“So ‘lettuce,’” I said, “must stand for ‘spy’ or ‘agent.’”

“That is right,” Emerson exclaimed. “I remember now. How did you know?”

“Because the War Office is obsessed with German spies. Humboldt, of course, is Morley. Why Humboldt, I wonder? Really, one could almost anticipate their instructions without any written orders at all. We are left with only two unknowns. I would hazard a guess that ‘pomegranates’ is an adverb-‘immediately’ or ‘posthaste.’ What about ‘v.I.’?”

“Any ideas?” Emerson inquired hopefully.

“Nothing occurs to you?”

Emerson fingered the dimple, or cleft, in his chin. “Honestly, Peabody, it strikes no chord whatsoever. Thanks to your intelligent reminders I now recall a good many other words-Dutch for British, Norwegian for French, Julius for Wilhelm-”

“Caesar for Kaiser,” I said contemptuously. “Why on earth would Kaiser Wilhelm need to be mentioned?”

“Well, one never knows what the old buzzard will be up to next,” said Emerson. He proceeded to reel off several dozen other words and their code equivalents, which I immediately committed to memory, knowing that Emerson would probably have forgotten them next day. However, try as he might, he was unable to interpret the final, unknown word.

“It could mean anything,” I said. “A place name in Jerusalem, a day of the week. In any case, the instructions are clear. We are to proceed immediately to Jerusalem because Morley has been in contact with someone the War Office believes to be a German agent-although precisely what they expect us to do about it I cannot imagine. If this rain lets up we should be able to leave tomorrow.”

“You mean, then, to abandon our son?” Emerson’s manly tones were tremulous with reproach.

I repeated the arguments I had used with Nefret. The one that finally convinced Emerson was the last-that we might endanger Ramses by going openly in search of him.

“We cannot be certain that he is held prisoner,” I concluded. “Ramses may have had some obscure motive for using a woman’s handkerchief-his motives are often obscure-or someone may have added it without his knowledge.”

“For equally obscure motives,” Emerson grumbled.

“I can think of at least two that are not obscure to me.”

“That does not surprise me in the least.” After a moment, Emerson added, “What are they?”

“Time is getting on,” I said, rising. “Nefret will be pounding on the door before long, demanding to know what we intend to do. Are you and I agreed? We must present a united front, since I expect protests from both Nefret and David.”

“I suppose so,” said Emerson glumly.

“I think we have time for a little sip of whiskey,” I suggested. “It was clever of you, my dear, to think of bringing several bottles.”

A little compliment, I always say, smooths over small disagreements. (The whiskey was no deterrent either.) Emerson cheered up and even agreed to change his trousers before Nefret, as I had predicted, knocked emphatically at our door.

“You haven’t changed for dinner,” I said.

“Neither have you.” She settled herself into a chair and gave me a challenging look. “Is that whiskey? May I have some?”

Except for wine and sherry before dinner, Nefret seldom touched alcoholic beverages. On this occasion I saw no reason to deny her request. It might put her in a more pliable mood.

The others soon joined us and we returned to the café where we had lunched. The rain had stopped and the air smelled clean and fresh. Once we were seated I made my announcements, since I believe in taking the bull by the horns-or, as Emerson had once expressed it, riding roughshod over objections.

“We are leaving for Jerusalem first thing tomorrow morning. I will make arrangements for travel this evening. There is a good carriage road, but if anyone would prefer to ride we can hire horses. Selim, I am sure you would rather do that. In fact, I would appreciate it if you would take charge of selecting the beasts. Nefret, what about you?”

“I too would prefer to ride,” Nefret said quietly.

“And I,” said David.

“And you, Mr. Plato?” I asked, expecting I would have to explain what I was talking about.

“I have not bestrode a beast since that memorable day on the road to Damascus,” Plato replied. “It was not a horse, of course. A dear little donkey.”

Emerson decided he too would ride if he could find a steed up to his weight, so after we had returned to the hotel I left the others to make the necessary arrangements and went to my room to pack.

The sun was setting and lingering clouds darkened the west; even after I had lighted the lamps the room was gloomy and dismal. It had to have been the War Office that had selected this particular hotel; it could not have been recommended by any fastidious traveler.

Another idea came to me then, and I let out a little expletive of annoyance. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I had had a good deal on my mind, but that was no excuse. I usually have a great deal on my mind.

Picking up my handbag and my parasol, I hurried back to the lobby. Mr. Boniface was not behind the desk. Under interrogation the clerk on duty admitted he was in his office and indicated the door to that room.

I did not knock. Boniface had his feet on his desk, a cigar in one hand and a glass of amber liquid in the other. My unexpected appearance caused him to drop the cigar and spill a considerable quantity of the liquid onto his shirtfront.

“What a hypocrite you are,” I said. “Swilling liquor in your office while refusing to supply it in this temperance hotel of yours. Are you also an agent of the British government?”

The question made his eyes widen even more. His mustache vibrated with agitation. “Good God,” he gasped. “Mrs. Emerson-please…don’t say such things! Not with the door standing open!”

I closed the door and took a chair. “Confess, Mr. Boniface. What are you afraid of? We are on the same side, I believe. If I am correct, and I am certain I am, your hotel is a communication center for agents working in this region. Really,” I added vexedly, as Boniface continued to gape stupidly at me, “this cursed obsession with secrecy is a confounded nuisance. The time may come when I will need to use that system of communication. Who gave you the code message you passed on to me today?”

Boniface took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “You’ve got it all wrong, Mrs. Emerson. That is…Yes, I do receive and pass on messages. But that is all I do! I don’t know names. I don’t want to know them. That is the truth, I swear.”

“You didn’t know the man who delivered that message?”

“Never saw him before in my life. Dressed like a pilgrim-spectacles, dark suit, clerical collar. But he gave me the sign, so I knew he was-”

“Sign? What sign?”

Solemnly Boniface pinched the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger and wriggled it back and forth. He looked perfectly ridiculous, with his bulging eyes and perspiring brow.

“Ah,” I said. “That could come in useful. Though it seems to me a rather unsafe signal. It might be made by chance.”

“It’s the number of times that matters,” Boniface said. He seemed almost relieved to have unburdened himself. “Back and forth, back and forth. Twice, no more.”

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Boniface, for your cooperation. I believe you know we are leaving in the morning. I may or may not see you again.”

I deduced, from Boniface’s expression, he hoped the second alternative was the correct one.

I had almost finished my (and Emerson’s) packing when he returned to announce that the arrangements had been made.

“According to Selim, the horses are a poor lot, but Nefret says they are healthy enough.”

“Selim’s standards are high,” I remarked. “And he prefers to believe nothing in this country is the equal of what Egypt can provide. I trust the others have gone to their rooms to pack?”