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hospitable habit, showered us with compliments, and escorted us into the drawing room, where his wife and stepson were waiting.
    To see Katherine as she was now, the very picture of a happy wife and mother and well-bred English lady, one would never have suspected that she had such a turbulent history—a miserable first marriage and a successful career as a fraudulent spiritualist medium. Bertie, her son by that marriage, was now Cyrus’s right-hand man and devoted assistant. British by birth, as was his mother, he had served his country faithfully during the Great War until severe injuries released him from duty. It was while he was recuperating at the hospitable Luxor home of his stepfather that he had become interested in Egyptology. His discovery of the princesses’ tomb ensured him a permanent place in the annals of the profession, but it had not changed his modest, unassuming character. I had become very fond of the lad, and I was sorry to see that he had taken to wearing loose scarves about his neck and letting his hair grow over his collar. Such fashions did not suit his plain but amiable and quintessentially English features, but I knew what had prompted them. Bertie was a lover, and the object of his affections was not with us that season. He had taken a fancy to Jumana, the daughter of Abdullah’s brother Yusuf. She was an admirable young woman, fiercely ambitious and intelligent, and we were all supporting her in her hope of becoming the first qualified Egyptian female to practice archaeology. Things had changed since our early days in Egypt; the self-taught excavator was becoming a thing of the past, and with the handicaps of her sex and nationality, Jumana needed the best formal training available. She was studying at University College in London this year, under the wing of Emerson’s nephew Willy and his wife.
    Bertie had never spoken of his attachment to the girl, but it was clear to a student of human nature like myself. I doubted it would come to anything; Jumana was intent on her career, and shy, amiable Bertie was not the man, in my opinion, to sweep any girl off her feet. If only she weren’t so confounded attractive! Men may claim they look for intelligence and moral worth in a wife, but I have observed that when they must choose between a brainless beauty and a woman of admirable character and plain face, the beauty wins most of the time.
    “M. Lacau has not yet arrived?” I inquired, taking the chair Cyrus held for me.
    “No.” Cyrus tugged at his goatee. “I wish he’d come so we could get this over with. I’m so consarned nervous—”
    “He may not make his final decision this evening, Cyrus.”
    “He cannot make a fair judgment, for I have not yet begun restoring the second robe. It will be magnifico, I promise.”
    The speaker came forward, bowing and smiling a tight-lipped smile. He smiled a great deal, but without showing his teeth, which were, I had once observed, chipped and stained. He claimed to be Italian, though his graying fair hair and hazel eyes were atypical of that nation, and considered himself something of a ladies’ man, though his short stature and lumpish features were not prepossessing. He was, however, one of the most talented restorers I had ever encountered, and putting up with his gallantries was a small price to pay for his services (not the only price, either, for Cyrus paid him extravagantly).
    I permitted him to kiss my hand (and then wiped it unobtrusively on my skirt).
    “Good evening, Signor Martinelli,” I said. “So it will be your fault if M. Lacau takes everything for the museum?”
    “Ah, Mrs. Emerson, you make a joke!” He laughed, turning his head aside, and reached for another of the cigarettes he smoked incessantly. “You permit?”
    I could hardly object, since Emerson had taken out his pipe and Cyrus had lit a cheroot. Martinelli went on without waiting for a reply. “I may claim, I believe, to have done a job of work no one else