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There was really only one solution. If Kevin gave me his word to remain silent he would be entirely sincere—at the time. Like Ramses, and, I fear, a good many other people, he could always find a specious excuse for doing what he had promised not to do if he wanted badly enough to do it. He had to be kept in confinement, and the most secure prison available was the royal wadi itself.

I had to slow my steps to match Kevin’s; he was not in such good training as he ought to have been. If I had not been so out of temper with him I would have given him a friendly little lecture on the advantages of physical fitness. At that time I confined my lecture to more important matters, and it was not at all friendly. I concluded by informing him that if he volunteered any information whatever to Emerson (for a flat interdiction seemed the simplest course) I would never speak to him or communicate with him again.

A look of sadness, a blush of shame spread over the young man’s face. “You may believe it or not, Mrs. Emerson,” he said, in a well-bred voice without the slightest trace of an accent, “but there are some acts too despicable even for me to commit. In our battles of wits we have been worthy opponents—and I include the professor, who has made a fool of me as often as I have embarrassed him. I have enjoyed matching wits with both of you, and although you may not admit it, I think you have enjoyed it too. But if I thought any act of mine would cause you grievous harm of mind or body, no promise of reward, however great, could induce me to commit it.”

“I do believe you,” I said. And at that moment, I did.

“Thank you. So, then,” said Kevin, in quite his old manner, “how are you going to explain my presence?”

“That is a difficulty. Emerson may not remember you, but his opinion of journalists is of long standing. You cannot pass as an archaeologist; you know nothing of excavation.”

“I could say my arm was broken,” Kevin suggested, giving me a meaningful look.

“You could have two broken arms and the like number of broken legs. Emerson would quiz you and you would betray your ignorance. Ah! I have it! The perfect answer!”

“A detective?” Emerson’s voice rose on every syllable. “What the devil do we want a detective for?”

When he put it that way, I was hard-pressed to come up with a sensible answer. I therefore responded in a manner I felt certain would distract him.

“You certainly don’t seem to be making much progress in solving our little mystery. All these interruptions are getting to be a nuisance.”

It was delightful to watch Emerson trying to decide which provocation to counter first. I did not think he would be able to resist a play on the word “nuisance,” applying it of course to me, but perhaps he was unable to compose a sufficiently stinging retort on the spur of the moment. Instead he went on the defensive, which, as I could have told him, is always a mistake.

“I caught one of the swine, didn’t I?”

“ ‘Caught’ is hardly an appropriate word. You shouldn’t have kicked him so hard. He cannot speak intelligibly with his nose and jaw immobilized, and furthermore—”

Emerson rolled his eyes, threw up his hands and stormed off. Kevin, who had prudently retired to a distance during the discussion, returned and sat down on the rug at my feet. “He seems quite his old self. Are you certain he—”

“I could hardly be mistaken. Remember what I told you. One slip of the tongue and I will let Cyrus deal with you as he proposed. And don’t forget to call me Miss Peabody.”

It might have been the sunset glow that softened the young journalist’s features, but his voice was equally subdued as he said, “That must be the unkindest cut of all, ma’am. How he could forget a woman like yourself—”

“I do not want your sympathy, Kevin. I want—I insist upon—your cooperation.”

“You have it, Mrs.… Miss Peabody. I suppose you have no objection to my chatting with the others—Abdullah, for instance? After all,” he added winsomely, “if I am supposed to be