‘No, sir, I am not. I’m for New York as soon as I can square up things here. You may laugh if you like, but I’m not going to be this blasted Men-her-Ra’s next victim. He’ll get me if I stop here.’

The young man wiped the perspiration from his brow.

Poirot turned away. Over his shoulder he said with a peculiar smile:

‘Remember, he got one of his victims in New York.’

‘Oh, hell!’ said Mr Harper forcibly.

‘That young man is nervous,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘He is on the edge, but absolutely on the edge.’

I glanced at Poirot curiously, but his enigmatical smile told me nothing. In company with Sir Guy Willard and Dr Tosswill we were taken round the excavations. The principal finds had been removed to Cairo, but some of the tomb furniture was extremely interesting. The enthusiasm of the young baronet was obvious, but I fancied that I detected a shade of nervousness in his manner as though he could not quite escape from the feeling of menace in the air. As we entered the tent which had been assigned to us, for a wash before joining the evening meal, a tall dark figure in white robes stood aside to let us pass with a graceful gesture and a murmured greeting in Arabic. Poirot stopped.

‘You are Hassan, the late Sir John Willard’s servant?’

‘I served my Lord Sir John, now I serve his son.’ He took a step nearer to us and lowered his voice. ‘You are a wise one, they say, learned in dealing with evil spirits. Let the young master depart from here. There is evil in the air around us.’

And with an abrupt gesture, not waiting for a reply, he strode away.

‘Evil in the air,’ muttered Poirot. ‘Yes, I feel it.’

Our meal was hardly a cheerful one. The floor was left to Dr Tosswill, who discoursed at length upon Egyptian antiquities. Just as we were preparing to retire to rest, Sir Guy caught Poirot by the arm and pointed. A shadowy figure was moving amidst the tents. It was no human one: I recognized distinctly the dog-headed figure I had seen carved on the walls of the tomb.

My blood froze at the sight.

‘Mon Dieu!’ murmured Poirot, crossing himself vigorously. ‘Anubis, the jackal-headed, the god of departing souls.’

‘Someone is hoaxing us,’ cried Dr Tosswill, rising indignantly to his feet.

‘It went into your tent, Harper,’ muttered Sir Guy, his face dreadfully pale.

‘No,’ said Poirot, shaking his head, ‘into that of the Dr Ames.’

The doctor stared at him incredulously; then, repeating Dr Tosswill’s words, he cried:

‘Someone is hoaxing us. Come, we’ll soon catch the fellow.’

He dashed energetically in pursuit of the shadowy apparition. I followed him, but, search as we would, we could find no trace of any living soul having passed that way. We returned, somewhat disturbed in mind, to find Poirot taking energetic measures, in his own way, to ensure his personal safety. He was busily surrounding our tent with various diagrams and inscriptions which he was drawing in the sand. I recognized the five-pointed star or Pentagon many times repeated. As was his wont, Poirot was at the same time delivering an impromptu lecture on witchcraft and magic in general, White magic as opposed to Black, with various references to the Ka and the Book of the Dead thrown in.