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Then there were no words, only their frantic, hurried and delicious embraces; his hips grinding against her; his sex pumping into her again.

When it was all over, and he lay still, she ran her fingers through his hair.

"This woman; does he care for her?"

"Yes," he said sleepily. "And she loves him. But that doesn't matter now."

"Why do you say this?"

"Because I have you," he said.

Ramsey was at his best, evincing that easy charm that had subdued everyone on the voyage out; he sat back, spotless and carelessly fashionable in the white linen suit, his hair tousled, blue eyes sparkling with a near boyish vigour.

"I tried to reason with him. When he broke the case and removed the mummy, I realized it was hopeless. I tried to get out on my own, but the guards, well, you know the story."

"But they said they shot you, they--"

"Sir, these men are not the soldiers of ancient Egypt. They're hirelings who barely know how to fire their guns. They would not have beaten the Hittites."

Winthrop laughed in spite of himself. Even Gerald was charmed. Elliott glanced at Samir, who dared not crack the smallest smile.

"Well, if only we could find Henry," Miles said.

"No doubt his creditors are looking for him, too," Ramsey said quickly.

"Well, let's get back to this question of the jail. It seems there was a doctor there when you--"

Gerald finally intervened:

"Winthrop," he said, "you know very well that this man's innocent. It's Henry. It's been Henry all along. Everything points to it. He broke into the Cairo Museum, stole the mummy, sold it for profit, went on a drunken rampage with the money. You found the wrappings in the belly dancer's house. Henry's name was found in the loan shark's book in London."

"But the whole story is so ..."

Elliott motioned for silence.

"Ramsey has been subjected to enough, and so have we. He's already made the crucial statement that Henry confessed to the murder of his uncle."

"He made this very plain to me," Ramsey said dryly.

"I want our passports returned immediately," Elliott said.

"But the British Museum ..."

"Young man," Gerald began.

"Lawrence Stratford gave a fortune to the British Museum," Elliott declared. Finally he could take no more. He had reached his limit with this farce. "Listen, Miles," he said, leaning forward. "You clear this up, and now, unless you intend to become a social recluse. For I assure you that if my party, including Reginald Ramsey, is not on the noon train tomorrow for Port Said, you will never be received again by any family in Cairo or London which hopes to receive the seventeenth Earl of Rutherford. Do I make myself clear?"

Silence in the office. The young man blanched. This was excruciating.

"Yes, my lord," he answered under his breath. At once he opened the desk drawer and produced the passports one by one, laying them down on the blotter before him.

Elliott managed to scoop them up with a neat quick gesture before Gerald could do it.

"I find this as disagreeable as you do," he said. "I've never said such words before to any human being in my life, but I want my son released so he can go back to England. Then I'll stay in this bloody place as long as you want me here. I'll answer any question you like."

"Yes, my lord, if I can tell the governor that you will stay ..."

"I just told you that, didn't I? Do you want a blood oath?"