Ramses gestured at the boy to rise. “I will explain while we help you change clothes.”

Emerson was drinking coffee when I returned to the dining room. My belt of useful items clinked like wind chimes as I poured myself a cup of coffee and prepared a plate of tepid eggs. I ate with ravenous disregard for proper etiquette. He politely kept his gaze fixated on the five busts that comprised our current centerpiece. Neither of us looked up as Nefret scooped up the last of the eggs.

As soon as Ramses, David, and Latif appeared, Emerson announced that we were leaving. I slipped a pita sandwich wrapped in a napkin into my pocket as I rose. We walked down the pier and took the path through the cultivation. Nefret repeated what she had told me about Dullard’s ploy to convince the Copts of Deir el-Mowass to arise against the British when German soldiers swept into Egypt to take control of the government.

David stiffened with anger. “The Copts are delusional if they believe this will lead to Egyptian autonomy. King Abbas II is already under threat of being ousted by Lord Kitchener. The Ottomans refuse to acknowledge that Egypt is a British protectorate. Well-armed troops from various factions will collide in Alexandria, Cairo, and destinations to the south.”

“It will be a bloody mess—bloody in that military and civilian lives will be lost,” Emerson said grimly. “It is beyond our control.”

“The only thing we can do is stop Dullard,” I replied. “Furthermore, he must be brought to justice for the murder of Eric von Raubritter.”

Nefret’s shoulders slumped. “We have no proof.”

“To hell with that!” Emerson exclaimed. I anticipated a further outburst of profanities and condemnations concerning the necessity of proof, so I was taken by surprise when he fell silent. A glance over my shoulder confirmed that our entourage was being followed by a number of the Arab men and women who resided in huts along the path.

Nefret put her hand on my arm, and in a low voice said, “Miss Smith did not emerge when our boisterous parade passed by her sad little hut. Is it possible that she has packed her belongings and fled to Minya?”

My current upheaval of emotions depleted into cold reality. “I would engage in a rambunctious celebration if that were true. Emerson would don his tuxedo and waltz with me on the top deck as we drank champagne. Mr. Buddle might produce a smile. Dullard would be heartbroken, but that is of no concern to us—especially if he is incarcerated in a prison in Cairo.”

She gave me a puckish grin. “Would you like me to go back to her hut and find out whether she has vacated it?”