The door swung open.

“Salaam aleikhum,” said Emerson to the servant who stood on the threshold. “Announce us, if you please. Professor Emerson, Mrs. Emerson, and Miss Forth.”

The whites of the man’s eyes gleamed as he rolled them from Emerson to me, to Nefret. He was young, with a scanty beard and thick spectacles, and he appeared to be struck dumb and motionless by our appearance. With a muffled oath Emerson picked him up and carried him, his feet kicking feebly, into the hall.

“Close the door, Peabody ,” he ordered. “Be quick about it. We may not have much time.”

Naturally I obeyed at once. The small room was lit by a hanging lamp. It was of copper, pierced in an intricate design, and gave little light. A carved chest against one wall and a handsome Oriental rug were the only furnishings. At the far end a flight of narrow uncarpeted stairs led up to a landing blocked by a wooden screen.

Emerson sat the servant down on the chest and went to the foot of the stairs. “Wardani!” he bellowed. “Emerson here! Come out of your hole, we must talk.”

If the fugitive was anywhere within a fifty-yard radius, he must have heard. There was no immediate reaction from Wardani, if he was there, but the young servant sprang up, drew a knife from his robe, and flew at Emerson. Nefret lifted her skirts in a ladylike manner and kicked the knife from his hand. The youth was certainly persistent; I had to whack him across the shins with my parasol before he fell down.

“Thank you, my dears,” said Emerson, who had not looked round. “That settles that. He’s here, all right. Upstairs?”

He had just set foot upon the first stair when two things happened. A police whistle sounded, shrill enough to penetrate even the closed door, and from behind the screen at the top of the stairs a man appeared. He wore European clothing except for low slippers of Egyptian style, and his black head was uncovered. I could not make out his features clearly; the light was poor and the dark blur of a beard covered the lower part of his face; but had I entertained any doubt as to his identity, it would have been dispelled when he vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

Fists and feet beat on the door. Amid the shouts of the attackers I made out the voice of Thomas Russell, demanding that the door be opened at once. Emerson said, “Hell and damnation!” and thundered up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Skirts raised to her knees, Nefret bounded up after him. I followed her, hampered to some extent by the parasol, which prevented me from getting a firm grip on my skirts. As I reached the top of the stairs I heard the door give way. Whirling round, I brandished my parasol and shouted, “Stop where you are!”

Somewhat to my surprise, they did. Russell was in the lead. The small room seemed to be filled with uniforms, and I noted, more or less in passing, that the young man who had admitted us had had the good sense to make himself scarce.

“What the devil do you mean by this, Mrs. Emerson?” Russell demanded.

I did not reply, since the answer was obvious. I glanced over my shoulder.

Straight ahead a corridor lined with doors led to the back of the villa. There was an open window at the far end; before it stood the man we had followed, facing Nefret and Emerson, who had stopped halfway along the passage.

“Is that him?” Emerson demanded ungrammatically.

There was no answer from Nefret. Emerson said, “Must be. Sorry about this, Wardani. I had hoped to talk with you, but Russell had other ideas. Another time, eh? We’ll hold them off while you get away. Watch out below, there may be others in the garden.”

Wardani stood quite still for a moment, his frame appearing abnormally tall and slender against the moonlit opening. Then he stepped onto the sill and swung himself out into the night.

Emerson hurried to the window. Putting out his head, he shouted, “Down there! He’s gone that way!” Shouts and a loud thrashing in the shrubbery followed, and several shots rang out. One must have struck the wall near the window, for Emerson ducked back inside, swearing. After milling about in confusion, the policemen who were inside the house ran out of it, led by Russell.

I descended the stairs and went to the door, which they had left open. There appeared to be a great deal of activity going on at the back of the villa, but the street was dark and quiet. Cairenes were not inclined to interfere in other people’s affairs now that the city was under virtual military occupation.

After a short interval I was joined by Emerson and Nefret.

“Where did he go?” I asked.

Emerson brushed plaster dust off his sleeve. “Onto the roof. He’s an agile rascal. We may as well go back to the cab. I’ll wager he’s got well away by now.”

Mr. Russell was quick to arrive at the same conclusion. We had not been waiting long before he joined us.

“Eluded you, did he?” Emerson inquired. “Tsk, tsk.”

“Thanks to you.”

“I was of less assistance than I had hoped to be. Confound you, Russell, if you had given me five minutes more I might have been able to win his trust.”

“Five minutes?” Russell repeated doubtfully.

“It would have taken Mrs. Emerson even less time. Oh, but what’s the use? If you are coming with us, get in. I want to go home.”

We spoke very little on the way back to the hotel. I was preoccupied with an odd idea. I had caught only a glimpse of the silhouetted figure, but for a moment I had had an eerie sense of dйjа vu, as when one sees the unformed features of an infant take on a sudden and fleeting resemblance to a parent or grandparent.

Nefret had put the idea into my head. I told myself it was absurd, and yet… Had I not sworn that I would know Sethos at any time, in any disguise?

The carriage drew up in front of Shepheard’s. Russell got down from the box and opened the door for us.

“It’s still early,” he said pleasantly. “Will you do me the honor of joining me in a liqueur or a glass of brandy, to prove there are no hard feelings?”

“Bah,” said Emerson. But he said no more.

We made our way through the throng of flower vendors and beggars, dragomen and peddlers who surrounded the steps; and as we mounted those steps I beheld a familiar form advancing to meet us.

“Good evening, Mother,” he said. “Good evening, Nefret. Good evening—”

“Ramses,” I exclaimed. “What have you done now?”

It might have been more accurate to ask what someone had done to him. He had made an attempt to tidy himself, but the raised weal across his cheek was still oozing blood and the surrounding flesh was bruised and swollen.

Russell stepped back. “I must ask to be excused. Good night, Mrs. Emerson—Miss Forth—Professor.”

“Snubbed again,” said Ramses. “Nefret?” He offered her his arm.

“Your coat is torn,” I exclaimed.

Ramses glanced at his shoulder, where a line of white showed against the black of his coat. “Damn. Excuse me, Mother. It’s only a ripped seam, I believe. May we sit down before you continue your lecture?”

Nefret had not said a word. She put her hand on his arm and let him lead her to a table.

In the bright lights of the terrace I got a good look at my companions. Emerson’s cravat was wildly askew—he always tugged at it when he was exasperated—and he had not got all the plaster dust off his coat. Nefret’s hair was coming down, and there was a long rent in my skirt. I tucked the folds modestly about my limbs.

“Dear me,” said Ramses, inspecting us. “Have you been fighting again?”

“I might reasonably ask the same of you,” said his father.

“A slight accident. I’ve been waiting a good half hour or more,” said Ramses accusingly. “The concierge informed me you had left the hotel, but since the motorcar was still here I assumed you would be back sooner or later. Might one inquire—”

“No, not yet,” said Emerson. “Was it here at Shepheard’s that you had your—er—accident?”