Free The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog by Elizabeth Peters Page A

fortunate enough
to be able to restore her to her heritage."

The waiter had supplied a fresh glass of wine. I took a hearty swig, feeling I deserved it.

"So you found no trace of poor Mr. Forthright?" Newbeny shook his head sadly. "A pity. I fear his
bones are whitening in some remote spot"

I certainly hoped they were. The young villain had done his best to murder us.

"But did I not hear some story of a map?" Mr. Vincey asked.

My wineglass almost went over again. I managed to get hold of it. It was Maspero who came to the rescue. Laughing heartily, he said, "Willie Forth's famous maps! We have all heard of them, have we not?"

"Even I," Carter said, smiling. "And I did not know the gentleman. He is something of a legend in Egypt, though."

"One of the lunatic fringe always to be found in archaeology," Newberry said disapprovingly. "So his fantasies led him, not to the city of gold he hoped for, but to a village of miserable mud huts and an
early death."

Maspero took his leave. For the rest of the evening the discussion focused on purely archaeological matters.

After we had returned to our rooms Emerson wrenched off his stiff collar. "Thank heaven that is over.
I won't do it again, Amelia. This suit is as archaic as armor and almost as uncomfortable."

The wine had left visible spots on my skirt. I replied gently, "You won't have to wear evening kit to a fancy dress ball, my dear. I was thinking of something along Elizabethan lines. Those close-fitting hose would set off the handsome shape of your lower limbs."

Emerson had removed his coat. For a moment I thought he would throw it at me. Eyes blazing, he said in a muted roar, "We are not going to a fancy dress ball, Amelia. I would as soon attend my own hanging." "It is in four days' time We can find something in the bazaar, I daresay. Please help me with my buttons, Emerson. These spots may come out if I sponge them at once."

However, I was unable to tackle the spots that evening. By the time the buttons were undone I had other things on my mind.

Some time later, as a pleasant drowsiness wrapped around my weary frame, I reflected with pardonable complacency upon the events of the evening. Over the course of the succeeding months, as the story passed from speaker to listener, it would be altered and embroidered beyond recognition, but at least the original fiction had been accepted by those whose opinions counted most. How ironic, I thought, that it was Willoughby Forth's reputation for eccentricity that was primarily responsible for saving his daughter from vulgar gossip and the Lost Oasis from discovery and exploitation.

I was about to remark on this to Emerson when his regular breathing assured me he had fallen into slumber Turning on my side, I rested my head against his shoulder and emulated his example.

    *  *  *

    I have a methodical mind. Emerson does not. It required prolonged discussion to convince him we ought to sit down with a map of Egypt and make a neat list of prospective sites, instead of rushing around at random. The more I thought about it, the more his plan appealed to me. Although I had enjoyed our vagabond existence, never knowing from one year to the next where we would be the following season, and although no one accepts with greater equanimity the difficulties of setting up a new camp in a new location yearly, often in places where water and shelter were inadequate, insects and disease proliferated, and the chance of snatching a few moments alone with Emerson was slight, especially with Ramses always underfoot . . . Well, perhaps I had not enjoyed it as much as I thought I had! Certainly the idea
of a permanent habitation had considerable attraction. I found myself picturing how it would be: spacious, comfortable living quarters, a photographic studio, an office for the keeping of records . . . perhaps even
a writing machine and a person to operate it. I had mentally selected the pattern of the draperies for the sitting room by the time