“Good Gad.” Emerson jumped up.

“And Mr. Woolley—”

“Stop! I don’t want to hear any more. The whole damned city of Cairo will be converging on my tomb.”

I had been certain that he would interrupt me before I finished the list. Catching Ramses’s eye, I smiled and winked.

“Shall we go, then?” I suggested.

The sun was rising over the hills of the Eastern Desert when we mounted our horses. As usual, Emerson suggested we take the motorcar. As usual, I overruled him. Those early-morning rides were such a pleasant way to begin the day, with the fresh breeze caressing one’s face and the sunlight spreading gently across the fields. My intelligent steed, one of Risha’s offspring, knew the way as well as I, so I let the reins lie loose and fixed my eyes on the view—which I certainly could not have done had I been sitting beside Emerson in the car.

Early as we were, we had only just arrived at the tomb when our first visitor appeared. Visitors, I should say, for Quibell had brought his wife Annie along. She was a talented artist who had worked for Petrie at Sakkara . It was then she had met her future husband, and I well remembered the day when poor James had come staggering into our camp at Mazghuna requesting medicine for himself and “the young ladies.” Mr. Petrie’s people were always suffering from stomach trouble, owing to his peculiar dietary habits; the half-spoiled food he expected them to eat never bothered him in the slightest.

Emerson greeted his colleague with a grumble. James, who was quite accustomed to him, replied with a smile and hearty congratulations. Selim and Daoud lowered him into the shaft while Emerson hovered over it like a gargoyle.

“Khafre, do you think?” James called up. “I don’t see an inscription.”

“There may be one on the base,” Emerson replied. “As you see, we have not yet uncovered it. If you will get out of there, Quibell, we can proceed.”

Annie declined to emulate her husband’s example; her sensible short skirt and stout boots were suitable for hiking in the desert but not for being lowered into shafts. So we took her to the little rest place I had set up, arranging camp stools and tables and a few packing cases, in the cleared area in front of the tomb, and left the men to get on with it. She was impressed by the quality of the reliefs, and declared that the false door would make a splendid watercolor.

“Unfortunately we have no one who could do it,” Ramses said.

“Yes; you must miss David. What a pity…” She did not finish the sentence.

“Tragedy, rather,” I said. “Part of the greater tragedy that has overtaken the world. Ah, well, we must all do what we can, eh? But I believe I hear a party of confounded tourists approaching. If you will excuse me, Annie, I am on guard duty today and must not shirk my task.”

By mid-morning, when we stopped for tea, I had driven away a good two dozen people, none of whom were known to me. Annie and James had left, after discussing the disposition of the statue with Emerson. James’s suggestion, that it be taken directly to the Museum, had been rejected by Emerson with the scorn it deserved. “You will claim it in the end, no doubt, but until we make the final division of finds, it will be safer in my custody. The security measures at the Museum are perfectly wretched.”

Soon after we returned to work, other visitors came, whom it was impossible to drive away. Clarence Fisher, who was about to begin work in the West Cemetery field, dropped by to have a look; the High Commissioner, Sir Henry MacMahon, arrived, escorting some titled visitors who were aching to “see something dug up.” They soon became bored with the slow, tedious process, but they were replaced by Woolley and Lawrence and several officers with archaeological leanings. Emerson sent Ramses up to entertain them (i.e., keep them out of his way) while he went on with the job. As courtesy demanded, I offered refreshment, which they were pleased to accept.

Bedrock was several meters below the unexcavated portion of the cemetery, so my little rest area was walled by sand on two sides. All of us (except Emerson) retired thither, and I poured tea.

“I trust our discovery has not lured you away from your duties,” I remarked. “We are counting on you gentlemen to save us and the Canal from the Turks, you know.”

My friendly touch of sarcasm was not lost on Woolley, who laughed good-naturedly. “Fortunately, Mrs. Emerson, your safety is not solely dependent on the likes of us. All we do is sit poring over maps. It is good to get away from the office for a while. I miss being in the field.”

Lawrence was discussing Arabic dialects with Ramses, who—for a wonder—let him do most of the talking. One had to admire the young man’s zeal, if not his appearance; he was not wearing a belt, and his uniform looked as if he had slept in it. I thought Ramses looked bored.

It was Nefret who first saw the newcomers. She nudged Ramses. “Brace yourself,” she said.

“What for?” He looked in the direction she indicated, and jumped up in time to catch hold of the bundle of flying hair and skirts that came tumbling down the slope of sand beside him. Miss Molly brushed herself off and grinned broadly.

“Hullo!”

“Good morning,” said Ramses. “Where is Miss Nordstrom?”

“Sick,” said the young person with, I could not help suspect, some satisfaction. “At her stomach.”

“Surely you did not come alone,” I exclaimed.

“No, I came with them.” She gestured. Peering down at us was a pair of faces, one surmounted by a solar topee, the other by a large hat and veil. “Their names are Mr. and Miss Poynter. I heard them tell Nordie they were coming out to see the statue, so I said we would come with them, but then Nordie got sick—at her stomach—so I came without her.”

Trying not to grind my teeth, I indicated an easier descent to the Poynters and greeted them more politely than I would have done had they not accompanied the young person. When Miss Poynter removed her veil, displaying a countenance that consisted mostly of chin and teeth, she looked so pleased with herself I realized she must have made use of the child to gain an introduction. We had achieved a certain notoriety in Cairo and were known not to welcome strangers.

They settled down with every intention of remaining indefinitely and Miss Poynter began telling me all about her family connections and the swath she was cutting in Cairo society. Bored to distraction, I heard Miss Molly demanding that Ramses take her to see the statue, and his somewhat curt reply.

“As you see, we have other guests. You will have to wait.”

How she got away unobserved I do not know; but several minutes later I tore my fascinated gaze away from Miss Poynter’s teeth in order to acknowledge Woolley’s farewells. “We’ve played truants long enough,” he explained. “Thank you, Mrs. Emerson, for—”

“Where is she?” I exclaimed, rising. “Where has she gone?”

All of us except the Poynters immediately scattered in search of the girl. Knowing the reckless habits of young persons of a certain age, I was filled with apprehension; there were pitfalls and tomb shafts all over the area. We had been looking for several minutes before a shrill hail attracted our attention toward a dump area west of the street of tombs. Ours was not the only expedition to pile sand and rubble there; the mound was almost twenty feet high. Atop it a small figure waved triumphantly.

“She’s up there,” Lawrence said, shielding his eyes. He chuckled. “Spoiled little devil.”

Nefret looked anxious. “She could hurt herself. Someone had better go after her.”

“She’s quite capable of getting down by herself,” said Ramses, folding his arms.

Nefret had removed her coat earlier. Slim as a boy in trousers and flannel shirt, she began to mount the slope. She reached the top without mishap and held out her hand to the child. Miss Molly danced blithely away from her. A shrill laugh floated down to us.