Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [95]
“I don’t know what was wrong with him,” I admitted. “If he were not such an intrepid fellow, I would suspect he simply fainted.”
“Ha,” said Emerson.
“Jeer as much as you like, you cannot deny the man’s courage. He is no coward.”
Emerson shrugged and began to scoop away more sand.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” I asked. “You have had one painting destroyed; uncover this, and it will meet the same fate. Its only safety now lies in obscurity.”
“Perhaps its survival is not my chief concern,” Emerson replied, still scooping. “We must have some lure for our mysterious visitor; better to lose this than Miss Evelyn.”
I studied him in silence for several minutes.
“I cannot believe you mean that,” I said finally.
“No, I am sure you have the lowest possible opinion of me and all my works. It is true, nevertheless.”
There was a new note in his voice, one I had not heard before. Anger he had displayed, contempt, disgust; but never such weary bitterness. I felt peculiarly affected.
“I do not have a low opinion of you,” I said—mumbled, rather.
Emerson turned.
“What did you say?”
We presented a ridiculous picture. Half kneeling, half squatting, Emerson was leaning forward to peer into my face. His hands rested on the ground, and his posture rather suggested that of an inquisitive orangutan. My own position, squatting on my heels with my skirts bunched up around me, was no less ludicrous. I was not conscious of absurdity or incongruity, however, I was only conscious of his eyes, blue and glittering as sapphires, holding my gaze with a strange intensity. Their look was too much to endure; my eyes fell, and my face felt uncomfortably warm.
And then the sound of a voice shattered the spell. Looking up, I saw Walter coming toward us. Emerson sat back.
“Radcliffe,” Walter began, “what do you suppose has—”
He stopped speaking and looked from one of us to the other. “Is something wrong? Have I interrupted—”
“Nothing,” Emerson said coldly. “You have not interrupted. What is it, Walter? You appear agitated.”
“Agitated? I am, indeed! And so will you be, when you hear what transpired last night.”
“I know what transpired,” Emerson said, in the same cool voice.
I looked at him from under my lashes. His face was as impassive as one of the stone pharaohs in the Boulaq Museum. I decided I must have imagined the fleeting look of passionate inquiry. I was tired, after a sleepless night, and subject to fancies.
“Then Miss Amelia has told you,” Walter said innocently. “Radcliffe, something must be done, this is frightful! You must persuade the ladies to leave—now—today! Come back to camp, I beg, and use your powers of persuasion. I cannot seem to prevail with either Miss Evelyn or his lordship.”
“Oh, very well,” Emerson grumbled, rising to his feet.
Walter extended his hand to me. His brother stalked away and we followed. When we caught him up, Walter continued to express his horror and alarm. Finally Emerson interrupted.
“Walter, you are babbling, and I don’t believe you have thought the matter through. Suppose we do succeed in sending Miss Evelyn away; will that solve the difficulty? If the Mummy is a supernatural agent, which all you fools seem to believe, it can follow her wherever she goes. It can equally well follow her if it is not supernatural! Since you seem to be more concerned with her safety than with the success of our work here, perhaps you would agree that we ought to bend all our efforts on ascertaining the creature’s motives, and apprehending it.”
Walter looked distressed. The reasoning made some impression on his intellect, but all his protective instincts were at war with his brain; he wanted to see Evelyn out of danger.
“Indeed,” I put in, “we really have no reason to suppose that the creature means Evelyn any harm. Both of you, and Lucas as well, have taken injury, but Evelyn has not