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

is the cursive, abbreviated form of hieroglyphic writing— so abbreviated, in many cases, that the resemblance to the original form is almost impossible to make out. Walter was one of the leading authorities on this, as on other forms of ancient Egyptian. I was not. Neither was Emerson.)

"It is a fascinating tale," Neville agreed. "What passage in particular— "

"No time for that now," said Emerson. "If we must do this, let's get it over with. Lean on me, Neville,
I won't let you fall. Take my other arm, Amelia, the cursed safragi has let the light go out, I can hardly see where we are going."

The lights at the other end of the corridor burned bright, and we proceeded with greater speed. A thrill
of pride ran through me as we descended the staircase, for all eyes, especially those of the ladies, focused on the form of my husband. Unconscious of their regard, for he is in such matters a modest man, he led the way to the dining salon, where we found our friends waiting.

Such a gathering on the first evening of our return to Egypt had become a pleasant little tradition. As I took my place I was saddened to see that some of the familiar friendly faces were missing— gone forever, alas, until that glorious day when we shall meet again in a better world. I knew the Reverend
Mr. Sayce would sadly miss his friend Mr. Wilbour, who had passed on the year before. Their dahabeeyahs, the Istar and the Seven Hatbors, had been a familiar sight up and down the Nile. Now the Istar would sail alone, until it passed beyond the sunset and joined the Seven Hathors where it glided on the broad river of eternity.

Mr. Sayce's pinched face showed his appreciation when I expressed this poetic sentiment. (Poetry again! Let the Average Reader beware!) "However, Mrs. Emerson, we are consoled for our loss not only by
the knowledge that our friends have simply gone on before us, but by the appearance of new workers in the fields of knowledge."

There were certainly several unfamiliar faces— a young man named Davies, whom Mr. Newberry, the botanist who had worked with Petrie at Hawara, introduced as a promising painter of Egyptian scenes, a square-jawed, clean-shaven American named Reisner, who was serving as a member of the International Catalogue Commission of the Cairo Museum, and a Herr Bursch, a former student of Ebers at Berlin. Emerson studied them with a predatory gleam in his eye, he was considering them as prospective members of our staff.

Another stranger was older and of striking appearance, with golden locks and dark-fringed brilliant gray eyes any woman might have envied. His features were entirely masculine, however, indeed, the shape
of his jaw was almost too rigidly rectangular. Though a stranger to me, he was not unknown to Emerson, who greeted him with a curt, "So you're back. This is my wife."

I am accustomed to Emerson's bad manners, I gave the gentleman my hand, which he took in a firm but gentle grasp "This is a pleasure to which I have long looked forward, Mrs. Emerson. Your husband neglected to mention my name, it is Vincey— Leopold Vincey, at your service."

"You could have had the pleasure earlier if you had chosen to," Emerson grunted, waving me into the chair a waiter was holding. "Where have you been since that scandalous business in Anatolia? Hiding out?"

Our other friends are also accustomed to Emerson's bad manners, but this reference— which meant nothing to me— evidently passed even his normal bounds of tactlessness. A shocked gasp ran around
the table. Mr. Vincey only smiled, but there was a look of sadness in his gray eyes.

Mr. Neville hastened to change the subject. "I have just been privileged to see Mr. Walter Emerson's latest transcription from the hieratic. He has turned The Doomed Prince' into hieroglyphs for Mrs. Emerson."

"So that is to be your next translation of an Egyptian fairy tale?" Newberry asked. "You are becoming something of an authority on that subject, Mrs. Emerson, the— er—