“We must thank you for your kind invitation,” twittered Miss Smith. “I never dreamed I would dine with such illustrious persons. I shall write a letter to my editor, relating all the details. He will be most impressed.” She put her hand on Mr. Dullard’s shoulder. “Come along, it is getting late.”

Mr. Dullard wobbled to his feet and thanked us profusely for our hospitality. He then thanked Nefret for saving Herr Morgenstern’s life, and might have gone into the kitchen to thank Fatima for her baba ghanoush had not Miss Smith taken his arm and steered him toward the door. I followed them to the deck and discreetly tried to help Mr. Dullard down our narrow pier. He shook off my hand and staggered toward the shore, zigzagging precariously. I hurried after him to prevent him from toppling into the water. I was not overly concerned that he would be attacked by crocodiles, but I had no idea if he could swim.

Miss Smith joined us on solid ground. “I am worried that he will not be able to row his boat across the Nile. What shall we do with him, Mrs. Emerson?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh dear,” she began, then gasped. “What is that noise?”

I looked in the direction of the cultivation. The thickness of the trees and bushes allowed very little moonlight to penetrate. “A horse’s hooves in the distance, but coming closer. I think it wise to return to the dahabeeyah immediately.”

“I shall protect you!” proclaimed Mr. Dullard in his high-pitched voice. It was not reassuring, to be candid. He was large, but he was unlikely to be able to subdue a galloping horse.

I stared intently into the shadows. “There is a rider, but I cannot make out his features. He seems to be wearing a blue or black thobe and a turban, and he has some type of sword in his hand.” I yanked Miss Smith’s arm. “We must retreat now!”

“Who could it be?” she asked me in a tremulous voice.

I tightened my grasp. “Let us discuss that from the safety of the dahabeeyah. We must retreat! Mr. Dullard, listen to me!”

Only a few trees were separating us from the rider and his horse when Mr. Dullard snatched up a rock and hurled it with the velocity of a celebrated bowler. “Stop, you villain!” he shrieked.

I do not know if the missile or the shriek caused the horse to rear up in alarm. It came down hard and veered into the trees. The rider had risen on the saddle to keep his balance, and failed to duck when the horse almost collided with an acacia tree. Unfortunately, a V-shaped branch caught the man by his neck; as the horse disappeared, the rider’s feet swung like a pendulum below him.

“Holy mother of Jesus,” said Mr. Dullard in a more subdued voice.