“ Fatima told me you were here,” Nefret explained, taking a chair. “Why aren’t you at Giza with the Professor and Ramses?”

“I didn’t feel like it today.”

“But my dear Aunt Amelia! You have been waiting all your life to get at those pyramids. Is something wrong?”

“It is all Emerson’s fault,” I explained. “He was going on and on about the war and how it has changed our lives; by the time I finished cheering him up I felt as if I had given him my entire store of optimism and had none left for myself.”

“I know what you mean. But you mustn’t be sad. Things could be worse.”

“People only say that when ‘things’ are already very bad,” I grumbled. “You look as if you could stand a dose of optimism yourself. Is that a spot of dried blood on your neck?”

“Where?” Her hand flew to her throat.

“Just under your ear. You were at the hospital?”

She sat back with a sigh. “There is no deceiving you, is there? I thought I’d got myself cleaned up. Yes; I stopped by after the luncheon, just as they brought in a woman who was hemorrhaging. She had tried to abort herself.”

“Did you save her?”

“I think so. This time.”

Nefret had a large fortune and an even larger heart; the small clinic she had originally founded had been replaced by a women’s hospital. The biggest difficulty was in finding female physicians to staff it, for naturally no Moslem woman, respectable or otherwise, would allow a man to examine her.

“Where was Dr. Sophia?” I asked.

“There, as she always is. But I’m the only surgeon on the staff, Aunt Amelia—the only female surgeon in Egypt , so far as I know. I’d rather not talk about it anymore, if you don’t mind. It’s your turn. Nothing particular has happened, has it? Any news from Aunt Evelyn?”

“No. But we can assume that they are all perfectly miserable too.” She laughed and squeezed my hand, and I added, “Ramses was given another white feather today.”

“He’ll have enough for a pillow soon,” said Ramses’s foster sister heartlessly. “Surely that isn’t what is bothering you. There is something more, Aunt Amelia. Tell me.”

Her eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, held mine. I gave myself a little mental shake. “Nothing more, my dear, really. Enough of this! Shall we ask Fatima to bring tea?”

“I am going to wash my neck first,” said Nefret, with a grimace. “We may as well wait for the Professor and Ramses. Do you think they will be long?”

“I hope not. We are dining out tonight. I ought to have reminded Emerson, but what with one thing and another, I forgot.”

“Two social engagements in one day?” Nefret grinned. “He will roar.”

“It was his suggestion.”

“The Professor suggested dining out? With whom is your appointment, if I may ask?”

“Mr. Thomas Russell, the Assistant Commissioner of Police.”

“Ah.” Nefret’s eyes narrowed. “Then it isn’t a simple social engagement. The Professor is on someone’s trail. What is it this time, the theft of antiquities, forgery of antiquities, illegal dealing in antiquities? Or—oh, don’t tell me it’s the Master Criminal again!”

“You sound as if you hope it were.”

“I’d love to meet Sethos,” Nefret said dreamily. “I know, Aunt Amelia, he’s a thief and a swindler and a villain, but you must admit he is frightfully romantic. And his hopeless passion for you—”

“That is very silly,” I said severely. “I don’t expect ever to see Sethos again.”

“You say that every time—just before he appears out of nowhere, in time to rescue you from some horrible danger.”

She was teasing me, and I knew better than to respond with the acrimony the mention of Sethos always inspired. He had indeed come to my assistance on several occasions; he did profess a deep attachment to my humble self; he had never pressed his attentions… Well, hardly ever. The fact remained that he had been for many years our most formidable adversary, controlling the illegal-antiquities game and robbing museums, collectors and archaeologists with indiscriminate skill. Though we had sometimes foiled his schemes, truth compels me to admit that more often we had not. I had encountered him a number of times, under conditions that might reasonably be described as close, but not even I could have described his true appearance. His eyes were of an ambiguous shade between gray and brown, and his skill at the art of disguise enabled him to alter their color and almost every other physical characteristic.

“For pity’s sake, don’t mention him to Emerson!” I exclaimed. “You know how he feels about Sethos. There is no reason whatever to suppose he is in Egypt .”

“ Cairo is crawling with spies,” Nefret said. She leaned forward, clasping her hands. She was in dead earnest now. “The authorities claim all enemy aliens have been deported or interned, but the most dangerous of them, the professional foreign agents, will have eluded arrest because they aren’t suspected of being foreigners. Sethos is a master of disguise who has spent many years in Egypt . Wouldn’t a man like that be irresistibly drawn to espionage, his talents for sale to the highest bidder?”

“No,” I said. “Sethos is an Englishman. He would not—”

“You don’t know for certain that he is English. And even if he is, he would not be the first or the last to betray his country.”

“Really, Nefret, I refuse to go on with this ridiculous discussion!”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

“I am not angry! Why should I be—” I broke off. Fatima had come up with the tea tray. I motioned to her to put it on the table.

“There’s no use pretending this is a normal season for us, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret said quietly. “How can it be, with a war going on, and the Canal less than a hundred miles from Cairo ? Sometimes I find myself looking at people I’ve known for years, and wondering if they are wearing masks—playing a part of some kind.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” I said firmly. “You are letting war nerves get the better of you. As for Emerson, I assure you he is exactly what he seems. He cannot conceal his feelings from me.”

“Hmmm,” said Nefret. “All the same, I think I will join you this evening, if I may.”

When she proposed the scheme later, Emerson agreed so readily that Nefret was visibly cast down—reasoning, I suppose, that he would not have allowed her to come if he was “up to something.” She decided to come anyhow. Ramses declined. He said he had other plans, but might join us later if we were dining at Shepheard’s.

Ramses made a point of arriving early at the Club so that he could not be refused a table. The committee would have loved an excuse to bar him altogether, but he had carefully avoided committing the unforgivable sins, such as cheating at cards.

From his vantage point in an obscure corner he watched the dining room fill up. Half the men were in uniform, the drab khaki of the British Army outshone and outnumbered by the gaudy red and gold of the British-led Egyptian Army. They were all officers; enlisted men weren’t allowed in the Turf Club. Neither were Egyptians of any rank or position.

He had almost finished his meal before the table next to his was occupied by a party of four—two middle-aged officials escorting two ladies. One of the ladies was Mrs. Pettigrew, who had presented him with his latest white feather. She and her husband always reminded him of Tweedledum and Tweedledee; as some married couples do, they had come to resemble one another to an alarming degree. Both were short and stout and red-faced. Ramses rose with a polite bow, and was not at all surprised when Mrs. Pettigrew cut him dead. As soon as they were all seated they put their heads together and began a low-voiced conversation, glancing occasionally in his direction.

Ramses didn’t doubt he was the subject of the conversation. Pettigrew was one of the most pompous asses in the Ministry of Public Works and one of the loudest patriots in Cairo . The other man was Ewan Hamilton, an engineer who had come to Egypt to advise on the Canal defenses. A quiet, inoffensive man by all accounts, his only affectation was the kilt ( Hamilton tartan, Ramses assumed) he often wore. That night he was resplendent in formal Scottish dress: a bottle-green velvet jacket with silver buttons, lace at his chin and cuffs. And, Ramses speculated, a skean dhu in his sock? Gray tarnished the once-blazing red of his hair and mustache, and he squinted in a way that suggested he ought to be wearing spectacles.