The Deeds of the Disturber by Elizabeth Peters Page A

writing, and I had to admire the ingenuity of the concept even as I deplored her forward behavior. "Tell me, Mrs. Emerson," she went on, without scarcely a pause to draw breath, "are you working with Scotland Yard on the murder case?"
    "What murder case? There is no indication—"
    "Amelia!" Emerson had recovered from his surprise at discovering that the assiduous reporter was female—for that was my interpretation of his mention of the word "extraordinary." Now he seized me by the arm and attempted to draw me inside the railing. Since the gate was still closed, this did not succeed. "Don't talk to that—that person," he insisted. "Don't speak a word. Even a 'yes' or 'no' willbe misquoted by these vultures—excuse me, young lady—and you know your unfortunate tendency to babble—"
    "I beg your pardon, Emerson!" I exclaimed. "But we will go intothat at another time. I have no intention of permitting an interview; I particularly object to being waylaid and accosted at my front door. However, let me point out that I cannot enter until you open the gate."
    I moved as I spoke, edging in between Emerson and Miss Minton. She was forced to retreat in order to avoid being jabbed by the spokes of my open parasol, but once out of its range she stubbornly stood her ground and repeated her question. I could make out her features more clearly now. She was younger than I had expected. One could not have called her pretty. Her features were too strongly marked, her chin positively masculine in outline, her brows heavy and forbidding. The pins and combs that attempted to confine her thick black hair had lost the struggle; jetty locks straggled damply over her ears.
    Cursing (but, let me do him justice, cursing under his breath), Emerson fumbled with the latch. Miss Minton stood poised on tiptoe, as if ready to leap forward, and I verily believe she would have done so, following us to the very door of the house, if something had not happened to distract her.
    It was I who first caught sight of the weird, the unbelievable vision, and my exclamation of astonished incredulity caused Miss Minton to turn and Emerson to look up. For a moment we all three stood frozen in disbelief; for the form we saw, advancing with measured strides along the pavement opposite, was that of an ancient Egyptian priest clad in long white robes and a leopard-skin cloak. Long wisps of pale fog clung to his garments like trailing mummy wrappings, and the lamplight glimmered in the ebon waves of his curled wig. He passed into the clustering mist and vanished.
    Three
    M iss MINTON was the first to move. With a yelp like that of a hunting dog, she went in pursuit, the umbrella bouncing up and down as she ran.
    I started to follow. Emerson's fingers clamped over my shoulders and slammed me against the iron bars of the gate.
    "Move on your peril, Peabody," he hissed. "Take one step—just one—and I will ..." The gate finally yielded to his efforts, so I never heard the remainder of the threat. Firmly he drew me to him; briskly he marched me to the door of the house. He maintained an ominous silence, and discretion would have suggested I do the same; but I am proud to say discretion has never yet prevented me from doing what was right.
    "Emerson," I cried, attempting to free myself from his steely grip. "Emerson, think! She has qualities I would not like to see in a daughter of mine, but she is young—impulsive—a woman! Can you abandon her to what may be grave danger? I cannot believe it—you, the most gallant of your sex!"
    Emerson's steps slowed. "Er—hmmm," he remarked.
    I had known my appeal would not be in vain. Emerson is himself somewhat impulsive (indeed, it is a distinctly masculine trait, unjustly attributed to women), but he is the kindest of men. He had rushed me off without stopping to consider the young woman, but once reminded he was ready, as always, to do an Englishman's duty.
    "I intended to go after her as soon as I had got you indoors," he