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hear a diffident voice murmur my name. I looked up to see a
familiar face smiling down at me. It was young Howard Carter; he was happy to
accept my invitation to join us for coffee. After greeting Ramses and paying
his respectful homage to Emerson, he explained that he had come to Cairo on
business and had taken the opportunity to run out to Giza in order to enjoy the
moonlight over the pyramids.
    "Don't
tell Professor Naville," he added, with his amiable grin. "I am
supposed to be working."
    "Are
you still at Thebes with Naville?" I asked. "I thought the
excavations at Hatasu's temple were finished."
    "The
excavations, yes. But we have a good deal of recording and restoring yet to
do."
    "I
can well believe that," said Emerson. "By the time Naville finishes
an excavation, it would require a psychic to make sense of the mess."
    "You
sound like my old mentor Petrie," said Carter with a smile.
    From
the chagrin on Emerson's face I could see he had forgotten the feud between
Naville and Petrie. Emerson had been in a quandary as to which side to take (it
would have been against his nature to remain neutral). He shared
Petrie's poor opinion of Naville's qualifications, but he hated to agree with
his chief rival. He subsided, scowling, as the young Englishman rattled on
cheerfully, "Petrie is a splendid teacher, and I will always be grateful
to him, but he is too hard on M. Naville. The latter's methods are sometimes a
trifle hasty—"
    Emerson
could contain himself no longer. "Hasty!" he cried. "Is it true
that he has used the old quarry as his dump site? Well, he is a
bloo—er—blooming idiot, then, for there are undoubtedly tombs in the quarry
which he has buried under tons of dirt."
    Mr.
Carter thought it advisable to change the subject, a decision with which I
heartily concurred. "Congratulations on obtaining the firman for
Dahshoor," he said. "It was the talk of the archaeological community
when de Morgan gave it up to you. Petrie has speculated endlessly as to how you
accomplished it; he tried several times to get Dahshoor, but was not
successful."
    I
carefully avoided looking at Ramses. Emerson stroked his chin and smiled
complacently. "All that was required was the application of a little tact,
my boy. Petrie is an admirable fellow in some ways, but he lacks tact. He is at
Sakkara this year?"
    "His
assistant, Quibell, is there, copying tomb inscriptions," Carter said. He
smiled at me. "There are several young ladies on his staff this year. You
will have to share your laurels with others of your delightful sex, Mrs.
Emerson. The ladies are coming into their own at last."
    "Bravo,"
I cried heartily. "Or, to be more precise, brava!"
    "Quite
so," said Carter. "Petrie himself has gone on to Karnak, where the
others will join him later. I saw him before I left; and I am sure he would
have sent his regards had he known I would have the
pleasure of encountering you."
    This
polite statement was so patently false, it failed to convince even the speaker.
He hurried on, "And Mr. Cyrus Vandergelt—he is another of our neighbors.
He often speaks of you, Professor, and of Mrs. Emerson."
    "I
am sure he does." Emerson shot me a suspicious glance. Mr. Vandergelt's
roughhewn but sincere American gallantry toward members of the opposite sex
(opposite to his, I mean) had always annoyed Emerson. He suspects every man who
pays me a compliment of having romantic designs upon me. I cannot disabuse him
of this notion, which has, I admit, its engaging qualities.
    "Perhaps
you ought to consider working for Mr. Vandergelt, Howard," I suggested.
"He is a generous patron."
    "He
did approach me," Carter admitted. "But I don't know that I would
like to work for a wealthy dilettante, however keen his interest in Egyptology.
These fellows only want to find treasure and lost tombs."
    Carter
refused our invitation to join us in climbing the pyramid, claiming he had work
to do before retiring. So we