The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [128]
His big brown long-lashed eyes wide and candid, Selim swore. I did not like the loving way he handled the rifle, but with Abdullah beaming with paternal pride, I felt I had little choice. I only hoped that if he did shoot someone, it would be Mohammed and not the reporter from the London Times.
Or even Kevin O’Connell. It was he whom I expected, of course. I was only surprised he had not succeeded in tracking us down before this.
When we returned to camp that evening, after grueling hours in the heat and dry air of the burial chamber, I found Selim waiting. I had ordered him to come back and report to me at sunset. Not even to protect Emerson would I have allowed such an excitable lad to stay in his dangerous post after dark, when, as all Egyptians knew, demons and afreets came out of hiding. Selim’s face was rapt with awe. He could hardly wait to tell me his news.
“He came, Sitt, as you foretold he would—the man himself, the very one you described to me. Truly you are the greatest of magicians! He said he had not told you of his coming. He said you would be glad to see him, though. He said he was a friend. He said—”
“He tried to persuade—or bribe?—you to let him pass,” I said, thereby increasing my reputation for supernatural powers in the eyes of the innocent youth. “Did he send a message, as I—as my magic—foretold he would?”
“The Sitt knows all and sees all,” Selim said reverently.
“Thank you, Selim,” I said, taking the folded paper he handed me. “Now rest. You have done a man’s work today.”
Bertha had waked in the morning without ill effect, though she had been drowsy and sluggish all day. She had gone straight to our tent when we returned, but when I entered she rose and glided out. I did not attempt to detain her. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I unfolded the note, which appeared to have been composed on the spot, for the writing was so uneven the paper must have been resting upon a rocky surface. That difficulty had not restrained Kevin’s tendency toward verbosity or dimmed his ebullient Irish spirits.
After the usual florid compliments he went on:
I look forward with a delight I cannot express in mere words to renewing my acquaintance with such admired friends as you and the Professor, and to expressing my felicitations on another miraculous escape. In fact I look forward to it so much I won’t take no for an answer. I have taken up my abode in the pleasant little house someone (dare I hope it was you, in the expectation of my coming?) kindly constructed not far from the entrance to this canyon. One of the villagers has agreed to bring food and water for me daily, so I expect to be quite comfortable. I am an impatient fellow, though, as you know, so don’t keep me waiting too long or I may be tempted to risk my neck crossing the plateau and climbing down to join you.
Further compliments followed. It was the closing words— an impertinent “A bientôt,”—that forced from my lips an expression of the outrage I had thus far suppressed.
“Curse it!” I cried.
Bertha’s face appeared in the tent opening. Over her veil her eyes were wide with alarm. “Is something wrong? Is it from—from him?”
“No, no,” I said. “Nothing is wrong—nothing that need concern you. You needn’t stand outside, Bertha, though your courtesy is noted and appreciated.” Folding the letter, I put it in my box and went out to splash water on my dusty and now even more heated face.
I did not join in the conversation around the