Nefret’s efforts succeeded at last. She let out a cry of triumph. One of the shutters had given way. I hurried to her side as she flung it back and leaned out the window.

It did not open onto the Sharia Suleiman Pasha, but onto a narrower street that had not so much traffic. However, our cries finally attracted attention; a turbaned porter, bent under a load of pots and pans, stopped and looked up. I addressed him in emphatic Arabic. When I told him what I wanted, he demanded money before he would stir a step, and we dickered for a bit before I persuaded him to accept an even larger payment upon the completion of his errand. He was gone some time, and Nefret was knotting the satin sheets into a rope when he finally returned, accompanied by a uniformed constable.

There are advantages to being notorious. As soon as I identified myself to the constable, he was ready to obey my commands. However, by the time our rescuers began banging on the door of the flat I was almost ready to take my chances with Nefret’s rope.

My cries of encouragement and impatience directed them to the bedchamber. They got that door open too, and I rushed out, searching the faces of the men who had entered the sitting room. One of them was familiar—but alas, it was not the face I had hoped to see. Mr. Assistant Commissioner Thomas Russell was in evening kit, and this annoyed me to an excessive degree. I seized him by his lapels.

“Enjoying an evening out?” I demanded. “While others risk life and the appearance of… Curse it, Russell, while you were lollygagging about, the Master Criminal has escaped! And where is my husband?”

Russell kept his head, which was, I admit, rather commendable of him under the circumstances. He pushed me back into the bedchamber and closed the door.

“For the love of Heaven, Mrs. Emerson, don’t tell your business to every police officer in Cairo ! What is all this about master criminals?”

“He is the Count de Sevigny. Sethos is the Count. The Master Criminal is Sethos.”

“Allow me to get you some brandy, Mrs. Emerson.”

“I don’t want brandy, I want you to go after Sethos! He is probably in Alexandria or Tripoli by now—or Damascus —or Khartoum —it would not surprise me to learn that he knows how to fly one of those aeroplanes. You must shoot him down before he reaches enemy lines.”

Nefret put her arm round me and murmured soothingly, but it was Russell’s incredulous question that made me realize I might not have taken the right approach. “Are you telling me, Mrs. Emerson, that you and Miss Forth came alone to the flat of a man you knew to be a spy and—er—Master Criminal?”

“Not together,” I said. “When I failed to return home, Miss Forth came to rescue me.”

“The devil she did!”

“The devil I didn’t,” Nefret said with wry amusement. “Rescue her, that is. I confess neither of us behaved sensibly, Mr. Russell. Don’t scold, but get your men after him. Our imprisonment and his flight are, surely, evidence that he is guilty of something.”

Russell gave a grudging nod. “Very well. Go home, ladies, and get out of my… That is, go home. I will send one of my men with you.”

“But what of Emerson?” I demanded. “He and Ramses ought to have been back hours ago.”

“Ramses went with him?” Russell’s cold eyes grew even frostier. “Where?”

“Into the Eastern Desert. They were looking for—”

Now it was Mr. Russell who was in danger of forgetting himself. I cut short his incoherent anathemas with a useful reminder.

“I will take Miss Forth home, as you advised. You will let us know at once if you—when you hear.”

“Yes. And you will send to inform me if—when they return. They had no business… Well. Good night, ladies.”

As we passed through the sitting room, one of the constables spoke. “Look here, sir. The man was a criminal! In his haste he forgot his implements of crime.”

They were set out on the tea table: handcuffs, a coil of rope, a little pistol, and a long knife.

“Those are mine,” I said, holding out my hand. “Except for the knife. It belongs to Miss Forth.”

For some reason this harmless statement brought Russell’s temper to the breaking point. He bundled us out the door and directed a constable to put us in a cab.

All along the homeward path I looked for a yellow motorcar being driven at breakneck speed toward the Count’s flat. No such vision rewarded my search. When we arrived home we found, not Emerson and Ramses, but Fatima, Selim, Daoud, and Kadija. All of them except the ever-calm Kadija were in a considerable state of agitation. They took turns embracing me and Nefret and peppered us with questions, while Fatima produced platter after platter of food. It took us considerable time to convince them we were unharmed, and then we had to apologize for failing to tell them where we had gone.

“You did not come home for dinner,” Fatima said, fixing me with an accusing stare. “Ramses and the Father of Curses did not come back. Then Nur Misur went away. What was I to do? I sent for Daoud, and Selim, and—”

“Yes, I see. I appreciate your concern, but there is nothing to worry about now. It is very late; good night and thanks to you all.”

Selim and Daoud exchanged glances. “Yes, Sitt Hakim,” the former said.

After they had left the room, Nefret said, “They won’t leave, not until Ramses and the Professor are safely back. Go to bed, Aunt Amelia. Yes, I know, you won’t sleep a wink, but at least lie down and rest. If they lost their way, they may have decided to wait until daylight before starting back.”

Hoping that she at least would rest, I agreed, and we went to our respective rooms. I was removing my crumpled frock when she tapped at my door.

“See who I found, asleep on my bed. I thought you might like her company tonight.”

She was carrying Seshat.

It was unusual for the cat to be in my room or Nefret’s unless she was in search of something or someone. This did not appear to be the case now; when Nefret put her down on the foot of the bed she curled herself into a neat coil and closed her eyes. Feeling somewhat comforted and more than a little foolish, I stretched out beside the cat, although I knew I would not sleep a wink.

As I neared the top of the cliff I looked up to see a tall, familiar form silhouetted against the pale blue of the early-morning sky. I was in Luxor again, climbing the steep path that led to the top of the plateau behind Deir el Bahri, and Abdullah was waiting. He reached out a hand to help me up the last few feet, and sat down beside me as I sank panting onto a convenient boulder.

He looked as he always did in those dreams—his stalwart form that of a man in the prime of life, his handsome, hawklike features framed by a neatly trimmed black beard and mustache. They remained impassive, but his black eyes shone affectionately.

“Finally!” I exclaimed, when I had got my breath back. “Abdullah, I have wanted so much to see you. It has been too long.”

“Long for you, perhaps, Sitt. There is no time here, on the other side of the Portal.”

“I haven’t the patience for your philosophical vagueness tonight, Abdullah. You claim to know everything that happens to me—you must know how frightened I am, how much in need of comfort.”

I held out my hands to him, and he enclosed them in his. “They are well, Sitt Hakim, the two you love best. Soon after you wake you will see them.”

I knew I was dreaming, but that reassurance carried as much conviction as the evidence of my own eyes would have done. “Thank you,” I said, with a long breath of relief. “It is good news you give me, but it is only part of what I want to hear. How will it end, Abdullah? Will they live and be happy?”

“I cannot tell you endings, Sitt.”

“You did before. You said the falcon would fly through the portal of the dawn. Which portal, Abdullah? There are many doorways, and some lead to death.”