It was not a topic I cared to discuss. “Tomorrow morning I must call upon Mr. Russell at his office. I have been remiss in sharing information with him about these horrid Godwins. Afterward, I suppose I ought to tell M. Maspero what we suspect about Morgenstern’s treachery.”

Daoud growled as he looked over my shoulder. I was somewhat perturbed that he was crouching, his hands on the arms of the chair, prepared to bound across the terrace without regard for anyone (including me) in his path. I took a peek and turned back. “No, Daoud. Miss Smith is not an assassin. She is harmless, if a bit wearisome. She seems to have continued shopping; her helper resembles a beast of burden. Shall I order more sandwiches?”

“I think not, Mother,” Ramses said, already on his feet. He held out his hand to assist me. “Let us retreat to our chambers for a conversation about the wisdom of acknowledging strangers who approach you in public.”

I pointedly ignored his hand as I rose. “I am neither a child nor a dithery ingenue, Ramses, and I will not tolerate being scolded.” I turned on my heel and walked into the lobby, hoping dearly that I didn’t run into the cause of the spat. To my relief, Miss Smith had continued on her way. I stopped at the front desk, wrote notes to Mr. Russell and M. Maspero alerting them to my intentions the following day, and requested that the envelopes be delivered as soon as possible. Baksheesh exchanged hands, and I was assured the notes would be presented within the hour. Daoud, Ramses, and David were doing their best to be inconspicuous behind a large potted plant; Daoud’s turban resembled an enormous white rosebud atop the fronds. I granted them the petty triumph of thinking they had fooled me by heading upstairs without a glance in their direction.

All men, no matter their ages or nationalities, are boys at heart. Even Emerson, impeccably well-bred, brilliant, and highly regarded by archaeologists throughout the world, has been known to strut about and crow in a manner not unlike that of Mr. Barrie’s Peter Pan. I smiled as I recalled Emerson’s disquiet when we attended the stage production in 1904. It had taken me a great deal of persuasion to prevent him from bolting out of theatre.

I changed into an appropriately modest dressing gown and settled down to write a letter to Katherine. I did not glance up as Ramses and David entered the sitting room, taking pertinacious pleasure in pretending to be offended. When Ramses offered to prepare a whiskey and soda for me, I merely nodded.

Once libations had been distributed and the men were seated, I put aside my pretense and said, “Is it possible that Herr Morgenstern has taken temporary residence at the Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft villa? He is the director, after all.”