On my way to our cabin, I stopped and tapped softly on Nefret’s door. There was no reply, so I peeked inside and saw that the dear girl was sound asleep. The thought of a nap held immense appeal, but I needed to wash away the soot from the train ride and the dust from the rocky expanse of Amarna, tidy my hair, and don a suitable tea gown for our guest.

Mr. Dullard arrived promptly at four o’clock. I tried not to stare at him, but he was certainly an extraordinary figure. Had his feet been bare, I was sure they would have sported the same thick layer of black hair as his hands did. When he greeted me in a precise, high-pitched voice, I had difficulty controlling my reaction because the contrast between his appearance and his speech was so extreme. As I escorted him into the salon, I offered a brief apology for Emerson’s assault, since Emerson had made it clear that he himself would do no such thing, under any circumstances whatsoever, and my mere suggestion that he do so was preposterous. At least I think that was what he said, since his bellow echoed in the salon and he had inserted a remarkable number of curse words into his diatribe. While we waited for tea to be served, I lapsed into general remarks about the weather. Our guest replied in kind, while Emerson snorted periodically.

The missionary tucked into the food with good appetite. He was finishing his third cup of tea when Emerson suddenly reached across the table and seized him by the beard.

Dullard dropped his cup and began emitting shrieks of pain and surprise. After several sharp tugs, Emerson released it.

“Really, Emerson!” I cried out. “Apologize to Mr. Dullard at once.”

“I shan’t,” Emerson replied with maddening complacency. “It was necessary for me to ascertain that his hirsute appearance is genuine and not assumed for the purpose of disguise.”

Tears filled Dullard’s eyes. “I take it most unkindly, sir, that you should mock my unfortunate appearance. It is a hereditary family trait, and a source of grief to us, my sisters in particular.”

“For God’s sake, man, don’t cry!” snapped Emerson. “And don’t grovel! Stand your ground and don’t apologize for something you cannot help.”

“Emerson,” I said. “Look at Mr. Dullard’s eyes.”

“Why the blazes should I?”

“Look at his eyes. What is the one characteristic of Sethos that he has trouble disguising?”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. He knew the answer but was reluctant to admit he had acted rashly.

“Sethos’s eyes are an indeterminate shade between green and brown. Mr. Dullard’s are dark brown.”

Emerson parried with “I know that you are aware of the artificial scleral lenses created by Frick, and improved by Girard in the eighteen eighties. A person versed in disguises might have found a way to alter his eye color.”