After I had found my parasol and donned my belt of tools, we set out. As always, I was ready to defend my husband should the need arise, but on this occasion I felt I could relax my vigilance. Our loyal men would be with him, and Daoud was a pillar of strength by himself. Daoud was a gentle man, not easily stirred to anger, but his giant frame and simple mind made him a formidable opponent. “Simple” does not mean “stupid.” Daoud was not stupid, but he had a very direct way of looking at difficulties. If there was a problem, one dealt with it promptly and effectively. Then there was no longer a problem.

Emerson interrupted my train of thought by remarking, “You are jangling more than usual today, Peabody. Have you added more—er—objects to that belt of yours?”

“I believe you are familiar with all of them, Emerson. My little pistol, my knife, a sewing kit for stitching up wounds, you know—”

“I do know,” said Emerson emphatically.

“A coil of thin but stout cord—”

“For tying up prisoners.”

“A length of cord is useful in a number of ways, Emerson. To continue: a little flask of whiskey, a compass, an electric torch, a water bottle, a folding cup for I do not consider it ladylike to swig liquid from a bottle or canteen except when under duress—”

“Splendid,” said Emerson. “Yes, yes, well done as usual, Peabody.”

Realizing I had lost his attention (for, after all, he had heard the list a number of times), I fell silent so I could ponder the question of what Morgenstern had stumbled upon. The sculptor Thutmose’s workshop, which contained the plaster casts of practice portrait heads and the ivory horse blinker that von Raubritter had indiscreetly mentioned, was a remarkable find. It is rare that an archaeologist can identify the creator of a sculpture with such sureness, and Morgenstern could publish papers and present lectures long after the excavation was completed. That he would leave the site under the supervision of a subordinate was even more inconceivable. Emerson often had to be discouraged from sleeping at a promising site, but he is, as I am fond of reminding my Readers, the greatest Egyptologist of the nineteenth century, and now the twentieth century. Morgenstern had abandoned a site of great importance, a faux pas worthy of inclusion in the list of deadly sins.

No doubt Emerson had reached this conclusion as well. He had not yet voiced his intentions, but I could read his mind as easily as I read what he derisively calls my “sensational fiction.” I prefer the term “contemporary literature.”