“Oh, the devil,” Emerson muttered, “I suppose I must. You will get it out of me anyhow. I am somewhat surprised that the same explanation has not occurred to you. Who other than myself would intervene to protect you?”

“Ah,” I said. “You fear there is another assassin here in Amarna, and in disguise. Well, I confess I am relieved. That assumption renders your recent habit of leaping on people explicable, if rash.”

“To be honest, Peabody, that idea had not entered my mind. No assassin would attack when you are surrounded by other people—especially me. We both know Sethos is here. What if he has been awaiting an opportunity to kidnap you again?”

“It seems plausible,” I acknowleged, “especially since Herr Morgenstern seems to have made a significant discovery. It is a magnet for local thieves as well as those from the Continent. But you must apply reason before you knock people down. For instance, Sethos cannot possibly be Mr. Buddle. He is a good six inches shorter than Sethos.”

“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.