At last the father spoke to the son he had not seen in two years. “I had you found,” said Hiram Stratton. “I hired a detective. I plan to bring you back to America to stand trial for kidnapping and attempted murder. I considered the possibility that you were attempting to become a better person and thus deserved mercy. But I arrive to find you are a common thief.”

“Father, I stole nothing. I never have. Nor did I hurt Katie in any way.”

“I stand here as future patron to this excavation,” thundered his father, “and this is what I must deal with first. The low base treachery of my own son.”

Patron? Impossible. His father had never shown generosity. Unless, of course, he got something in exchange. And what might that be? The Stratton name on a museum wing? Strat doubted that his father had ever entered a museum.

“You stole the gold,” said his father. “Nor can you deny it. You hid it deep inside your own miserable pile of clothing.” Gladly, he waved the gold sandal as proof.

Strat, aghast, looked at his former friends. They met his eyes steadily and with contempt. “I found it,” said the boy from Princeton. “Hidden among your clothes.”

How could it have gotten there? It could only be that he had some enemy; some person in this very company who wished to destroy him.

His eyes sought understanding, and found it immediately. Miss Matthews, head and shoulders above the gloating bulk of Hiram Stratton, was staring out into the desert, cheeks red, chin high and eyes wet.

She stole the sandal, thought Strat, and made it look as if I did. She must be the detective Father hired. Father paid her to make me a thief.

Poor Dr. Lightner, in love with one who betrayed people for a living. There was no point in accusing her. Father paid so well. Impossible for truth to override that much money.

He faced his father again, and saw in his father's hand, almost invisible in the grip of that fat thumb and forefinger, the tiny envelope in which Strat kept Annie's lock of hair. It was the only possession Strat could never replace. Father, too, was a thief, having taken it from Strat's Bible, where it lay pressed when he did not keep it against his heart.

He made the error of showing that it mattered. Father, quick to see the weakness of others, opened the envelope and shook out the contents. The wind, which swirled around knees and raced, dust-laden, through shirts, now whisked away the silken tresses of Annie's hair and flung them out across the sand.

Strat's heart opened as if a wrench had been applied, turning until his valves burst and his heart broke.

“It is my belief,” said the French attaché, stepping forward, “that you are also a murderer, young Stratton. Tell us how the two young men fell from the Pyramid.”