“I don’t see any reason to do it now.”

“Think about it. It’s quite a distance from the Valley to Deir el Medina. Wouldn’t it be logical for a gang of workmen to camp here, close to the job, part of the time? A few smallish huts, such as these appear to be, would not be difficult to construct.”

His eyes sparkled. Emerson is one of the few excavators in the business who derives as much pleasure from the humble minutiae of archaeology as from impressive temples and rich tombs. If he was correct, a small bit of the puzzle of the past would be filled in – and he usually was correct about such things.

“Well, my dear, that is very interesting,” I said. “But hadn’t we better be getting on? Nobody is going to bother your – er – huts.”

Emerson tore himself away. The path was well traveled; we met goats and a few Egyptians afoot or on donkey-back. Emerson greeted them by name (except for the goats) but did not stop, though it was clear to me that one or two of the men would have liked to have gossiped a bit. The news of what had happened the day before must be all over the West Bank by now. We had not gone far, however, before we came upon persons of quite a different sort. There were nine of them, six donkey drivers and three people in European dress, and when they hailed us it was impossible to push on past. I recognized the American party we had encountered on board ship and later in Cairo.

Mrs. Albion’s tall, spare frame was clad in garments that were, I supposed, the latest in American notions of sporting attire for ladies. Her linen coat had the fashionable military cut and her skirts were calf-length. Her head was so wrapped in veiling that her features were only a blur. She was sitting sideways on the donkey, her neat boots dangling. A true lady, of course, would rather fall off than ride astride. It probably required two drivers to keep her in the saddle, and the same was true of Mr. Albion, who rolled first from one side and then to the other, with his drivers shoving him back and forth. The process seemed to entertain him quite a lot; he was red-faced with heat and laughter when the little cavalcade halted. The younger man was red, too, but with sunburn, not amusement. He removed his hat and inspected me with cool curiosity.

Emerson, being Emerson, greeted the Egyptians first. “Salaam aleikhum, Ali, Mahmud, Hassan… Good morning, er – um -”

“ Albion,” the gentleman in question supplied, while his son stared curiously at us. “We met on the boat.”

“No, we didn’t,” said Emerson.

Albion chortled. His face turned even redder. “Not for want of effort on my part. Tried to track you down in Cairo, too, but didn’t succeed. Figured we’d run into you sooner or later. How’s the rest of the family?”

“Very well,” I said. “Thank you. Where are you on your way to this morning?”

“Just out for a little ride,” said Mr. Albion. He took out a large white handkerchief and mopped his face. “Say, you folks couldn’t introduce me to a few tomb robbers, could you?”

Emerson had begun backing away. This remarkable request stopped him dead. “What did you say?”

“Well, we’re collectors,” Albion said calmly. “Especially Sebastian here. He’s just crazy about ancient Egypt.”

If I understood the meaning of that slang word, it did not suit young Mr. Albion. He did not look like a man who would go “crazy” over anything. His eyes were wide-set and somewhat protuberant, and as cool as ice-clouded water, whose color they matched.

“Yessir,” his father went on cheerfully. “We’ve been collecting for quite a while. That’s why we came out this winter, looking for more good stuff.”

Emerson was staring, his astonishment now mitigated by amusement. I feared annoyance would soon mitigate the amusement, when he realized, as had I, that Albion was absolutely serious.

“The usual method of collecting antiquities,” I said somewhat sarcastically, “is to buy from dealers. Mohassib in Luxor -”

“Been to see him already,” said Albion. “ ’Scuse me for interrupting, ma’am, but I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“Thank you,” I said, taken aback.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Now Mohassib has some fine things, but he’s playing the dealer on me, trying to raise the price. I figure the best way is to go straight to the people he gets his stuff from. Cut out the middleman, eh?”

I looked at Mrs. Albion, wondering if she would display embarrassment at her husband’s outrageous speech. She had loosened her veils. There was no doubt which side of the family her son favored. She had the same long face and thin lips and pale gray eyes. They were fixed on Mr. Albion with a look of fatuous admiration.

“Well?” said Mr. Albion hopefully. “You’d get your cut, of course.”

“We are not dealers,” Emerson said. “And I must warn you, Mr. Albion, that what you have proposed – in all innocence, I trust – is not only illegal but dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Mrs. Albion transferred her stare to Emerson. Her lips straightened out and her eyes lost their warmth. “What possible danger could there be for us? We are American citizens.”

“The danger,” said Emerson, “is me. If you have not heard enough about me to understand my meaning, ask your guides. Let us go, Peabody.”

I thought it best to take his advice. Emerson had kept his temper remarkably well – though I was unable to say the same about his grammar – but he was bound to lose it if the Albions went on in the same way. We went on, leaving three people gaping at us and six others concealing their grins behind rather dirty hands.

“Very good, Emerson!” I exclaimed. “You did not use bad language – and under considerable provocation, too.”

“Don’t talk to me as if I were Sennia,” Emerson grumbled. His well-shaped lips twitched, and after a moment he began to laugh. “One can’t become angry with people like that. Introduce him to a few tomb robbers! I would be tempted to cultivate him for comic relief, if we didn’t already have enough of it in this family.”

“The boy didn’t utter a word,” I said.

Emerson was still in an amazingly good humor. “He isn’t a boy. He appears to be about the same age as Ramses. I suppose you find his reticence suspicious?”

He began to chuckle again, and I joined in; not for worlds would I have taken umbrage at his little joke. I did find the younger Mr. Albion suspicious, however. Either he was completely cowed by his father or he did not deign to express his own ideas, whatever they might be. And what had brought that oddly assorted trio to the difficult path? Where had they come from, and why? It was possible, if nerve-racking, to ride a donkey up the steep path from the Valley of the Kings, but I would not have supposed that Mr. Albion or his elegant wife would be up to it. The downward path was even more hazardous on donkey-back, and so was the descent behind Deir el Bahri.

Our path was relatively level until we reached the hill overlooking the little valley of Deir el Medina. We paused there, not to rest, for it had been an easy stroll, but to get a bird’s-eye view of the site.

The tombs of Deir el Medina had been known and looted for many years. They were relatively unpretentious, the shaft leading down to the burial chamber surmounted by small chapels crowned with miniature brick pyramids. Many of the latter had crumbled and fallen and the remaining chapels were in very poor condition. However, the underground chambers were often beautifully decorated. They were the tombs of the people who had lived in the village below. It was still largely unexcavated. Studying the rough, partially exposed walls, Emerson burst out, “Confound the lazy, incompetent scoundrel! Only look what he has done to the place!”

He was referring to Mr. Kuentz, our predecessor, who had been arrested (thanks to us) the previous year. “He hasn’t done much,” I said, hoping to calm my grumbling spouse. “I expect he was too busy with his other activities – spying and tomb robbing. They do take time.”