The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [10]
The butler inclined his head. Advancing upon Emerson, he offered the salver on which rested a chaste white calling card.
“Hmph,” said Emerson, taking the card. “The Honorable Reginald Forthright. Never heard of him. Tell him to go away, Gargery.”
“No, wait,” I said. “I think you ought to see him, Emerson.”
“Amelia, your insatiable curiosity will be the death of me,” Emerson cried. “I don’t want to see the fellow. I want my whiskey and soda, I want to enjoy the company of my family, I want my dinner. I refuse—”
The door, which Gargery had closed behind him, burst open. The butler staggered back before the impetuous rush of the newcomer. Hatless, dripping, white-faced, he crossed the room in a series of bounds and stopped, swaying, before Walter, who stared at him in astonishment.
“Professor,” he cried. “I know I intrude—I beg you to forgive me—and to hear me—”
And then, before Walter could recover from his surprise or any of us could move, the stranger toppled forward and fell prostrate on the hearthrug.
CHAPTER 2
“My Son Lives!”
EMERSON was the first to break the silence. “Get up at once, you clumsy young ruffian,” he said irritably. “Of all the confounded impudence—”
“For pity’s sake, Emerson,” I exclaimed, hastening to the side of the fallen man. “Can’t you see he has fainted? I shudder to think what unimaginable horror can have reduced him to such straits.”
“No, you don’t,” said Emerson. “You revel in unimaginable horrors. Pray control your rampageous imagination. Fainted, indeed! He is probably drunk.”
“Fetch some brandy at once,” I ordered. With some difficulty—for the unconscious man was heavier than his slight build had led me to expect—I turned him on his back and lifted his head onto my lap.
Emerson folded his arms and stood looking on, a sneer wreathing his well-cut lips. It was Ramses who approached with the glass of brandy I had requested; I took it from him, finding, as I had expected, that the outside of the glass was as wet as the inside.
“I am afraid some was spilled,” Ramses explained. “Mama, if I may make a suggestion—”
“No, you may not,” I replied.
“But I have read that it is inadvisable to administer brandy or any other liquid to an unconscious man. There is some danger of—”
“Yes, yes, Ramses, I am well aware of that. Do be still.”
Mr. Forthright did not appear to be in serious condition. His color was good, and there was no sign of an injury. I estimated his age to be in the early thirties. His features were agreeable rather than handsome, the eyes wide-set under arching brows, the lips full and gently curved. His most unusual physical characteristic was the color of the hair that adorned his upper lip and his head. A bright, unfashionable but nonetheless striking copper, with glints of gold, it curled becomingly upon his temples.
I proceeded with my administrations; it was not long before the young man’s eyes opened and he gazed with wonder into my face. His first words were “Where am I?”
“On my hearthrug,” said Emerson, looming over him. “What a da——er—confounded silly question. Explain yourself at once, you presumptuous puppy, before I have you thrown out.”
A deep blush stained Forthright’s cheeks. “You—you are Professor Emerson?”
“One of them.” Emerson indicated Walter, who adjusted his spectacles and coughed deprecatingly. Admittedly he more nearly resembled the popular picture of a scholar than my husband, whose keen blue eyes and healthy complexion, not to mention his impressive musculature, suggest a man of action rather than thought.
“Oh—I see. I beg your pardon—for the confusion, and for my unpardonable intrusion. But I hope when you hear my story you will forgive and assist me. The Professor Emerson I seek is the Egyptologist whose courage and physical prowess are as famous as are his intellectual powers.”
“Er, hmmm,” said Emerson. “Yes. You have found him. And now, if you will remove yourself from the arms of my wife, at whom you are staring with an intensity that compounds your initial offense…”