“What do you hope to find?” Emerson went on. “The tomb is empty. Ayrton, who was here in 1905, found only a few scraps. The paintings… oh, good Gad!”

He whirled round and ran toward the workmen. A stentorian bellow stopped diggers and basket men, and as the cloud of dust subsided, Emerson vanished into the dark opening of the tomb. He was out again in ten seconds, waving his fists. “Someone has been hacking at the walls. There was a painting of the prince offering to Khonsu -”

“Defaced or missing?” Ramses asked.

“Missing. Completely cut out, leaving a great hole. Probably in pieces. Curse it!”

“We didn’t do it,” Sebastian hastened to say. “We haven’t touched the paintings.”

“You aren’t doing them any good,” Emerson retorted furiously. “All that dust and debris floating about… My patience is at an end. Stop work at once.”

“What are you going to do, carry us out of here bodily?” Mr. Albion inquired. “There’s nothing to stop us from coming back.”

“Your workmen won’t come back. I am about to put a curse on the place. They won’t dare go near it after that, and neither will any of the other men on the West Bank.”

“You better listen, Joe,” Cyrus advised. “The Professor’s curses are famous around here.”

“That so?” Mr. Albion’s eyes narrowed until they virtually disappeared. Then they resumed their normal appearance and a smile fattened his cheeks. “Well, I guess we know how to give in gracefully, eh, Sebastian? It’s a shame about those fellows, they really need the work.”

That aspect of the matter had not occurred to Emerson. It did not affect his decision, but I could see he was moved by it. He stood for a moment in thought, fingering the cleft in his chin. “It’s a new tomb you’re after, I presume? That’s what every dilettante wants. There are one or two areas I’ve been meaning to explore for some time. Very promising sites.”

Mrs. Albion had been stroking the Great Cat of Re, who politely permitted the liberty. (I had hoped it would hiss or scratch.) She looked up at Emerson. “Where are these sites, Professor?”

We delayed long enough to see the men begin to dismantle the comfortable little tent, and Mrs. Albion lifted, armchair and all, onto the shoulders of the servants. She was extremely gracious, though not to me; she thanked Emerson for his advice, spared a frosty smile for Jumana, and shook a playful finger at Ramses when he rose and settled the Great Cat of Re more securely onto his shoulder. “You really ought to select a more appropriate name for that charming creature, Mr. Emerson. The name of a lovely Egyptian goddess, perhaps? Hathor or Isis.”

“I fear that would not be appropriate, ma’am,” Ramses replied. “The cat is not of the female sex – uh – gender.”

“I may have been mistaken about Mrs. Albion,” I admitted, as we walked away. “Cats are generally good judges of character. Playfulness does not become her, however. What on earth were you thinking of, Emerson, proposing other sites for them? You have no right to do anything of the sort.”

“Good Gad, Peabody, I expected you would approve of my mild methods.” Striding along, hands in his pockets, Emerson glanced at me in feigned surprise. “I am familiar with men of Albion’s character; if I had not offered them alternatives, they would simply have moved to some other forbidden area. I can’t put curses on every site on the West Bank.”

“But the southwest wadis? The Valley of the Queens?”

“The entrance to the Valley of the Queens,” Emerson corrected. “There’s nothing of interest there. If they mount an expedition to the southwest wadis I will be surprised; it’s too far and too uncomfortable. Besides, you heard my condition. They will hire Soleiman Hassan as their reis. I will make sure he reports to me the instant they find anything – which is, in my opinion, unlikely. Why are you looking so glum, Vandergelt?”

“I kinda hoped for more fireworks,” Cyrus admitted. “Don’t count on Joe doing what you told him, Emerson. He holds a grudge against people who try to order him around.”

“Bah,” said Emerson.

“They were very polite,” Jumana murmured.

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully.

We collected Sennia and the picnic basket – and a reluctant but dogged Gargery – and went on to Deir el Medina, where we were forced to listen to another lecture, this one from Daoud. Selim had regaled him and a select audience with an edited version of our recent adventures, and Daoud was vibrating with indignation.

We had to apologize for leaving him behind and promise never to do it again.

“So Daoud knows all about it,” Cyrus remarked. His voice was mild but his expression was severe. The same look of reproach marked Bertie’s features.

“You promised me, ma’am,” he began.

“My dear boy, you must not take it personally. We don’t plan these things, you know; most of them just – well, they just happen.”

“This one didn’t,” Cyrus said. “You were in the war zone, I got that much from what Daoud said. Do you have less confidence in us than you do in him?”

“My sentiments exactly, ma’am,” said Bertie.

“Of course not,” I said heartily. “We will tell you all about it this evening; how’s that?”

“Precisely what are we going to tell them?” demanded Emerson, after he had succeeded in drawing me aside.

I had had a little chat with Selim before we left Cairo. I knew Ramses had told him part of the story, and I felt fairly certain he had worked the rest of it out. He had known Sir Edward Washington; he had known a great deal about Sethos; he had been present on several occasions when we had discussed matters that would enable a clever man, which Selim was, to put the pieces together. So I took him into my confidence, holding nothing back. If any man deserved that confidence, it was he.

“Ah,” said Selim, unsurprised. “I knew when I saw him clean-shaven that he must be a kinsman of the Father of Curses. They are very much alike. We do not speak of this to others, Sitt?”

“Except for Ramses and Nefret, you are the only one who knows. We do not speak of it, even to Vandergelt Effendi.”

His face brightened with gratified pride. “You can trust me, Sitt Hakim.”

“I am sure I can. But now we must work out what we are to tell the others, including Daoud.”

I repeated the conversation to Emerson, adding, “You may be sure Selim produced a thrilling narrative without giving anything important away. Anyhow, I am tired of all this confounded secrecy. The more tight-lipped and mysterious we are, the more suspicious people will be. A partial truth will put them off the track far better than silence.”

“You may be right,” Emerson agreed. “I will leave it to you, then, my dear. What have you done with my field notes?”

I found his notebook in the pile of papers he had brought, and set about erecting my little shelter.

“I must say it looks rather pitiful compared with the Albions’s arrangement,” I remarked to Nefret, who was helping me.

Nefret chuckled. “Did you ever see anything more ridiculous than Mrs. Albion in her armchair being hoisted aloft by those two poor fellows? God help either of them if he stumbles and spills her out. Mr. Albion would probably have him beheaded.”

“What did you think of their excessive courtesy to Jumana? That young man is not still under the impression that he can – er – win her over, surely.”

“Surely not,” Nefret said. “They were only trying to ingratiate themselves with us, Mother. And they succeeded. I’m like Cyrus; I was rather hoping Father would blow them to bits and perform one of his famous curses.”

“Oh, were you?” said Emerson, appearing upon the scene. “I cannot imagine why everyone in this family is under the false impression that I am a violent and unreasonable man. Bring the camera, Nefret; we are about to start on a new section.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H