“I did not knock Buddle down,” Emerson said self-righteously. “Von Raubritter could be Sethos. He is of the right height, and a scar can be an element of disguise. It distracts one from other features.”

Pleased to hear him argue lucidly, I nodded. “Well done, my dear. However, a more likely candidate is the gentleman covered with black hair. We cannot keep calling him ‘the hirsute man’; he must have a name and a plausible reason for being here. Mr. Buddle identified him as a missionary who hovered about the site, but we must inquire further. Selim is the obvious person to ask. Where is he?”

“At the bl—blasted Workmen’s Village, supervising the men.”

“Where we should have been, rather than encroaching on Herr Morgenstern’s concession.”

“It isn’t my fault, Peabody. With half my staff missing, there was little to be done today. Where the devil is Ramses? I sent him a letter last month that I need him and David. How can I concentrate on work when there are all these distractions? Protecting you, my dearest, takes precedence over all other things.”

He advanced upon me, arms outstretched, and I allowed him to seize me in a fond embrace. I enjoy Emerson’s embraces at all times, and I hoped this one would keep him in a milder frame of mind. Unfortunately his attentions had just reached an interesting stage when a disembodied voice announced, “Luncheon is served.”

The voice was that of Mahmoud, our excellent steward. He and the other servants liked to know that we were “being friendly,” as one of them had put it, but Emerson did not like to be seen when he was being friendly, and neither did I.

Nefret had decided to dine in her cabin. We ate on the upper deck, as was our custom when the weather was fine, as was the case today. The sky was blue, and the air was so clear we could see the sweep of the enclosing cliffs, bleached to pale yellow by the sunshine.

Upon our arrival, I had sent one of our fellows to fetch Selim. When he appeared, Emerson greeted him with pleasure.

“Good of you to come, Selim. Sit down and join us.”

Selim nodded his thanks and said, “Father of Curses, I have already questioned the local villagers about the hairy person. His name is Theodor Dullard and he has been preaching to the fellahin about Issa.”

“Jesus!” Emerson exclaimed.

“Emerson!” I exclaimed.

“Merely translating, my dear. As you seem to have forgotten, ‘Issa’ is the Arabic word for Jesus, who is regarded as a great prophet by Moslems. Dullard ought to be warned, Selim. Moslems do not tolerate proselytizers.”

“He is preaching to the Christians,” Selim said.

The Coptic Church has existed in Egypt since the first century. Initially tolerated by the Moslem conquerors, occasionally persecuted, it has flourished in certain areas of Egypt. There was a predominantly Coptic village in the region. We had had very little to do with the residents thereof, since our workmen were all related in some degree to Abdullah, and all were devout Moslems. “Preaching to the Christians,” as Selim put it, was acceptable since nobody—except perhaps the Copts—cared what they thought.