I fully expected that at breakfast the next day Emerson would have something more to say about the events of the previous morning. However, he appeared to feel that the subject had been sufficiently discussed when we had retired to our cabin after dinner. He had certainly discussed it at length and went on doing so even after he fell asleep; several times I was awakened by a large hand fumbling at me and a voice muttering curses. I had persuaded him not to stand guard at the site the night before. The mere possibility that he might appear from behind a boulder or a wall would be enough to deter potential thieves, some of whom regarded him as having supernatural powers like his son. (Ramses’s Egyptian soubriquet, I regret to say, is Brother of Demons.)

There were three of us at table. Nefret had not yet come down. Emerson had just enough energy to ask in dying tones, “Is there . . . is there coffee?” I at once supplied him with that beverage, for I was familiar with his habits. Knowing it would take several cups to restore his father to coherence, Ramses continued our discussion.

“Mother, I am familiar with your views on proper conversation at table, but this may be the best opportunity to talk about certain matters before Nefret joins us. I must ask you if you have had any new ideas as to the identity of your attacker?”

“Hmm,” I said. “That is an interesting question. If the fellow was a hired assassin, he was carrying out orders from someone else, his employer. This unknown employer engaged the services of yet another assassin who left that ugly slash on your arm. What happens if the first attempt fails, as it did in both circumstances? Is the original assassin—in your case, obviously—bound to keep on trying? Or, if he has been put out of commission, must he supply a substitute or perhaps return the payment? For we must assume that they demand payment in advance, since—”

“Mother,” Ramses said impatiently, “please concentrate. Who are these monocled people and why are they bent on our untimely demises?”

At this point the door burst open with such force that it slammed back against the wall. Framed in the doorway, with the sunlight behind her, Nefret resembled one of the goddesses of vengeance, her red-golden hair forming a blazing aureole around her face.

“You were listening at the door,” I said reprovingly.

“Apparently I must, since no one in this family trusts me enough to confide in me!” she retorted, glaring in turn at each of us.

Emerson let out a rumble of protest, and I said, “My dear girl, we were only trying to spare you needless concern. There is nothing you can do—”

“Yes, there is! I can answer Ramses’s question.”

Four

Nefret crossed her arms. “Geoffrey.”