“We shall see.” I asked him to prepare our boat. It lacks the lithe elegance of a felucca with its voluminous sail that allows it to skim swiftly across the water. When I came aboard, Daoud raised the makeshift sail and managed to catch a faint breeze. We proceeded down the Nile in a slow fashion, as if in a royal regatta on the Thames. I was a bit sorry that I had chosen my pith helmet rather than a stylish hat.

Daoud navigated the boat to a sandbar. “It is not far from here,” he said as he offered me his hand.

“Nicely done,” I said once I was ashore. “Is this the path?”

He nodded reluctantly. “I do not understand why we have come here, Sitt Hakim. The workmen are uneducated and rough. Also, they are at the site. You will find nobody here.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s possible that some of the men brought their wives. We need to determine if von Raubritter was staying among them. If so, I will search his dwelling for information.”

Daoud bowed, but not before I caught a glimpse of his scowl. He led the way between the palm trees and acacias to a collection of tents, crudely built mud huts, circles of stones filled with ashes, and clothing drying on branches. It was uncannily silent.

“As-salaam-alaykum, I am searching for information. There is a reward for anyone who can help me,” I said loudly.

“There is no one here,” pronounced Daoud. “Let us go back to the boat and return to the dahabeeyah.”

I shook my head. “Not yet. I feel a tingle in my spine that tells me I am being watched by someone nearby. You need to step back and stop glowering.” I approached a hut that had been severely damaged by the recent rainstorm. The roof sagged precariously and the exterior walls were bowed. “Hello!” I called in a friendly voice.

A stout young woman draped in a black robe came out of a neighboring hut. Her eyes were ringed with kohl and her upper lip obscured by a faint mustache. “Masa el-kheir,” she whispered.

“And good afternoon to you, madam. I am Amelia Peabody Emerson. Daoud, ask her if a young German man was staying in this vicinity. His name was von Raubritter and he had a scar on his cheek.” With my finger, I drew a line from my cheekbone to the corner of my mouth. “Like this.”

While they conversed, I scrutinized her for any hint of masculinity in her face or hands. My Readers know by now that I am keenly aware of Sethos’s dexterity in matters of illusion and disguise. However, the woman was no taller than I. The suppleness of her skin was that of a girl scarcely past puberty.

“What did she say?” I asked Daoud.