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By Root 1042 0

two for further consideration. Having spoken at greater length with Mlle. Malraux, and observed Nefret’s warm reception of the girl, I had decided my initial reservations were unfounded. She was a vivacious little creature, bubbling with enthusiasm, but one’s initial impression of prettiness was based on her manner rather than the regularity of her features, and there was something a little unnerving about her eyes; the blue pupils were entirely surrounded by milky white, so that she appeared to be in a permanent state of surprise or alarm. However, physiognomy is not an accurate indicator of character, and the portfolio she had brought impressed me. An archaeological artist has different qualifications from those of a painter; he or she must be capable not only of accurate copying, but of a certain feeling for the techniques and beliefs of the culture. I was particularly struck with a watercolor she had done of the head of a mummy in the Louvre.

My other candidate was the opposite of mademoiselle in almost every way, and a contradiction in himself. He had one of the jolliest faces I had ever beheld, round-cheeked, smiling, eyes beaming goodwill. One would have expected such a cheery-looking man to bubble as mademoiselle did; but Nadji Farid appeared to be very shy. He sat with eyes lowered and spoke only when he was spoken to, in a soft, melodious voice. However, what he said when he did speak displayed his familiarity with the methods of excavation, and I did not object to taciturnity. It would be a pleasant change.

By mid-afternoon I had completed all my tasks save one, and had every expectation of being able to catch the evening express as I had planned.

However, tracking down Mr. Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, aka Mr. Smith, proved to be more difficult than I had expected. He had once given me a private telephone number, but when I rang it, a woman’s voice informed me in Arabic that they did not accept lady customers. Not being entirely certain what to make of that, I did not pursue the matter. My next step was to go through the Ministry of Public Works, which was Bracegirdle-Boisdragon’s cover position. It took some time to work my way through the bureaucratic muddle, and when I was finally connected with his assistant the hour was late and I had become exasperated.

“Inform him that Mrs. Emerson will be at the Turf Club at five o’clock, and that if he does not meet me he will deeply regret it.”

I have always found that unspecific threats are the most effective; the victim’s imagination supplies consequences more terrifying than any I could carry out. I was also fairly certain, from the assistant’s occasional silences, that Bracegirdle-Boisdragon was in the office. However, he had not the courage to speak directly to me.

“Not the Turf Club, Mrs. Emerson.” The young man sounded as if he were quoting. “They have not yet recovered from your last visit. Take tea at Groppi’s at five.”

I was ready for a refreshing cup of tea and one of Groppi’s excellent pastries. The ambience was certainly more pleasant than the aggressive masculinity of the Turf Club; lamps with crimson shades cast a soft glow, and footsteps were muted by Persian rugs. Scarcely had I seated myself when a low voice greeted me by name. I looked up to see, not Smith’s long nose and pointed chin, but the countenance of a younger man, with a forehead so high his features appeared to have been squeezed into the lower half of his face and miniaturized: a softly rounded chin, a button of a nose, and a mouth as sweetly curved as that of a pretty girl.

“Mrs. Emerson, is it not? My name is Wetherby. We spoke earlier today. May I join you?”

“By all means,” I said. “And then you may explain why your superior sent you instead of coming himself.”

Mr. Wetherby edged himself into a chair. “He thought it better that he not be seen tête-à-tête with you at the present time. I am completely in his confidence, ma’am, and will report directly to him.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Very well. I must catch the evening express, so just listen and don’t interrupt.”

My description of Emerson