft cut down through the superstructure into the underlying rock. Lacking museums and tourists desirous of purchasing works of art, the ancient thieves stole only what they could use themselves or sell to their unsophisticated contemporaries—linen, oil, jewelry, and the like. Therefore (as the Reader has no doubt deduced) they went straight for the burial chamber. Of all the tomb shafts thus far excavated, only one unplundered burial had been found.

Could this be such another? Let him who will deny it, but that hope is foremost in the minds of all archaeologists. Amelia P. Emerson is not such a hypocrite. I wanted—primarily of course for my dear Emerson—an untouched burial, with its grave goods intact—collars of gold and faience, bracelets and amulets, an inscribed coffin, vessels of copper and stone—a burial even finer than the one Mr. Reisner had discovered two years earlier. There was cause for optimism. The knowledgeable tomb robbers of Giza had considered the shaft worth investigating.

It had been completely filled with sand. Emerson had intended to leave it till the last, since, as I have explained, there is seldom anything down there. The opening had been located, however, and it was there we went.

Someone had certainly been doing something. Where there had been only a dimple in the ground now gaped a hole some three feet deep. Stone lined it on all four sides and sand was scattered around the opening, the unmistakable signs of a hasty excavation.

Hands on hips, brows lowering, Emerson stared down into the hole and remarked forcibly, “Curse it!”

“Why do you say that, Emerson?” I inquired. “Surely this is a hopeful sign. The tomb robbers of Giza —”

“May already have found what they were looking for,” Emerson said.

“So near the surface?” Ramses asked. He put out a hand to steady Nefret, who was teetering on the edge of the opening.

Emerson brightened. “Well, perhaps not. They may have been frightened away by a guard. I made it easy for the bastards, though, erecting that roof to hide them from passersby. Now I suppose we must clear the damned thing out before they have another go at it.”

“One of us will stay here at night,” Selim said.

“Hmph.” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “Good of you to offer, Selim, but I don’t think that will be necessary. I will just have a few words with the head gaffir.”

“Including the words ‘tear out your liver’? ” Nefret inquired. Her blue eyes sparkled and a rosy flush warmed her tanned cheeks. Ah yes, I thought fondly; archaeological fever runs strong in all of us. Perhaps this development would keep the child out of mischief for a while.

Emerson gave her an affectionate smile. “I may just mention something of the sort. I want you and Ramses back in the tomb, Nefret; the sooner you finish photographing and copying the reliefs, the happier I will be. Selim can get the men started emptying the shaft. Stop them instantly if they come across any object whatever, and make certain…”

He went on for some time giving Selim unnecessary instructions; the young man had been trained by his father, the finest reis Egypt had ever known, and by Emerson himself. Selim’s beard kept twitching, but I could not tell whether the movements of his lips were caused by repressed amusement or repressed impatience. He knew better than to interrupt, but when Emerson paused for breath, he said, “Yes, Father of Curses, it shall be done as you say.”

I could have wished that morning that there were three of me: the archaeologist wanted to hover over Selim and his men, watching for artifacts; the detective (for I believe I have some modest claim to that title) would have preferred to keep a keen eye out for suspicious visitors; the mother yearned to watch over her impulsive offspring and prevent him from doing something foolish. It was as well the last identity won out. As I scrambled down the slope of sand toward the tomb entrance I heard voices raised in heated discussion. The voices were those of Ramses and Nefret, and they were arguing with all their old vivacity.

“Now what is going on?” I demanded, entering the chamber.

They were standing side by side before the wall. Nefret swung round and brandished the sheet of copying paper she held. The room was shadowed, but I could see the bright spots of temper on her cheeks.

“I told him there is absolutely no need to go over my emendations!”

“They are all wrong.” Ramses sounded like a sulky child.

“No, they aren’t. Aunt Amelia, just look here—”

“Mother, tell her—”

“Goodness gracious,” I said. “I would have thought you two had got over that childish habit of bickering. Give me the copy, Nefret, and I will check it myself, while you get on with the photography.”

Daoud, who had been standing by with one of the mirrors we used to light the interior, moved into position. Directed by his skilled hands, the patch of reflected sunlight centered and steadied on a section of the wall. The elaborately carved and painted shape was that of a door, through which the soul of the deceased could emerge to partake of offerings. The lintels and architrave bore the prince’s name and titles, and a cylindrical shape over the false opening represented a rolled matting, which in a real door would have been lowered and raised as required. Archaeological fever momentarily overcame my other concerns; I sucked in my breath appreciatively.

“It is one of the finest false doors I have ever seen, and there is a surprising amount of paint remaining. A pity we cannot preserve it.”

“What about the new preservative you’ve been working on?” Nefret inquired of her brother. “If its effectiveness is in proportion to its pervasive smell, it should work well. Every time I passed your door I held my breath.”

Ramses’s rigid features relaxed into a more affable expression. “Sorry about that. I have high hopes for the formula, but I don’t want to try it out on something as fine as this. The real test is how it holds up over time, without darkening or destroying the paint.”

She smiled back at him, her face softening. Pleased that I had brought about a temporary truce, I said briskly, “Back to work, eh?” and took the copy of the offering scene to the wall.

I had not been at it long, however, before I heard a shout from Emerson, who had not, after all, left the excavation of the shaft to Selim. The words were undistinguishable, but the tone was peremptory. Torn between fear—that the shaft had collapsed onto Emerson—and hope—that some object of interest had turned up—I ran out of the tomb.

Fear predominated when I failed to make out the impressive form of my husband among the men who clustered round the opening.

“What has happened?” I panted. “Where is Emerson?”

As I might have expected, he was in the shaft, which had now been emptied to a depth of almost six feet. The men made way for me, and Daoud took hold of my arm to steady me as I peered down into the opening.

“What are you doing down there, Emerson?” I demanded.

Emerson looked up. “Kindly refrain from kicking sand into my eyes, Peabody . You had better come and see for yourself. Lower her down, Daoud.”

Daoud took me firmly but respectfully by the waist and lowered me into the strong hands that were raised to receive me.

Emerson set me on my feet but continued to hold me close to him, remarking, “Don’t move, just look. There.”

I had not seen it from above, for it was not much different in color from the pale sand. “Good Gad!” I cried. “It is a sculptured head—the head of a king! Is the rest of it there?”

“The shoulders, at least.” Emerson frowned. “As for the body, we will have to wait and see. It will take a while to get the sand out from around it and a support under it. All right, Peabody , up you go.”