“You needn’t come with us,” Emerson said in a kindly manner. “You have your work to do.”

He did come with us, though he had to run to catch up with us, for Emerson had not lingered. So did Mr. Buddle, who had fallen silent, perhaps because he was too out of breath to speak. Once Emerson, Nefret, and von Raubritter were far enough ahead to be out of earshot, I caught Mr. Buddle’s arm and pulled him aside.

“There is something I must tell you,” I said. “You may be in grave danger.”

“That crossed my mind when your husband began throwing innocent persons to the ground,” he said drily. “The man you described as bearish is a missionary who has been observing the excavation from time to time. He and Herr Morgenstern are on a friendly basis. Your husband should have given him the opportunity to introduce himself.”

I saw no need to defend Emerson’s actions, which were justifiable in the present situation. “In Cairo we, ah, encountered a criminal who had a card with your name written upon it. He is, ah, no longer a threat, but he may have associates who wish you harm.”

Mr. Buddle gaped at me. “Who is this man?”

“He may have been using the alias ‘Judas.’ The police have been unable to identify him properly.”

“A man named Judas who is no longer a threat? Mrs. Emerson, I suspect the heat has muddled your senses,” he murmured in a voice laden with condescension. “Why don’t you find a place in the shade to rest, you poor lady?”

Rather than bother to concoct a scathing reply, I increased my pace until I had reached Emerson’s side. He gave me a quizzical look, but I was not in the mood to recount the exchange and seriously endanger Mr. Buddle’s well-being.

Followed by the usual train of curious children and fellahin, we made our way along the edge of the cultivation. We were passing through a cluster of humble houses located in a small grove of palm trees when Emerson stopped short and turned with the panther-like quickness he can display when he chooses. One of the women following us was somewhat taller than the average Egyptian female, and was swathed from head to foot in black, except for a pair of kohl-rimmed dark eyes. Emerson and I are of one mind and one heart; I always know what he is thinking, sometimes before he knows it himself, so when Emerson rushed at the woman I was able to prevent him from knocking her to the ground.

“She is concealing something under her burka!” he exclaimed, trying to fend me off.

There was certainly a bulge, but if Emerson had not been so fixated on potential assassins, he would probably have arrived at the more obvious conclusion. Even after the woman fell to her knees, crying out, he continued to maintain his grip on her shoulder.