We sat in oddly companionable silence for a time, watching the torrent of stones and foaming water below. Once again Sethos had come to my rescue—the phrase is trite but accurate—in the nick of time, yet I was annoyed with him. I had been in his presence on several memorable occasions, but I could only describe his general features. His height, almost as great as Emerson’s six feet and a bit, could not be concealed, but stooped shoulders and a general air of . . . What shall I call it? A posture of ineptitude, incompetence, helplessness can create an impression of smaller size. Assurance and competence have the opposite effect, which is why most Egyptians would claim that Emerson is at least seven feet tall.

I was pondering my chances of yanking off Sethos’s mustache when he said, “Have you ascertained what the problem here in Amarna is?”

“Problem? Oh, so it was you who left the damaged ushebti?”

“Who else? I knew you would be clever enough to understand its meaning.”

“So did Emerson.” I hoped this would irritate him, but he only smiled.

“I have never underestimated Emerson’s intelligence. His weakness is that he allows his outrageous temper to overrule his common sense.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Have you no clue as to what is going on here? You would not have brought the ushebti to us if you were not suspicious.”

“Herr Morgenstern’s behavior was peculiar. He left Amarna in the middle of the night, carrying a large canvas bag. An acquaintance of mine followed him to Cairo, but lost him at the train station. I was, shall we say, intrigued.”

I glared at him. “And when you could not find him, you chose to follow us. Did our visit to Harun’s shop offer you some enlightenment?”

“Harun is an old friend of mine,” Sethos said, “although I wish he would comb his beard every few months. He always seems so dusty.”

“Indeed,” I said distractedly. If I were to believe him, he had not made a deal with Harun for a copy of Nefertiti’s bust. I experienced some enlightenment of my own. “Is Lucinda enjoying her trip to Cairo and delighted by your recent purchase at the shop across from the museum?”

“I realized from your and Ramses’s reaction that it was a fake, but I felt it warranted closer examination. One never knows when one might need a facsimile of a masterpiece.” He smirked for a moment, and then said in a sober voice, “But something is awry here. I suspect that the man who calls himself von Raubritter is involved. He is not one of my usual suspects, so I have not been able to get a line on him.”

“He is dead. We found his body yesterday. We are sending photographs to Cairo to have him identified.” I did not mention Herr Morgenstern’s failure to recognize him.