“How could they know your name? Even if they learned that you were here as an agent of Ridgemont, why would they believe that you were handling such artifacts? I find it curious that they have doggedly attempted to assassinate my son and me, while ignoring you.”

“I can offer no hypotheses,” Mr. Buddle said apologetically. “You seem to know much more than I about these murderous men. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Emerson, I must find out what is intriguing your husband. At the moment, he is on his knees with a brush.”

“Before you go, please allow me to ask you about von Raubritter. You must have been perturbed that an amateur had seized oversight of the firman. That could not be in the best interest of your patron.”

“What was I to do? The workmen required supervision, and I certainly could not provide even meek commentary. Yes, I became aware immediately that the German lad was incompetent, but he did compel the excavation to continue. I anticipated the return of Morgenstern at any time.”

I frowned at him. “You have no idea why Morgenstern departed in the middle of the night?”

“That missionary chap claimed that Morgenstern had left at the behest of a woman in Cairo. I did not believe this fiddle-faddle, but I was unable to refute it. When he returned, I noted his . . . strange behavior. However, I am here as a discreet and unobtrusive observer. Mr. Ridgemont will be delighted to learn that Professor Emerson is in control of the site. I really must position myself to see this new discovery.”

The only way I could restrain him from walking away would be to leap on his back, which was unthinkable. I may be forthright in speech, but I am the epitome of courtesy. On occasion Emerson has claimed that I am blunt and reckless; he has never suggested that I am oblivious to refined interactions with others. It is one of his more endearing traits (despite his strident and prolonged lectures in the aftermath of certain minor events).

I was eager to examine the serdab. Mr. Buddle and Mr. Dullard stood as closely as they dared, leery of intruding into Emerson’s domain. The habitual suspects and fellahin hovered behind them. How the word had spread so quickly was an enigma, yet typical of Egyptian workers. My shoe size was undoubtedly well known, as was Emerson’s addiction to his morning coffee. Gossiping was integral to their society. That is not to imply that the residents of Shepheard’s Hotel allow a minuscule faux pas to take place without long-winded, acerbic commentary and condemnation.

I nudged my way through the crowd. Emerson’s hands were on his hips and he was gloating as he looked down at the partially exposed lid. Some of the workmen had been assigned to other areas of the studio, but they were glancing back surreptitiously to assess the progress. I squeezed Emerson’s shoulder. “How very exciting this is,” I murmured as I considered what might be exposed to daylight after thirty centuries interred beneath the sand.