As we wandered along the winding lanes, past the tiny cubicles in which silks and slippers, copper vessels and silver ornaments were displayed, I knew that Russell had not yet made his move. The whole place would have been buzzing with gossip had the police descended on a shop anywhere in the Khan. Many of them were closing, the shutters drawn down and the lamps extinguished, for the hour was growing late and the buyers were leaving to return to hotels and barracks. My anxiety could no longer be contained, and I pushed ahead of the others, setting a straight course for Aslimi’s establishment. Had Russell been unable to make the necessary arrangements? Had he failed me? Curse it, I thought, I ought not have trusted him. I ought to have handled the matter myself—with a little assistance from Emerson.

Then it occurred to me that Russell might be waiting until the crowds had thinned out. Strategically it was a sensible decision. The fewer people who were about, the less chance that a bystander might be injured or that Aslimi’s fellow merchants might be tempted to come to his aid. I hastened on, determined to be in at the kill. Then Emerson caught me up and I moderated my pace. Actually it was Emerson who moderated it for me, grasping my arm and holding it tightly.

“Proceed slowly or you will ruin everything,” he hissed like a stage villain.

“Why are you in such a hurry, Aunt Amelia?” Nefret asked.

I turned. We were not far from Aslimi’s now; his place was around the next curve of the lane. My ears were pricked. So, I observed, were those of Seshat, perched on Ramses’s shoulder. Her eyes reflected the lamplight like great golden topazes. I forced a smile.

“Why, my dear, what makes you suppose I am in a hurry? That is my normal walking pace.”

Seshat’s tail began to switch and she leaned forward, sniffing the air. Her eyes had lost their luster; the lamp behind me had been extinguished. The shutter of the shop went down with a bang. The steel grille of the establishment next to it slammed into place. All along the lane, lights were going out and doors were closing.

“What is happening?” Nefret demanded. She moved closer to Ramses and took hold of his sleeve. He detached her fingers, gently but quickly, and caught Seshat in time to prevent her from taking a flying leap off his shoulder. Lowering her to the ground, he handed Nefret the scarf. “Hold on to her.”

“Damnation,” said Emerson under his breath. “They know. How do they know?”

It did smack of witchcraft, that unspoken recognition of danger that runs like a lighted fuse through a group of people who live with uncertainty and fear of the law. The mere sight of a uniform, or even a too-familiar face, would be enough of a warning.

“Know?” Nefret repeated. I could barely make out her features, it was so dark. “Know what?”

“That trouble is brewing,” Emerson said calmly. A sudden outburst of noise, including a pistol shot, made him add, “Boiled over, rather. Follow me.”

A lesser man might have ordered the rest of us to stay where we were. Emerson knew none of us would obey such an order anyhow, and until we had ascertained precisely what the situation was, it was safer to keep together. He switched on his electric torch and led the way along the lane.

The only open door was that of Aslimi’s shop. As we hastened toward it, one of the men outside turned with an expletive and a raised weapon. Emerson struck it out of his hand.

“Don’t be a fool. What is going on?”

“Is it you, O Father of Curses?” the fellow exclaimed. “We have him cornered—Wardani—or one of his men—there is a fifty-pound reward!”

I heard a gasp from Nefret, and then Ramses said, “Where is he?”

“He went into the back room. The door is barred but we will soon have it down!”

It certainly appeared that they would, and that they would smash every object in the shop during the process. Small loss, I thought, as an enthusiastic ax-wielder swept a row of fake pots off a shelf. But…

“Hell and damnation!” said Emerson, retreating in such haste that I had to run to keep up with him.

There are no alleyways or conventional back doors in the Khan el Khalili. Most of the shops are mere cubicles, open only at the front. We may have been among the few Europeans who knew that Aslimi’s establishment did have another entrance—or, in this case, exit. It opened onto a space between two adjoining structures that was so narrow a casual observer would not have taken it for a passageway, and even knowing its approximate location we would have missed it in the darkness without the aid of Emerson’s torch.

“Turn off your torch,” Ramses said urgently.

Emerson’s only answer was to thrust out his arm in a sweeping arc that flattened Ramses and Nefret against the adjoining wall. Standing square in the opening, he allowed the light to play for a moment on his face before he directed the beam into the passageway. Peering under his arm, I had a fleeting glimpse of a figure that halted for a moment before it disappeared.

“He saw me, I think,” Emerson said in a satisfied voice. “After me, Peabody. Bring up the rear, Ramses, if you please.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the police?” I asked.

“No use now, they’d never track him in this maze.”

“But we can!” Nefret exclaimed. She was panting with excitement.

“We may not have to,” Emerson said.

Emerson thought he was being enigmatic and mysterious, but of course I knew what he meant. I always know what Emerson means. He had deliberately made a target of himself so the fugitive would see him and, as Emerson hoped, be willing to deal with him. Honesty and integrity, as I have always said, have practical advantages. Every man in Cairo knew that when the Father of Curses gave his word he would keep it.

As it turned out, Emerson’s hope was justified. After we had squeezed through the passageway, where Emerson and Ramses had to go sideways, we emerged into a wider way and saw a shadow slip into the darker shadows of what appeared to be a doorway but was, in fact, another narrow street.

The Hoshasheyn district is a survival of medieval Cairo , and indeed most medieval cities must have been like it—dark, odorous, mazelike. Our quarry led us a merry dance, keeping close enough to be seen but not to be apprehended. Our progress was slightly impeded by Seshat, who in her eagerness to follow the fugitive (or possibly a rat) kept winding her lead round our limbs, until Ramses picked her up and returned her to his shoulder, gripping her collar with one hand. Emerson used his torch only when it was absolutely necessary. At last we came out into a small square. A fountain tinkled, like raindrops in the night.

“There,” I cried, pointing to a door that stood ajar. Light showed through the opening.

“Hmmm,” said Emerson, stroking his chin. “It has the look of a trap.”

“It is,” Ramses said. “He’s there. By the door. He has a gun.”

Farouk stepped into view. He did indeed have a gun. “So it is true, as they say of the Brother of Demons, that he can see in the dark. I was waiting for you.”

“Why?” inquired Emerson.

“I am willing to come to terms.”

“Excellent,” I exclaimed. “Come with us, then, and we—”

“No, no, Sitt Hakim, I am not such a fool as that.” He switched to English, as if he were demonstrating his intellectual abilities. “Come in. Close the door and bar it.”

“What do you think?” Emerson inquired, looking at Ramses.

“In my opinion,” I began.

“I did not ask your opinion, Peabody .”

Farouk was showing signs of strain. “Stop talking and do as I say! Do you want the information I can give you or not?”

“Yes,” Nefret said. Before any of us could stop her she had entered the room. Farouk backed up a few steps. He kept the pistol leveled at her breast.

The rest of us followed, naturally. The room was small and low ceilinged and very dirty. A single lamp cast a smoky light. Emerson closed the door and dropped the bar into place. “Make your proposal,” he said softly. “I lose patience very quickly when someone threatens my daughter.”