Which was precisely what he did say.

The path was one we knew well, following the river as far as was possible before striking out across the sandy, sun-baked plain toward the ruins of Akhenaton’s once-beautiful city. We were still in the blessed shade of the cultivation, the belt of fertile soil on either side of the Nile, when we saw a man striding briskly toward us. He was a comical-looking fellow, with protuberant eyes and hair that poked straw-colored wisps out from under his hat. His white suit was tainted with dust, but his bright red bow tie appeared to be impeccable. He began calling out to us in a shrill voice when we were still some distance away. “No one is allowed near the excavation! Leave at once!”

“Who the devil are you?” Emerson demanded.

The little man drew himself up to his full height (five and a half feet, at best). “Octavius Buddle, representing Herr Morgenstern.”

“Good Gad!” Emerson said, startled. He gave me a sharp look. “Fancy that. Peabody, here is Mr. Octavius Buddle, alive and well.”

“I do believe your assessment is accurate,” I replied, “although we have yet to examine his back. Would you be so accommodating as to turn around, Mr. Buddle?”

“I shall do no such thing!”

“Then you leave me with only one option,” I said as I hooked his arm with my parasol and yanked him to one side. “He is intact and unharmed,” I informed Emerson, who seemed immoderately entertained by the man’s yelp of indignation. “How shall we proceed?” Knowing my husband as well as I do, I knew we were both wondering if we ought to inform him about the card found in the would-be assassin’s pocket.

Emerson shrugged. “Do you know who we are, Mr. Buddle?”

He looked us up and down with a cool self-confidence that I feared was bound to irritate my easily irritated spouse. “Professor and Mrs. Emerson, I presume. Herr Morgenstern was particularly insistent that you should not be admitted to the site. Kindly leave at once.”

“Bah,” said Emerson. “You have given me no reason to suppose you have such authority, Mr. Buddle. That Morgenstern should appoint you as his second-in-command is nonsense. I wish to speak with Morgenstern himself.”

“He is not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I see no reason why I should answer that question, Professor, but in fact Herr Morgenstern is in Cairo.”

“Ridiculous,” I said, forestalling a rude response from Emerson. “He should have been back here some time ago. Be so kind as to tell us when you expect him.”

“I don’t see why I should tell you anything, Mrs. Emerson,” Buddle said with a priggish frown.

Emerson coolly picked him up and set him aside. “I do not know you, sir, but I am certain of two facts: first, that you are no archaeologist, dressed as you are; and second, that you have taken it upon yourself, without authorization, to speak for Morgenstern. Whom the devil do you represent?”