But the order came too late; only a few inches of sand remained and even I could see a shape too regular to be a natural formation. With a loud exclamation, Emerson dropped to his knees next to the excavated area and took a brush to clear the object of the remaing vestiges of sand. My cry of “Emerson!” mingled with von Raubritter’s “No, Professor!” was to no avail. Only physical restraint can stop Emerson when he is on the trail of an important find.

“It is the head of a queen or princess,” Emerson pronounced as he stood up. “Part of a composite statue. The crown would have been a separate piece, attached by means of this protuberance. As you see, Peabody, it was not finished. The surface is unpolished, and the faint vertical line from brow to chin indicates that the sculptor intended to continue working on it.”

Von Raubritter could not constrain himself from displaying superior knowledge. “This is part of the workroom of a sculptor named Thutmose. I was told that Herr Borchardt was euphoric when he came across an ivory horse blinker amidst the rubbish. It was inscribed with Thutmose’s name and job title as official court sculptor of Akhenaton. Since Herr Morgenstern has taken over, we have uncovered more than a dozen plaster casts of faces and full heads, along with tools and jars of pigments.”

Emerson raised his eyebrows. “It is a woman. Do you suppose it could be Queen Nefertiti?”

I repressed a strong urge to poke Emerson with something sharp, but since I was loath to wield my parasol for a second time in less than an hour, I had to content myself with a whispered reprimand. “That was not a wise move, Emerson. Look at them.”

“They” were the usual suspects—potential tomb robbers and other miscreants, scattered among the band of folk curious to see what we would do next and who had followed us. They had stopped when we stopped, at a safe distance from Emerson, and there was a good deal of jostling as everyone tried to get the best view. I recognized Mahmud Farouk’s blind white eye and frosty brows, the piebald beard of Asmar, the pockmarked countenance of Mustafa Ahmed from our first sojourn at Amarna. If Sethos was among them, he was well disguised.

“They will be back tonight,” I went on, “for they know that where there is one, there may be more.”

“I shall not allow that,” said Emerson. He raised his voice to his famous bellow. “I will be here tonight, all night! Let he who would brave the wrath of the Father of Curses—”

“You have made your point, my dear, and very eloquently. Now give the brush to Herr von Raubritter. It has been a busy day and I would like to enjoy a late luncheon and rest.”