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

instinct, I always feel, supersedes logic."

    "For heaven's sake, Emerson," I exclaimed. "It is Mr. Neville. Drop him at once!"

Emerson inspected his captive, whom he held by the collar. "So it is," he said in mild surprise. "What the devil were you doing down on the floor, Neville?"

The unfortunate young man inserted a finger between his cravat and his neck, loosening the former from the latter, before he spoke. "Er . . . the gaslight in the corridor must have expired, it was extremely dark, and I could not be certain I had found the correct room When I tried to look more closely at the number, my spectacles fell off."

Here a fit of coughing overcame him. "Say no more," I said. "Emerson, go and look for Mr. Neville's eyeglasses. I only hope you didn't step on them."

As it turned out, he had. Neville studied the ruined objects ruefully. "Fortunately I have another pair.
I did not bring them with me, however, so perhaps you will be good enough to guide my steps tonight, Mrs. Emerson."

"Certainly. And of course we will replace your spectacles. Really, Emerson, you must get over the habit of leaping on people like that."

Neville was one of the younger generation of archaeologists, who had already demonstrated a remarkable talent for philology. In appearance he was one of the least memorable individuals of my acquaintance, for his beard and hair were of the same buff color as his skin, and his eyes were an indeterminate shade of gray-brown. His character was mild and accommodating, however, and he had a pleasant smile "It was my fault, Mrs. Emerson. From the stories I have heard, you and the professor have good reason to be suspicious of people lurking at your door."

"That is true," Emerson declared. "In this case, however, I owe you an apology. No harm done, I hope?"

He began brushing Neville off with such vigorous goodwill that the young man's head rocked back and forth.

"Stop that, Emerson, and go change," I ordered. "You will have to excuse us, Mr. Neville, we are later than I had expected. There is a manuscript on the table that may interest you, it was in the hope of consulting you about certain passages that I asked you to do me the favor of coming early "

By the time I had closed the bedroom door Emerson was already in the bathroom, splashing loudly I concluded he wanted to avoid a lecture— or inconvenient questions. Emerson is inclined to act hastily,
but he seldom acts without cause (however inadequate that cause may seem to persons of duller intellect). Had he cause for apprehension that he had not seen fit to confide to me?

He gave me no opportunity to pursue the matter at that time, dressing with uncharacteristic speed and lack of fuss while I was performing my ablutions. I had to call him back from the sitting room, where he had gone to entertain our visitor, in order to request his assistance in buttoning my frock. The distractions that often occur during this process did not occur on this occasion.

I was wearing a gown of bright crimson, Emerson's favorite color. It was the latest fashion and I had had to badger my dressmaker to finish it in time. Emerson gave me a cursory glance and remarked, "You look very nice, my dear. I have always liked that dress."

When we returned to the sitting room, Mr, Neville was peering nearsightedly at the manuscript to which
I had directed his attention.

"Fascinating," he exclaimed. "Is this Mr. Walter Emerson's transliteration of The Tale of the Doomed Prince'? It seems much more accurate than Maspero's."

"To compare Maspero's knowledge of hieratic to that of my brother is an insult in itself," said Emerson rudely. "That is a trivial piece of work for Walter, he only transcribed it into hieroglyphs as a favor to Mrs. Emerson. She had a fancy to translate it, and her hieratic— "

"Comparisons are unnecessary as well as invidious, Emerson," I said. "I have never claimed to be an expert at hieratic."

(For the benefit of the ignorant, I ought to explain that hieratic