“I am well aware of that,” I said impatiently. Emerson had recently got into the habit of lecturing instead of answering a simple question, much in the manner of our son, Ramses. I intended to break both of them of it as soon as was possible.

“So to return to your original question,” I went on, “why was this object brought to us?”

I paused to draw breath, and Emerson said, looking uncharacteristically shy, “I have a theory.”

“Splendid, my dear,” I said encouragingly.

“The broken figurine is itself a coded message: Amarna—damage, looting, destruction!”

“Well!” I exclaimed. “I must say, Emerson, that is very ingenious. We may take it, then, as an appeal for help, and an urgent appeal at that. I will send a telegram to Selim immediately, telling him that we are on our way and to get our dahabeeyah there as quickly as possible. If you will assist me in packing your—”

“Curse it!” Emerson shouted. “We are getting off onto one of those digressions that so often occur when I attempt to have a sensible conversation!”

“Really, Emerson!” I said indignantly.

Emerson went on before I could continue. “Let us take advantage of this temporary lull to recapitulate. Start from the beginning. How did the dead man end up on the floor of your bath chamber? Be succinct, I beg.”

“There is not much to tell, Emerson. I was enjoying a pleasant soak when the soon-to-be-dead man staggered in and collapsed. He must have been stabbed immediately before he entered, since he could not have gone far in that condition.”

Emerson lit his pipe. “Weren’t you the one who once pointed out to me that an individual wounded by a sharp, narrow-bladed knife often goes some distance before he realizes he is injured? His murderer may not have been anywhere near him when he collapsed.”

“True,” I admitted. “And the deed may have been done so quickly it could have passed unnoticed even by a close witness. A hearty slap on the back, a jovial—”

“Point taken, Peabody.”

“We could ask the suffragis if any of them observed such an encounter.”

“Greatly as I enjoy your flights of fancy, my dear, the scenario you have described with such panache is only one of several possibilities.”

“Give me another, then.”

“A shove and a stumble, a helpful hand on the shoulder,” said Emerson promptly. “A phalanx of purported tourists marching down the hallway and pushing everyone out of their way, engulfing the victim.”

“That is a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve seen them do it. Frequently led,” Emerson went on, “by several iron-jawed females who behave as if they owned the hotel.”

Feeling obliged to defend my sex, I said, “I have seen iron-jawed men behave the same way. Many of them are members of the military.”

“Quite so,” Emerson admitted. “Let us abandon conjecture and deal with the fact itself.”

“A dead man on my bath chamber floor,” I said helpfully.