There was another, smaller, statue of the Prince, and one of a youth who was identified as his son. By the middle of the afternoon we had them out; not even the largest was anything like the weight of the royal statue.

“Get them back to the house, Selim,” Emerson ordered, passing his sleeve over his perspiring brow.

Nefret announced her intention of going to the hospital for a few hours and started toward Mena House, where we had left the horses. As soon as she was out of earshot, Ramses said, “I’m off too.”

“Where?” I demanded, trying to catch hold of him.

“I have a few errands. Excuse me, Mother, I must hurry. I will be home in time for dinner.”

“Put on your hat!” I called after him. He turned and waved and went on. Without his hat.

When Emerson and I reached Mena House we found Asfur, whom Ramses had ridden that day, still in the stable. “He’s taken the train,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “That means—”

“I know what it means. Mount Asfur , Peabody , and I’ll lead the other creature. And do keep quiet!”

I realized I ought to have anticipated that Ramses would have to communicate with one or another, or all, of several people. That did not mean I liked it. My nerves had not fully recovered from the anxiety of the previous day and night. Emerson and I jogged on side by side, each occupied with his or her own thoughts; I could tell by his expression that his were no more pleasant than mine. Superstition is not one of my weaknesses, but I was beginning to feel that we labored under a horrible curse of failure. Every thread we had come upon broke when we tried to follow it. Two of the most hopeful had failed within the past twenty-four hours: my unmasking of Sethos, and Emerson’s capture of the German spy. Now Sethos was on the loose with his deadly knowledge, and the failure of the ambush would soon be known to the man who had ordered it. What would he do next? What could we do next?

Emerson and I discussed the matter as we drank our tea and sorted through the post. I had not done so the day before, so there was quite an accumulation of letters and messages.

“Nothing from Mr. Russell,” I reported. “He’d have found some means of informing us if he had caught up with Sethos.”

Emerson said, “Hmph,” and took the envelopes I handed him.

“There is one for you from Walter.”

“So I see.” Emerson ripped the envelope to shreds. “They have had another communication from David,” he reported, scanning the missive.

“I wish we could say the same. Do you think Ramses will speak with him this afternoon?”

“I don’t know.” Emerson plucked irritably at the strips of bandage enclosing his arm. “Curse it, how can I open an envelope with one hand?”

“I will open them for you, my dear.”

“No, you will not. You always read them first.” Emerson tore at another envelope. “Well, well, fancy that. A courteous note from Major Hamilton congratulating me on another narrow escape, as he puts it, and reminding me that he made me the loan of a Webley. I wonder what I did with it.”

“Does he mention his niece?”

“No, why should he? What does Evelyn say?”

He had recognized her neat, delicate handwriting. I knew what he wanted most to hear, so I read the passages that reported little Sennia’s good health and remarkable evidences of intelligence. “She keeps us all merry and in good spirits. Lately she has taken to dressing Horus up in her dolly’s clothing and wheeling him about in a carriage; you would laugh to see those bristling whiskers and snarling jaws framed by a ruffled bonnet. He hates every minute of it but is putty in her little hands. Thank God her youth makes it possible for us to keep from her the horrible things that are happening in the world. Every night she kisses your photographs; they are getting quite worn away, especially Ramses’s. Even Emerson would be touched, I think, to see her kneeling beside her little cot asking God to watch over you all. That is also the heartfelt prayer of your loving sister.”

“And here,” I said, holding out a grubby, much folded bit of paper, “is an enclosure for you from Sennia.”

Emerson’s eyes were shining suspiciously. After he had read the few printed words that staggered down the page, he folded it again and tucked it carefully into his breast pocket.

There was no message for Ramses that day or the day after, or the day after that. Days stretched into weeks. Ramses went almost every day to Cairo . I never had to ask whether he had found the message he was waiting for. Govern his countenance as he might, his stretched nerves showed in the almost imperceptible marks round his eyes and mouth, and in his increasingly acerbic responses to perfectly civil questions. Some of his visits were to Wardani’s lieutenants; like the rest of us, they were becoming restive, and Ramses admitted he was having some difficulty keeping them reined in.

Rumors about the military situation added another dimension of discomfort. In my opinion it would have been wiser for the authorities to publish the facts; they might have been less alarming than the stories that were put about. There were one hundred thousand Turkish troops massed near Beersheba . There were two hundred thousand Turkish troops heading for the border. Turkish forces had already crossed the border and were marching toward the Canal, gathering recruits from among the Bedouin. Jemal Pasha, in command of the Turks, had boasted, “I will not return until I have entered Cairo ”; his chief of staff, von Kressenstein, had an entire brigade of German troops with him. Turkish agents had infiltrated the ranks of the Egyptian artillery; when the attack occurred they would turn their weapons on the British.

Some of the stories were true, some were not. The result was to throw Cairo into a state of panic. A great number of people booked passage on departing steamers. The louder patriots discussed strategy in their comfortable clubs, and entered into a perfect orgy of spy hunting. The only useful result of that was the disappearance of Mrs. Fortescue. It was assumed by her acquaintances that she had got cold feet and sailed for home; we were among the few who knew that she had been taken into custody. That gave me another moment of hope, but like all our other leads, this one faded out. She insisted even under interrogation that she did not know the name or identity of the man to whom she had reported.

“She is probably telling the truth,” said Emerson, from whom I heard this bit of classified information. “There are a number of ways of passing on and receiving instructions. I understand that chap we saw at the Savoy —one of Clayton’s lot—what’s his name?—is claiming the credit for unmasking her.”

“Herbert,” Ramses supplied, with a very slight curl of his lip. “He’s also unearthing conspiracies. According to him, he doesn’t even have to go looking for them; the malcontents come to him, burning to betray one another for money.”

“One of them hasn’t,” said Emerson. “Damnation! The insufferable complacency of men like Herbert will cost us dearly one day.”

I also learned from Emerson that Russell agreed with his and Ramses’s deductions about the route the gunrunners had followed. The Camel Corps section of the Coastguards had been alerted, and since their pitiful pay was augmented by rewards for each arrest, one might suppose they were hard at it. However, as Russell admitted, the corruption of a single officer would make it possible for the loads to be landed on the Egyptian coast and carried by camel to some place of concealment near the city, where the Turk eventually picked them up. Thus far Russell had been unable to track them.

It was during the penultimate week of January that Ramses returned one afternoon from Cairo with the news we had so anxiously awaited. One look at him told me all I needed to know. I ran to meet him and threw my arms round him.