Young Ellis

YOUNG ELLIS Margery Hilton

Vicky Harding had taken it for granted that she would be accompanying her father on the archeological expedition, so it was an unpleasant surprise to learn the Grant Fairfax, who would be in charge, would no hear of her coming alone. But it took more than that to deter Vicky.

CHAPTER ONE VICKY HARVING shrugged deeper into her sheepskin jacket and tramped back to the centre of the platform and the scant shelter of the canopy. She need not have hurried; the three-fifty-four was late again. She stamped her feet and shivered through the seven minutes that elapsed before the train rattled round the bend and juddered to a halt, bringing a brief flurry of importance to the bleak little country station. Vicky watched the opening doors, then moved towards the tall man in a grey overcoat who stepped away from the end compartment. I do have a handsome parent, she reflected, raising her face for his affectionate greeting, but why is he looking so grave? "Well, Daddy," she burst out, "how did the conference go? Is everything settled? And what's the new man like?" She was turning away as she spoke, jingling the car keys, and missed her father's rather strained smile. "One thing at a time, Vicky." Dr. Andrew Harving tossed his briefcase into the back of the car and resigned himself to the passenger seat. Vicky never missed an opportunity of being at the wheel. She eased the big car through the narrow exit from the station yard and grimaced wryly at the black ribbon of road with its grey and white edging of churned snow. She said: "What bliss! In a month we'll be away from this beastly weather. Blue skies and sunshine - I wish we were there now." She slowed carefully over an icy patch, then chattered on: "Did you hear the one o'clock news? They've arrested a man in connection with the

museum robbery, but they didn't say if they - Daddy! What is the matter? Why are you so quiet?" She was turning into their driveway now. As she applied the handbrake she slewed round to face her father. The bright glow of happiness faded from her face as she met his troubled gaze. "It's the expedition, isn't it?" she said. "What happened?" He said slowly, "I'm afraid the expedition is off. At least as far as you are concerned, Vicky." "Off?" She stared at him, aghast. "What do you mean?" "Exactly what I say. I can't take you with me this time." She remained sitting there, numb, while he got out of the car. Automatically she switched off the engine and pocketed the keys while the full force of her father's statement registered. The archaeological expedition to the Near East; the expedition she had planned for and dreamed of for months. Her father had changed his mind; he wasn't taking her. Vicky shook her head bemusedly, hardly hearing Dr. Harving open her door and say with unwonted sharpness: "Come on, honey, let's save the inquest till we get inside. Go and rustle up some grub while I stoke." "I fixed everything before I left," she said tonelessly, following him into the house. Mechanically she plugged in the electric kettle and took from the oven the pasties she had made so happily an hour before. The small, everyday sounds became unreal. The soft thuds as her father threw logs on the fire, the squeak when he moved a chair, and the

singing vibrations of the kettle under her hand. Only one thing was real. She wasn't going. When the party of archaeologists boarded the flight for the first stage of their journey her father and Professor Elves would be with them, while she ... But why? Why was she to be left behind? She had always worked with her father, and since the death of her mother three years previously she had travelled with him wherever he went; somebody had to look after him. She could not believe that he had countenanced this totally unexpected blow. Vicky did not give way easily to tears, but now she felt her eyes prick and her throat tighten. Steam gushed unheeded from the kettle, and Andrew Harving, coming unheard from the other room, took it gently from her hand. "Take off your jacket and go by the fire. I'll bring the stuff through." She was standing by the window, a boyishly attractive figure in her warm wool slacks and a sensible, man-sized pullover, when he carried in the tray. The bleakness of the March gloom was reflected in her face as she said flatly: "Grant Fairfax is at the bottom of this, isn't he?" "I'm afraid so." Dr. Harving took a deep breath. "Fairfax has decided that this expedition is unsuitable for a woman. Now wait, Vicky." He held up his hand to stem her indignant retort. "I've been thinking it over and I've come to the conclusion that he's right. We're going to a wild, isolated spot this time. There is "no convenient air- conditioned hotel. We'll be under canvas or, at the best, in huts, and the nearest town, if you could call it that, is nearly a hundred miles away."

Vicky swung round. "I'm not afraid of rough conditions. Surely you explained that. Grant Fairfax hasn't met me. He probably imagines I'm one of those female dabblers who cracks under the heat and faints at the first spell of hard or dirty work." A gleam of hope came into her eyes. "Of course, that's what it is. I must see him and explain - make him realise I'm serious about archaeology and not just -" She stopped, the light of hope fading as she saw her father's expression. "No, Vicky. You'd be wasting your time. Fairfax will not change his mind." Dr. Harving's tone was flat and his expression remained sober. "And I've no intention of trying to persuade him to." He ignored her startled glance and went on: "I've been rather worried about you for some time now. You're missing so much that is dear to a young girl's heart. Gay clothes, parties, dancing." He gave a small shrug. "Boy-friends and dates. But most of all, a settled life. Youth is so fleeting, my dear, and I want you to enjoy yours." Open-mouthed, Vicky stared at him. Had her father gone mad? He said, his smile whimsical, "Perhaps I'll return to a dainty daughter instead of a tough little hoyden. And later, if you're still enthusiastic, there'll be other digs, free from the conditions laid down by the rather autocratic Mr. Fairfax." She wriggled from the sympathetic hand he put on her shoulder. "I'm not concerned with future digs. Only this one. You aren't serious about - I mean if I could go you wouldn't try to stop me?" Andrew smiled. "I doubt it, if it came to that point. I shall miss you, darling, you know that. And I did promise you the expedition. All the same, in a way I'm thankful it's turned out this way." "And there's Robin," she said bitterly, "who could go, and doesn't care a fig for archaeology." She dropped on to the pouffe and

stared moodily into the fire. Her brother's lack of interest in archaeology had always saddened her. Although he was her twin they were utterly unalike in everything except physical appearance. Robin had chosen to fool his way through drama school, leaving Vicky to follow her father in the work he loved. The firelight glowed on her short, unruly chestnut curls, tipping them with bronze, as she rested her elbows on inelegantly spreadeagled knees. Her usually sweet mouth tightened as she glanced up at her father. "It's so unfair. Just because I'm a girl!" Andrew fished for his tobacco pouch and made much of the ritual of pipe-filling. When it was alight at last, he leaned back. "I agree, but we must accept it. Fairfax may be unfairly prejudiced against women on a dig, but he is director and therefore has the final say in the matter of personnel. You're not the only one to be affected. The same ruling applies to the Professor's wife." Vicky started. "But the Professor has been ill. That was the idea of his wife going. He needs her to look after him, after having that heart attack. Surely Fairfax realises that." For a moment Vicky forgot her own troubles in her concern for her father's old colleague. "Fairfax mustn't stop her from going. After all, the Professor was director. He would never have given up the leadership if he'd felt fit enough to carry the responsibility. And he hands it over to Fairfax!" - Vicky almost spat the name - "who repays his confidence with - with a trick like this. Oh, the beastly, arrogant, highhanded brute! He must be utterly heartless!" Dr. Harving remained tactfully silent. At last, almost unwillingly, she asked, "What's he like?"

Andrew did not need to ask to whom she referred. "Um-m - Tall, big-built. Dark in a rugged sort of-" "I don't mean his looks," she interrupted in a voice which plainly expressed her lack of interest in that respect. "You've met him. What's your impression of him?" "I think he'd have scant time for bunglers," Andrew replied. "But not having been on a dig with him I know little more than you. That he first came into prominence and won acclaim over the excavation of that Indian Tell. And that he didn't see eye to eye with a certain bombastic expert over the method used at the excavation. And that he had a most unholy row with the aforesaid expert that rang bells round the world of archaeology." Andrew Harving's eyes glinted reminiscently. "Of course Fairfax was proved to be right in the long run." "He would." Vicky's face expressed her disgust as she got up and began to pile the remnants of their meal on the tray. Her father's audible sigh of relief when she went from the room did not improve her wounded feelings. Nor did his humorous comments the following week when she insisted on keeping their joint appointment for inoculations. "Nothing like suffering in the hope of a miracle." "It is possible to contract smallpox or tetanus in Britain," she said tartly. "What! In the wilds of Sussex with Cousin Sandra?" Vicky's face set in mutinous lines. "I'm not going to stay with Cousin Sandra. I'm making my own arrangements for the three months you'll be away."

"But why?" Dr. Harving looked puzzled. "I thought you always got on fine with her." Then he grinned and tweaked her chin. "I'd forgotten about that little episode at the Hexham dig last summer. What was the boy's name?" "Victor Ellis," Vicky supplied, knowing that her father's memory was perfectly adequate. He had been the main instigator of the teasing she had had to endure because of Vic Ellis's flirtatious attentions. Until Sandra had arrived for a brief visit, and stayed to capture a sadly fickle heart, much to Vicky's secret relief. She was more interested in her work. Dr. Harving glanced at his watch and hastily prepared to depart. He said, "I'm going to be late. Any messages for the Professor?" She shook her head. "Just give him my love." After her father had gone she made coffee and curled up in the big wing chair. She lit a cigarette and thought glumly of Cousin Sandra and her constant preoccupation with the latest shade, line, and looks of nail varnish, fashion, and the current boy-friend respectively. If her father thought she was going to waste three months he could think again! Of Victor Ellis she thought not at all. All her resentment was reserved for the upstart who had loomed on the horizon and upset everything. What if he did know the terrain intimately as well as being a first-class field archaeologist? Taking the leadership from dear old Professor Elves whom everyone loved and her father having to be deputy director, which meant most of the donkey work ... The phone shrilled, and Vicky, having worked up a satisfying hymn of hate against the unknown Fairfax man, stamped into the hall to answer it.

She gave the number and waited. "Grant Fairfax speaking. Is Dr. Harving available?" For a moment Vicky was thunderstruck. Then, aware of the impatient seconds ticking away, she forced herself to be calm. She said coolly, "Dr. Harving is not at home this evening." "Where can I contact him?" "I'm afraid I can't tell you." This was perfectly true. She had forgotten to inquire where her father planned to dine that evening. What sounded like a muffled "damn" floated over the line. She asked, "Will you leave a message?" "I suppose I'll have to." The firm, crisp voice edged with impatience. "Tell Dr. Harving I've just been informed that John Baxter has been taken to hospital. Appendicitis. He'll have to be replaced. Unfortunately I have to go away myself and when I return it will be too late to start arranging interviews. I would like Dr. Harving to see to this." Grant Fairfax paused, then added in what seemed to Vicky ominous tones: "He knows my requirements. Have you got that clearly?" "Yes." Vicky was scribbling fast, trying to prevent the notepad from edging its way over the end of the hall table. "Which hospital is he in?" "Birley General. Anything else?" She hesitated. "Where and when can we contact you?"

"Burnside 41 from Tuesday onwards. But it shouldn't be necessary unless any difficulty arises." There was a pause while he waited and Vicky struggled with her mounting excitement. Dare she make the obvious suggestion? Would he relent and allow her to join the expedition now that this emergency had arisen? She took a deep breath, then the cold voice said abruptly: "Remember this is urgent. We have very little time left. See that Dr. Harving gets the message as soon as he returns. Thank you. Goodnight." "Mr. Fairfax-" But she was too late. There was a click and silence. Slowly she returned the instrument to its cradle and tore off the top sheet of the pad. That this should happen now! A door had opened to the objective she wanted more than anything else in the world and she couldn't walk through. She wandered back to the fire and propped the note on the mantelpiece. What was Baxter's job? Mentally she ticked off the appointments of which she knew: surveyor, draughtsman, small find recorder, lab man, photographer. Some of these were being doubled by the leaders. Grant Fairfax would probably insist on supervising the photographic record himself. The unfortunate John Baxter must be a junior assistant; looking after all the odd jobs and on general call for anything from writing labels on paper bags to mending a puncture. Vicky sat up sharply, the beginning of an outrageous idea born in her. She had done the small, unglamorous yet essential tasks so

often. Being her father's daughter had never brought her favouritism, nor saved her from reprimand. She had learned the hard way. Trembling, she paced the room and tried to think clearly. If she could only get to the site half the battle would be won. There'd be a ghastly row, but it would be too late for making alternative arrangements. And surely her father would forgive her once the rumpus had died down and forget about the silly bee he'd got in his bonnet about her missing out on life. But how? She couldn't approach her father at this stage. The Professor? No, she couldn't appeal to him for help and risk putting the dear old soul in a spot. The only way was through Fairfax himself; before he went away on Tuesday and before her father appointed a substitute. She had four days. Then it all came clear. The way in which the blame would rest on herself when the balloon went up. As it would; of that Vicky was under no rosy illusion. It all depended on Robin. Would he help her?

"You've got a nerve, Sis!" Vicky sat, demurely, in the one shabby armchair that Robin's tiny flat boasted. A smile curved her mouth while she waited for the spate of her twin's indignation to cease. "You use my address, my telephone number, and my time. You practise forgery and involve me in your villainy. You deceive

Father. And," Robin flung open his arms in a broad theatrical gesture, "you sit there like a gluttonous cat in a dairy of cream. I must be crazy to go through with it!" With a final gesture Robin flopped in a chair, forgetting Grand Guignol and becoming a rather worried, ordinary young man. "Supposing the real Victor Ellis turns up? Oh, Vicky, what have you got yourself into now?" She shook her head. "He won't. I rang him, to tell him I was going to borrow his name, before I wrote to Fairfax to ask if I could take John Baxter's place. Vic wished me luck and said he thought it the biggest giggle in years." She hugged herself. "Another crazy college type," Robin grunted. "He must be sweet on you, because this could make a pack of trouble for him when the truth comes out." "I told him to deny all knowledge of it." Vicky made a face. "I'll be making the confession when I get there and collecting any pack of trouble that's floating about. Pray for me, Robin." "More likely to swing for you," he muttered, sorting out cups and a tin of condensed milk. "Come on, make yourself useful." She hastened to help, and when the somewhat odd mixture from Robin's larder was spread on the worn chenille table cover the two conspirators sat down and solemnly regarded one another. "Well," Robin said at last, "I wouldn't have gambled a cent on your plan coming off. Yet it looks as though it might. How, I can't imagine." "Because it's happened at the last minute. The organisation has been in hand for months. They all planned to have the last few days to tie up personal matters. Like Father being committed to this lecture course at Edinburgh and Fairfax being called away."

"Thank goodness for that." Robin grimaced. "He was tough enough over the phone. Fancy his ringing Father for Vic Ellis's reference!" "I expected that. He hasn't worked with Vic. Father has." "Good job for you that the Professor hasn't either," Robin grinned. "I was afraid he'd twig me this morning, but he didn't. Anyway, you need a current certificate of vaccination and -" "Got that," she interrupted. "Give me the rest of the briefing." "Visa, passport, leave on the thirty-first - it's all working out for you, darling. You'll avoid having to travel with Father through having to go on ahead to ferry a Land Rover from one Godforsaken spot to another. And then," Robin rubbed his hands gleefully, "you meet them in Zakhirya and drive them to the site. If you get that far." "Why shouldn't I?" But under the brash outward show of confidence Vicky was beginning to waver. The buoyant excitement of the past few days had deflated and for the first time she reviewed her actions in the sobering light of cold reason. Robin watched her play of expression. "Too many people to square. For one thing, Father is going to wonder why you're not at the airport to see him off. Your reservation will be under Vic's name. Have you realised that? Unless you're going to stand your own expenses. If so - I'm broke just now." He knew by her look of dismay that this point had not yet occurred to her. "All because you couldn't bear to be thwarted by this Fairfax bod. Is it really worth it, Vicky?"

"I think so," she said in a low voice. "After getting this far I have no intention of giving up now. So - whatever happens - thank you for helping me." "Helping you to trouble. Thank goodness I'll be a couple of thousand miles from it." He stood up and lounged against the mantelpiece, rattling the loose change in his pocket and giving his sister a long, considering stare. "But there are two things I'd love to see." She raised her brows. "His face when he finds a girl instead of the new man he's expecting. And yours when he packs you back on the first available plane." Whistling, he helped her on with her jacket and walked her along to the bus stop. She was borne away and his figure disappeared from sight. Absently, she tendered her fare while the seed of doubt Robin had sown flourished rapidly. Could Grant Fairfax send her back? Remembering that cold, firm voice she suddenly knew he would have no compunction in doing so. Sadly she realized that the obstacle she had surmounted was a mere molehill in comparison to the mountain which lay ahead. Vicky rubbed a patch in the mist on the window. She would get over it, somehow.

CHAPTER TWO Two hours to wait. Vicky stubbed out another cigarette with fingers which, despite the heat of the stuffy little room, were icy. The past two days had seemed endless. Two days in Zakhirya, the last outpost before the party's final destination, waiting for the arrival of her father, Professor Elves, and the man she now dreaded meeting. Two days of mounting tension and the insidious temptation to turn back before it was too late. After all, the final, wildest idea had been Robin's. It had worried him, this brief time she would spend here, meeting Grant Fairfax before they drove the last hundred- mile lap. How to postpone the truth for those few vital hours? The scene in Robin's flat came back vividly. Robin frowning and pulling at his lower lip. Then the light had blazed in his eyes and he had caught hold of her and waltzed her round the room. "It's so simple. Why didn't we think of it before? Listen, Vicky. You can't fool the airport people - our crooksman-ship isn't that advanced - but once you reach Zakhirya you can fool Fairfax. You become Vic Ellis! You can, Vicky - you're skinny enough if you crop your locks." Carried away by his enthusiasm and his careful coaching in masculine mannerisms, she had believed him. Until now. .. Vicky shivered. Could she go through with it? And what was her father going to say? Her chin lifted and she squared her shoulders under the dull green poplin jerkin. She hadn't come over two thousand miles to turn

chicken now. To occupy herself she got out her small spirit stove and boiled water for coffee. The culinary hygiene of the inn had not exactly impressed her and she dared not risk the setback of a stomach upset at this time. As she cleared away the traces of her impromptu meal a sudden commotion stirred the sluggish peace of the inn. Every nerve taut, she listened to the sounds from below. The tread of heavy feet came up the stairs and the reedy tones of the wizened crone who apparently constituted the staff, apart from the proprietor, cackled past her door. The sounds faded, then the crone returned. Vicky could hear the soft, desultory swish of her primitive reed broom and the crooning noises she made to herself as she creaked down the stairs. In the silence that followed Vicky hesitated uncertainly. Was her father alone now? Caution struggled with the longing to see him and confess her trickery. Would his sense of humour - and the shock - overcome his scruples? Suddenly she was afraid. The sounds of activity were renewed. She stared at the closed door, unable to bring herself to leave the safety her room represented. Then the deep friendly voice spoke beyond the panels and brought a smarting to her eyes. She blinked, then stiffened at the clipped, incisive voice which replied. They were going out. She moved to the window. Outside, in the yellow haze of the late afternoon, the Land Rover was parked by the courtyard wall. She had an affectionate affinity with that Land Rover and had spent most of the morning checking that its innards held their necessary fluids and removing traces of the previous day's journey. Grant Fairfax should not find fault with it - or her.

Her father climbed into the passenger side and she could see only the back of the man who slid behind the wheel and seemed to start the vehicle with one smooth, economical movement. Then she caught a glimpse of a tanned profile, sharply etched beneath a heavy dark brow, as the Land Rover wheeled and shot through the archway. She knew without doubt that this was the man on whom her immediate future depended. Would she pass his scrutiny? Setting apart the problem of dealing with her father, who would recognise her instantly despite the minor changes she had been able to effect in her appearance, how was she going to engineer the first meeting with Fairfax without her father coming on the scene? The whole set-up bristled with difficulties she had not foreseen. A desire for air made Vicky climb the steps to the roof. Perched on the parapet, she gazed across the cluster of dwellings to the maize fields in the distance. A thread of blue showed where the river wove its timeless way through an age-old land where the seeds of history were sown. Vicky shaded her eyes as she traced the broken thread until she could see it no further. The violet shadows lengthened while Vicky sat there unmoving, until the sound of a throat being cleared brought her head sharply round. Professor Elves regarded her benignly, and just in time she restrained herself from jumping up and uttering a cry of delighted welcome. "You must be young - " he groped and came up with it triumphantly, "Ellis. Thought I recognised you - never can put faces and names together," he confessed. He beamed, and Vicky's heart left the region of her throat and returned to its normal abode.

She jammed on her tinted spectacles to be on the safe side. Of course he was as vague as a typical fictional professor, but surely this was a good omen to begin with. She asked him if he had had a pleasant journey and this started the ball of conversation rolling, at least from his end. "What time are we leaving?" she asked. "Five a.m.," he replied, and she raised her brows, assessing the possible value of this information. If she could avoid Fairfax tonight, which was doubtful, the early start before full light would be in her favour. Aware that the Professor was speaking, she looked up. "Are the beds clean?" "Not bad," she assured him. "Considering we're off the tourist track - you can borrow my insecticide spray if you're doubtful." His red face relaxed again into its round, placid contours and he smiled ruefully. "I always seem to make a good meal - must have rich blood." His glance strayed to the horizon. "Where were you when we arrived?" The abrupt question startled her and she said evasively, "I was around. I didn't see you arrive. Is it important?" "As far as I'm concerned, not in the least." He waved his hand. "But Mr. Fairfax wasn't too pleased. He - " the Professor hesitated a moment. "Perhaps a word of warning wouldn't come amiss. He tends to be a bit impatient with those younger and less experienced than himself. This is never personal, merely his way of trying to prevent mistakes. Perhaps he's right. Sometimes I think it's better to learn the hard way."

Silently Vicky considered his words. They confirmed every instinct she had felt about Grant Fairfax since she had first heard his name. "Old Abdullah either couldn't or wouldn't tell of your whereabouts." The Professor indulged in the smile of an elderly man who has long since ceased to worry about trifles. "He expected to see you before he left with Dr. Harving to call on the Commandant of the local Garrison." He fell silent and in a cloud of blue smoke ground his cigarette underfoot. "Well, I'm for a quiet nip before the others return. Care to join me?" Whisky did not appeal to Vicky. She shook her head and murmured a polite, "Not now, but thanks just the same," as the Professor got to his feet with stiff, cramped movements and dusted a perfunctory hand over the seat of his pants. He ambled across the room and paused at the top of the steps, one foot extended over the descent, then drew back, waiting, while the heads and shoulders of two men emerged from below. The first man stepped on the roof, acknowledged the Professor with a brief greeting, and turned towards the silent figure by the parapet. Through the fading light Vicky met his encompassing gaze; saw it harden as it assessed her dark-tinted, untidily cropped head, the heavy framed spectacles, and the straight, defiantly boyish stance she instinctively adopted Her heart thudded with fear as those cold eyes continued to rake her slim form in its shapeless, disguising attire, and with an effort she remained steady, apparently unmoved, while Grant Fairfax concluded that inquisitional survey. He made no effort to hide his disgust and disappointment. "So this, I presume, is young Ellis."

The sarcastic words, delivered in a voice of flint, brought Vicky's chin higher still, then the biting voice continued: "Just what I was afraid of. We've been landed with a skinny, effeminate youth. Probably full of intellectual ideas and little else." Vicky was receiving at last a first-hand impression of the man who had unwittingly been the instigator of her recent actions. Tall, powerfully built, black brows drawn together over eyes that glinted with the blue-grey flash of polished steel, he towered over her, radiating a magnetism which at once attracted and repelled her. Behind him, Andrew Harving stood, bewilderment succeeding surprise in the gaze he transferred from Fairfax to herself. Then she saw her father's expression change and the slow dawn of incredulity in his face as he stepped forward. "Mr. Fairfax," she said, her brows raised in cool assumption, "do you always judge before you hear the evidence?" Giving him no time to reply, she brushed past him and extended her hand to her father, a slight smile curving her mouth as she said: "Good evening, Dr. Harving. I'm happy to have the opportunity of working with you again, sir." The horror in his face as he automatically shook hands brought a choking mirth she fought hard to quell while she made a quick, frowning movement and her lips framed an appeal. For the benefit of Fairfax she said aloud, "The Professor has given me the gen. Five a.m., I understand."

She crossed to the steps and began to descend. Blindly, Dr. Harving followed, and she contrived to hiss at him, "Come along when they've settled down for the night." She stopped outside her room. In the gloom she could face Grant Fairfax more confidently. "Anything else?" Folding his arms, he frowned at her. "Yes. You will travel with me in the truck. Dr Harving and Professor Elves will follow in the Land Rover. We should reach the site some time before noon if we're not delayed." He paused. "Any further questions?" None of them responded, and abruptly he swung round and left them. There was a trace of puzzlement in the glance the Professor directed after the tall figure, then he stifled a yawn as he turned back to the other two. "Well, I'm for an early night." He slapped Vicky lightly on the shoulder. "Goodnight, young Ellis, and to you, Harving." With a friendly nod he moved away. The moment the Professor was out of sight Vicky seized her father's arm and drew him into the' room, closing the door and leaning back against it with a set, defiant expression. For a moment their glances locked, then she said sharply, "Well, go on, Father, say it!" He sighed. "What do you expect me to say, Vicky, unless it's to ask the obvious? And how long you intend to keep up this ridiculous masquerade."

"I won't make excuses," she said quietly. "I was determined to be with you once I knew there was a vacancy. In spite of Grant Fairfax's stupid prejudices." "But how? And where is Victor Ellis? Did he -?" Dr. Harving's face darkened with sudden suspicion. "No, let me explain." She took a deep breath. "You won't like this, Daddy and I'm sorry that it had to be this way. I used Vic's name to obtain Baxter's place. I wrote to Fairfax from Robin's address and persuaded Robin to take the phone call which I was sure Fairfax would make when he got my letter. The plan worked better than I ever - " She broke off, watching her father's mouth tighten with anger. "So it seems. Go on, Vicky." "Robin, against his will, went for the interview with the Professor for briefing. He had to - it was all pointless otherwise. Oh, Daddy," she appealed, "try to understand. Fairfax's opposition seemed to act like a goad." "Fairfax is the last man to play tricks with," Andrew said angrily. "Has it occurred to you what an awkward position your crazy playacting has placed me in? How am I going to explain this to my colleagues?" "I never intended to keep it going," she said wearily. "I intended to tell Fairfax the truth as soon as I got here. I hoped he would let me stay, and make the best of a bad bargain." "Then why the continuation of the farce? Up on the roof just now?"

Vicky was almost at breaking point. "You heard him, Daddy. How could I tell him then? It was humiliating enough without having to tell him I - I was a g - " she stopped, unable to go on. Dr. Harving looked at the bent head beneath the shorn curls and his anger began to fade. "When did you do this?" he touched her hair. "Last night." She looked up, aware of his weakening. "Daddy, you won't give my secret away?" "Oh, for heaven's sake, Vicky! What else can I do? Do you honestly believe they'll credit that I failed to recognise my own daughter?" "The Professor did." Vicky got up, worriedly seeking the means of persuading him to let her stay. Suddenly an idea came. Hiding a smile, she went to her trunk and rummaged in its depths. She pulled out the gauzy wisp she sought and held it up. "This should do the trick." "What on earth are you going to do now?" Dr. Harving knew his daughter too well, and the gleam in her eye filled him with fresh foreboding. She held the garment against herself. "It's quite a sexy little blouse. I'm glad I brought it. You can go now, Daddy. I'm going to wash this horrible grease off my hair and change first." "First?" "Of course! I'm not going to look like a frump when I go along to Grant Fairfax's bedroom to tell him I can't join the expedition

because I'm a female. And that my father sent me to him to tell the truth," she ended in a small, sad voice. "Vicky!" Her father's scandalised expression was too much for Vicky. Through her laughter she said naughtily, "Perhaps he'll change his mind about having a girl in the company." He snatched the filmy nylon from her hand. "You will stay here and let me deal with the matter." "It's too late, Daddy. Think of the uproar. He'll want to know why you kept silent on the roof. He'll think you were in the plot." She grinned, and struck a saucy attitude. "Far better let me do my seduction act." When his mouth twitched she knew she had almost won. She was quick to seize her advantage. "Don't you see, Daddy? I've no option but to go on. Whatever we do there'll be a row. And that's going to have an adverse effect on the most important thing - the expedition. The only way to avoid that is for me to continue - as Victor Ellis - if you'll let me." She waited while he struggled with the dilemma she had thrust upon him, then she said softly, "Remember, you couldn't keep that promise." "All right, Vicky. You win," he said tiredly. "No," he warded her off when she would have flung her arms round him, "I'm not happy about this. I should march you along to Fairfax and let him give you the telling-off you deserve - or spank you myself. But, as you say, it is going to make a most unpleasant start to our work. And the expedition must come first." For a moment he studied her glowing face. "I never found it easy to refuse you, and today is no

different. Unfortunately you know this. However, you're on your own now. How and when you cope with Fairfax is your own pigeon and I want nothing to do with it. But when things go wrong, as they will, don't come for sympathy." Her hasty reassurances did not placate him and his expression was sombre as he bade her goodnight. After he had gone she sank down on the bed and uttered a soft "Whew!" as her taut nerves began to relax. She was troubled as she set about preparing for the morning, methodically packing the few articles which evidenced her short stay and putting out a clean shirt in readiness. It was hateful not to be on happy terms with her father and bitter to know it was entirely her own fault. She glanced into the big pitcher of water; yes, there would be sufficient for the morning. She had no desire to venture out and risk an encounter with Grant Fairfax. The prospect of his company on a long, gruelling journey the next day was quite enough to go to sleep on, she reflected when she turned out the lamp and climbed into bed. After a few days her father would regain his old, urbane manner and his sense of humour. They would look back and laugh... At the appointed time next morning she was down in the courtyard, her luggage stowed in the Land Rover, and a delighted Abdullah was clutching the packet of tobacco she had given him. He gave her a wink which would have given the game away completely had anyone been watching. She turned away as her father and the Professor emerged from the dark shadow of the inn and looked towards the faint tinge of pearl on the eastern horizon. Suddenly, the truck loomed up on the dusty track beyond the arch and a moment later the tall figure of Grant Fairfax strode across towards them.

"Ready?" She nodded in answer to the curt query and picked up her canvas hold-all. The others had already settled in the Land Rover and reluctantly she followed Fairfax to the truck. "Right. Away we go." He indicated the driving seat and for a moment the pseudo Victor Ellis stared at him in dismay. He noticed the hesitation and said sharply, "You can drive, can't you?" "Yes!" She almost snarled the affirmative as she swung herself up behind the wheel Not for worlds would she admit to him that she would have been far happier in the Land Rover. But this great monster! Angrily she switched on the engine and glanced hastily at the positioning of the controls, eyeing the big gear lever with distrust. The cab vibrated as Fairfax climbed in with an easy litheness that was almost out of keeping with his large frame. He slammed the door, settling back with map and torch and seeming to fill the cab with his bigness. She eased in the gear and to her own surprise the vehicle moved off obediently. The first few miles were easier than she expected. The track was fairly even, and Vicky's Confidence began to rise from its temporary low ebb. The pearly fingers streaked across the sky and suddenly it was light. She switched off the headlamps and listened to her companion's comments as he scanned the map. They were leaving the arable lands now; the scattered flocks and their drowsy shepherd boys, the odd small hamlet of a few rough mud dwellings sprawled haphazardly on the landscape. The track narrowed and the truck began to lurch on the potholed surface. She

was forced to slacken speed and tighten her grip on the wheel. Through the mirror she caught a glimpse of the Land Rover, quite a long way behind, then her attention was taken as Grant Fairfax spoke. "See the hills? We're approaching the Miyan Gorge. Take it easy." She slowed obediently and was glad of his warning when the track dropped steeply in a nightmare bend and then the gaunt, forbidding rocks towered on each side, enclosing them in a great echoing rift. They were now driving along what seemed to be the dried-up bed of a river, which in places was barely wide enough to permit the passage of the truck between jutting outcrops of rock. The sun blazed down, unencountered by the slightest breath of breeze, and in a very short time the interior of the cab had become sticky and unpleasant. Envy raged in Vicky's heart when her companion first removed his jacket, then undid his shirt to the waist. Beneath her light jerkin her shirt clung in clammy folds to her skin and she eased away from the back of the seat with the vain hope of current of coolness playing about her shoulderblades. How far had they come? She looked at the mileage indicator and tried to transpose the distance covered into kilometres. She shook her head; it was too hot for mental arithmetic. Grant was still pondering over the map. As if he had sensed her thoughts he glanced up from the part he had traced with a pencil and said, "Halfway mark. Slow up for a moment." She dropped to a crawling five and took a brief glance at him. "Are we off the route?"

After a momentary hesitation he said, "There should be a depression to the south, shaped like a crescent. We should have spotted it by now." She went slowly on while Grant Fairfax leaned forward anxiously. "Stop!" Abruptly she braked and he jumped down, narrowing his eyes against the glare. He stood immobile for a moment or so, then turned, giving the first grin she had seen from him, and raised both thumbs in a satisfied gesture. She rammed home the now familiar gear and pulled away almost before he closed the door. They came to, and passed, the crescentshaped landmark and saw the first tinge of green since leaving Zakhirya. The end of the plain was reached and two-thirds of the distance covered. Before them lay another tiny isolated community. Two small boys appeared and ran alongside the truck showing wide white grins and holding out their hands. Vicky slowed, smiling herself. "Don't stop, you fool. They'll be all over the truck." Ignoring her companion's irate order, Vicky stopped and bent to look in her bag. She found her tin of sweets and delivered a couple of generous handfuls before she moved on, giving Fairfax a defiant look which plainly said, "So what?" when he stared curiously at her. He looked away and said, "I might have known you'd be a sucker for the soft touch."

"And you the touch for a soft ride," she said scornfully. He shrugged. "Driving is part of your job. You shouldn't have taken it if that's your attitude." Vicky fumed. Really, the man was insufferable! Then the thought came. He didn't know. How could she judge him under the circumstances? She swerved to avoid a venturesome dog and said with a trace of bitterness, "That's not the point. You've made up your mind to dislike me without giving me a fair trial." "We're approaching the tributary," he said calmly, as if she had not spoken. "There's a ford of sorts. Don't rush it." "I've forded rivers before today." Carefully she nursed the truck into the sluggish brown stream, her eyes straining for hidden potholes. A minute later they were across and squelching through the mud at the far side. Clear of the river, she drove on till she reached a flat stretch and stopped the truck. She picked up her bag and got out. There was a clump of bushes near by and she sat down in the sparse shade they afforded. From the bag she produced a damp towel and wiped her hot face before she opened her flask and poured out some coffee. Unhurriedly she drank it, aware that Fairfax watched from the cab. Next came a banana, and she finished off with an orange, then scooped a hole in the sandy soil, and neatly buried her litter. The shadow of his tall figure approached and she looked up. "Fruit?" He shook his head. "No, thanks, but I'd like some coffee if there's any spare."

She handed him the flask and stood up to flex her cramped limbs. She strolled back to the truck, looking for signs of the following vehicle. "Shouldn't we wait for the others?" she said when Fairfax rejoined her. He shook his head, and to her secret relief he climbed into the driving seat. She relaxed back and got out her cigarettes. An ungentle dig from a sharp elbow reminded her that there was no hope of relaxation in the company of Grant Fairfax. "The map, please," he ordered, and she opened it, her mouth compressing as she located their position, determined to give him no further opportunity of rebuke. The hands clamped on the wheel drove competently and fast, considering the conditions. He had an uncanny knack of sensing the bad patches before they reached them, she noticed with reluctant admiration. "I hope the advance party have got everything going according to plan," he said suddenly. "How many are at the site already?" she asked, secretly pleased to be addressed as a human being, if not a working partner, at last. "Four of us," he replied, "and the Arab boys with my foreman, Sherabhim Ben Ali." "Is he a good foreman?" "One of the best - where are we?" Hastily she looked at the map. "The track peters out approximately one mile ahead, according to this," she informed him. "Then we skirt a hillside for two miles, follow the river another three and leave it where the marked track recommences."

"It's almost non-existent now," he grunted as the truck swayed, forcing him to drop their speed to a crawl. Vicky was silent. How long could the tyres take such punishment? Holding the map open on her knees, she clutched the window rim with her free hand while Grant urged the labouring vehicle with dogged determination. A shower of stones dislodged by the back wheels rattled down the slope, and for a moment Vicky thought the rear end must follow. Then Fairfax righted the skid with a strong, dexterous movement. But a few minutes later there was an ominous report, and the truck heeled wildly and jolted to a standstill. Vicky was out almost as soon as Fairfax and staring over his shoulder at the damage. Automatically she began unscrewing the spare wheel, while he set up the jack. She slapped the spanner into his hand with the precision of a good theatre nurse to the sturgeon and deftly rolled the spare along as the wheel fell away. She inspected the burst tyre ruefully while Fairfax tightened nuts, then she seized a tyre lever and thrust it under the rim. Fairfax added his weight and slowly and reluctantly the hub emerged. Fairfax straightened. "Shove it in the back. I don't want to lose any more time." She frowned. "Travel without a spare? We may as well finish the job." "I suppose you're right." He delved into the truck and brought out a new tyre still encased in the trade-marked paper strips. She felt a small glow of satisfaction as they fitted the new tyre and put away the tools. The final twenty miles brought no further mishaps and the sun had reached its meridian when they saw the

tents in the distance and a couple of waving figures advancing towards them. The older of the two men greeted Fairfax and held out his hand to Vicky. "I'm Laurence Turle. Have a good trip?" He had merry brown eyes in a tanned, puckish face and a thin, whimsical mouth that curled up at the corners. Vicky nodded and smiled back, liking him instinctively. He moved to the back of the truck to unload the baggage and Vicky went to help. The youth who was with him stood by, indolently tossing a paper pellet from one hand to the other. "Nothing to do, Brixen?" Fairfax said acidly. "This lot all goes to the store hut." Alan Brixen looked at the growing pile of crates and said in a surly tone, "Finch has the key, and he's up at the site." Impatiently, Grant produced his key ring and selected one. "This will fit. Now get a move on." From the tailboard of the truck Vicky watched the boy and heard the undoubtedly vicious mutter as he took a crate. So she was not the only one to fall foul of Fairfax's tongue. At least laziness was not one of her faults, she thought when she followed Laurence Turle to the row of tents which had been got ready by the advance party. "Take your pick," he grinned. "No hot and cold, I'm afraid." He gave her a brief outline of the layout of the site and then left her. Slowly she entered the tent which was to be her home for three

months. For the first time the thought occurred to her that she might have been expected to share accommodation, and she shivered. How long would her luck last? After a sketchy clean-up she rejoined Laurence and was shown to the big hut which served as a canteen. She maintained a reserve during the. meal that followed, listening to the flow of banter between Laurence and a fiery-headed young man who was introduced as Finch Lesley. He was the party's surveyor, and a target for a great deal of teasing from the irrepressible Laurence. Suddenly she saw her father enter the hut accompanied by Grant Fairfax and the Professor. Urbane and smiling, the stains of travel removed, Andrew Harving glanced across the hut, inclining his head with a studied air of mocking gravity. She gave an almost imperceptible nod, suddenly reassured by his proximity. They finished the meal and lingered over coffee, indulging in the final lazy relaxation of the getting-together day. Tomorrow the serious work would begin, and, judging by the first few hours of acquaintance with Grant Fairfax, a strict routine would be enforced, she reflected, her glance straying to the broad shoulders at the next table. Yes, her father and the Professor were right; Fairfax would have no time for bunglers or shirkers. He would give unsparingly of his own strength and ability, but equally he would expect the utmost from those with whom he worked. Vicky lit a cigarette, adding her contribution to the blue haze filling the hut, and renewed her resolve. She was going to stay. There was no turning back, not now.

CHAPTER THREE THE first day had ended; the long rough journey and the excitement of seeing the site. The plans and the conferences for the start of the excavation next morning were over. Now Vicky was alone, and almost too weary to set about unpacking and attempting to transform the bare anonymity of canvas into a temporary home. The tent was quite large. One camp bed, a net, a stool, and an oil lamp comprised the furnishings. She had purloined a crate from the store hut and tomorrow she would scrounge a second one. The feminine instinct to spread things around was strong in Vicky despite her ability to exist quite happily for periods without the conveniences of the average modern home. She moved the crate nearer to the bedhead. Just the addition of her travelling clock and a few paperbacks brought about the feeling that she belonged. There was little she could do to improve the washing facilities. Still, the limitations of a sponge-down in a tent had at least the advantage of privacy, she thought, a wry smile touching her mouth as she began to realise the more intimate difficulties of keeping her secret. Sighing, she set off to collect water from the tank behind the mess hut. No need to remind them of the importance of conserving the water supply; the labour involved in collecting it was a sufficient deterrent against waste. They were fortunate in having a small stream near the site, she thought as she watched the brownish, unappetising rim rise in her bucket. Back in her tent, she dumped the bucket and slipped outside again. The site was roughly the shape of an elongated L. At the top of the' long arm was the excavation area and the camp of the Arab

workmen. Next lay the huts housing a makeshift laboratory, a darkroom, a small first-aid annexe, and the canteen and cookhouse, all grouped within easy access to the water supply. Farther down the opposite side was the parking ground for the vehicles and the store hut. The small arm consisted of the party's camp. Her father's tent was the first of four below the store hut and situated on the point of the angle. Vicky hesitated before crossing the wide centre strip to the other group of tents. Grant Fairfax's was the first of this other group, and she hurried past it and Finch's to her own. The row of pegs marking the boundary between the site and the track to Zakhirya showed faintly in the gloom and the last, lonely tent was Laurence Turle's. A shadow moved ahead of her and she stopped. There was no sound for a moment, then she heard the gritting of a foot movement and saw the waxing glow of a cigarette as it arched to the unseen owner's side. Her slight movement to lift her tent flap did not escape notice and she knew it was Fairfax before the tall figure materialised into her vision and the deep voice spoke. "Oh, it's you." The slightly supercilious tone did not fail to provoke the ready antagonism she held for this man, and she said curtly, "Yes. Any rules against fresh air?" He ignored her question and said, "Been to the east before?" "No."

"Been abroad at all?" "South America - Peru," she said briefly. "With Harving's crowd?" "Last year." The inquisition was beginning to shake her composure. Had she made some slip and aroused his suspicion? If only he would go away and she could end this conversation. To remember the careful, even pitching of her voice was not easy under the alert eye of this man. "How old are you?" he asked suddenly. "Twenty - but you've got all the details." Vicky was now afraid. "Education - St. Aidan's Primary, Marleigh Grammar - want the rest?" "Oh, skip it," he snapped. "It must sound unreasonable, but -" He stopped and brought out a battered cigarette case, flipping it open. "Smoke?" Vicky took one and turned to face this new, unexpected mood of uncertainty she sensed in him. "Worried about something?" she asked boldly, holding out her own lighter. He smoked in silence for a while, then said, "Not exactly. I've no concrete reason for being so, but I've a feeling we're in for a sticky passage." He paused, compressing his mouth. "I've smelt trouble ever since I set foot in Zakhirya." Vicky would have sworn that Grant Fairfax was the last man to indulge in vague fancies. "What could happen?" she asked. "I mean apart from the natural calamities one must be prepared to face. Storms," she shrugged, "unrest among the workmen,

superstitious fears, and our own men getting on each other's nerves through the same enforced company." "Well, I've no doubt it can be dealt with, if or when it should arise," he said with a return of his old arrogance. "Oh, and a word of warning." Now what was coming? She looked up. "Don't get too matey with Brixen." Startled, she said, "Why not?" She had no inclination to become matey, as he termed it, with Alan Brixen, but she considered the matter of her personal friendships with other members of the crowd to be her own affair and no concern of Grant Fairfax's. "Like attracts like," he said curtly, "and one lazy, inefficient young hound in the team is enough." "Oh!" Vicky drew in a breath of fury. "You won't find me lazy, Mr. Fairfax," she said wrathfully. "For your sake, I hope not. Good night." He strode into the darkness, leaving Vicky staring after him. Burning with resentment, she prepared to settle down to the first night in a new and alien surrounding. Looking back over the hours she had known Grant Fairfax, she could not instance one single omen that presaged confidence or joy. Vicky turned out her lamp and looked into the future. And her heart was filled with foreboding.

The next morning digging began. Keyed for action, the party sought to curb their impatience as they checked equipment and awaited Grant Fairfax's instructions. They all knew the odds against striking a discovery at once were very great. Days, weeks, or even months might elapse before the spades revealed what they sought. The sun rose higher as the morning hours passed, sapping vigour with its as yet unaccustomed heat. Only Laurence seemed completely unaffected as he conferred with the leaders over the photographs and drawings on Finch's board. Vicky waited her opportunity and drifted over to inspect them. Strange that a curious formation of shadows seen casually from the air should have set in motion the long preparation which had culminated in the expedition of which she was a part today. Her imagination raced on towards the possible discovery of cuneiform, the strange writings of ancient civilisations, which, once deciphered, brought new light on the mystery of the past. A voice broke in on her reverie and she found Alan Brixen at her side. ''Coming for grub?'' "Is it that time already?" She looked at her watch and back to the pale, tilted eyes and thin, sallow features. "The others went five minutes ago." She looked round and found the site was indeed deserted. Reluctantly she fell into step with him, still engrossed in her flight of imagination.

"You remind me of someone I used to know," he said casually as they approached the mess. "I couldn't place you yesterday, then it came to me when I saw you standing over those drawings. It was a chap I was at school with." Vicky maintained a discouraging silence, little dreaming of what was coming. "And it's such an amazing coincidence," his eyes widened in exaggerated surprise. "The name, I mean." "What name?'' Vicky was only half listening. "Harving, of course." "Harving?" She stopped short, just inside the doorway, the name jolted out of her. "Yes. This boy's name was Harving, and you could be his brother. The likeness is fantastic." Conscious of a sick numbness in the pit of her stomach, Vicky moved to the nearest table. Alan dropped in the chair opposite. "I believe Dr. Harving has children. I wonder if the boy I knew is his son. His name was Robin." Blindly she bent over her food. Had anyone overheard? And how long before Alan guessed the truth, which his concentrated study could so easily reveal. She looked up and tried to keep her voice casual. "They say everyone has a double." Over Alan's shoulder she encountered the amused glance of her father, who was seated at the next table with the Professor and Grant Fairfax.

Alan, following the direction of her strained smile, turned his head, and to her horror leaned over and addressed Andrew Harving. "I've just been saying he's the double of a friend of mine, also named Harving." "Oh." Andrew was non-committal. "I wondered if he was related to you," Alan persisted, while Vicky watched Grant answer some remark of the Professor's and then return his attention to the interchange between the two tables. "My son Robin was at Greystone - was that your school?" Andrew drained his cup and pushed it carelessly aside. "Yes. Well, don't you see the resemblance?" Alan gestured towards Vicky. Her father's face did not flicker as he put on an expression of apparent appraisal. "Perhaps there is," he said at last when Vicky felt she could bear it no longer. "But Robin has changed a lot since those days. I doubt if you would recognise him now." He brought out cigarettes and offered them round. "I once had a rather strange experience…' He recounted an anecdote and the attention of the others was drawn away from Vicky. A warm flood of affection filled her as the dangerous moments passed harmlessly. To her relief Alan slipped away with a muttered excuse when they left the mess and came into the sunlight. "Gone to see his precious Leo, I expect," Laurence grinned. "He's a real little creep, that laddie." "Leo?" Vicky frowned.

"I forgot, you haven't had that pleasure yet. Leo is our tame specialist," Laurence informed her. "To give him his full handle, he's Leonard Aloysius Bartholomew Gavison." "Append every letter of the alphabet," Finch Lesley interjected, "and the list of museums, archives, and societies to which he is adviser, and you have him." "A rare bod," said Vicky, and her companions chuckled. "He arrived the day before you with a raging allergy which the sun aggravates. So he's keeping to his tent until the antihistamines do their stuff," Laurence told her. "He emerges at night for a prowl." "I know the name," she said slowly, "but he isn't a field archaeologist, strictly speaking, is he?" "No," said Laurence thoughtfully. "He's an authority on gems, I believe. Collects the kind of stuff you and I only dream about. He models - or rather sculpts - as a hobby." Laurence stopped, and Vicky received a fleeting impression that he did not wish to discuss Leo at greater length. The subject changed and she forgot about the American connoisseur whom she had not yet seen. But she was to hear much of him during the next few days from the somewhat surprising source of Alan Brixen. The moody youth attached his presence with a limpetlike propensity which she found difficult to dislodge. Conscious of time-wasting and an occasional disapproving glance from Fairfax, she was finally goaded into crying impatiently: "So what? Leo's a brilliant personality. Now can we take it as read and get on with the job?"

Alan looked hurt. "He's feeling much better now, and he asked me to invite you to join us in a game of cards tonight." "Sorry - I rarely play," she said curtly, and left him., After Alan's glowing song of praise she was not impressed when Leo Gavison came into the sunshine for the first time since his arrival. She saw a small, insignificant man in dark glasses whose most obvious distinction at first sight was the immaculate suite he wore, a suit that contrasted ludicrously with the faded and casual garb worn by the rest of the men. A large panama hat topped the shining ensemble and below it she noticed a peculiar mottling of the skin over his chin and jawline. Alan was at his side, and his fawning manner towards the older man made Vicky feel slightly sick. Leo gave her a brief glance in which interest flickered and waned almost immediately. The Professor was with them and as she was about to pass his voice arrested her. The chubby face level with her own looked unusually stern. He pushed his battered straw hat farther back on his head and demanded crossly, "Why hasn't my gear been unpacked?" Vicky frowned. She had checked the crates going to the hut which had been set aside for his use, and, having received no instructions about the disposal of the contents, had left them, assuming that he would wish to supervise the unpacking of them himself. She began to apologise, but he stopped her. His bursts of irritation were never prolonged, as she knew from past experience. "I know what it's like to be the dogsbody - at everyone's Beck and call." A twinkle came into his eyes and the hat received another buffeting. "Been through it myself. A long time ago, mind. But see to my stuff as soon as you can."

Vicky congratulated herself that it had been the Professor. If it had been Fairfax ... Afterwards, she swore the thought had conjured him forth. He detached himself from the shadow of the canteen doorway and she groaned under her breath as she saw his expression. "See to what?" Fairfax frowned. The Professor said hastily, "Nothing, Fairfax. We were merely discussing unpacking my gear." "Haven't you attended to that before now?" Fairfax turned to Vicky. "Why not? It should have been one of your first jobs." "My own fault for not asking sooner," the Professor placated after a glance at Vicky's worried face. "There's always a bit of confusion during the first couple of days." "Five days," Fairfax said with grim precision, glancing back at Vicky. "I suppose this means that you haven't touched the spare stuff for the darkroom and checked it." He ignored the Professor's unhappy fidgetings. Vicky's temper was rapidly ousting her dismay and the twinges of guilt at her inadvertent omissions. With an effort she repressed the retort she longed to make - that she'd been kept on the hop almost continually since she first set foot on the site - and said: "Apart from getting out the photographic gear all ready in use, I was given no instructions to unpack anything else. Also, the huts are kept locked, and I wasn't issued with keys." She tilted up her chin and added tartly, "I'm not a mind-reader, Mr. Fairfax."

Although I can almost read his, she thought bitterly, standing her ground and meeting the implacable grey eyes with a defiant stare. He thinks I'm a milksop, another lazy, lily-skinned youth like Alan Brixen who's afraid of dirty hands and hard work. She sighed. Was there no way of dispelling the prejudice he had so obviously had against her right from the beginning? "Initiative, not insolence, is what you require," he said curtly. Vicky stiffened. Then she heard the sound of approaching voices and from the corner of her eye she saw her father and Leo Gavison. She bit back the angry words that had rushed to her lips. If her father caught her rowing with Fairfax there was no knowing what might transpire. She said in a low voice, "I didn't intend to be negligent. If you have that impression, I'm sorry." Grant Fairfax stared, as if an apology was the last thing he expected. Somewhat taken aback, he acknowledged it with a curt nod. "Fair enough. I'll give you the keys. Have you a list?" "No." "I'll give you my inventory, but for heaven's sake look after it." He moved away and, after an uncertain glance at her father, she hastily followed him. When she marched back up the centre strip, the clipboard of papers tucked under her arm, a Citroen was parked outside the canteen. It was early in the season for visitors, she mused, letting herself into the lab hut.

Among the photographic equipment she was much happier. She worked on steadily, humming a gay little tune to herself and planning the letter she would write to Robin that evening. Then she reached the last small crate and was abruptly silent as she studied the rather large gap in the ticks against her list. Just what she'd been afraid of; something was missing. She groped through the box which contained only packets of printing paper, and sighed. Perhaps the missing link was in the main store hut, or even among the provisions in the cookhouse. She would have to go and look. Outside, she bumped into Grant Fairfax. "Finished?" he asked before she could get in first. "Everything there?" She shook her head and told him about the missing crate. "You'd better look for it, then. It can't be far," he said unsympathetically. "Without replying she brushed past him. What did he think she was doing? However, no cuckoo lay in the nest of provisions. She helped herself to the biscuit tin, then munched her way up to the other store. Blinking after the glare, she examined the labels and spotted the crate she sought. It was perched on top of a larger one and she reached up to tug it down. Not until it was sliding towards her did she realise its unsuspected weight. She rubbed a scraped tenderness on one hip where a sharp corner had made a painful contact and sighed. She would have to remove some of the contents before she could carry it over to the darkroom. The crowbar came into action and the long nails creaked free.

"What on earth are you doing?" She jumped, sending a shower of splinters dancing as the crowbar slipped, and spun round. Fairfax stood outlined in the bright rectangle of light. Arms akimbo, he stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. "Do you intend to unpack that ... carry everything separ —" Words apparently failed him, and when she did not reply he raised his eyes despairingly. Vicky set her lips. Hadn't the man anything better to do than follow her around picking faults and being so stingingly sarcastic into the bargain? Obviously he had no intention of moving until the beastly crate was deposited in the darkroom. Savagely she sent the crowbar skimming across the ground and with a strength born of rage heaved up the crate and took an unsteady step forward. He hesitated only a second before he stepped forward and took her burden as if it were a featherweight. To her amazed expression he muttered, "No sense in having a rupture case on our hands," before he turned away. She saw him stride over the sunbaked, shimmering centre strip, and the hot golden glare felt like limelight on her humiliation. In the black shadow of the darkroom she rubbed a strained shoulder, bitterly aware of her failure. He dumped the crate and said sharply, "Didn't anyone ever tell you to relax your knees when lifting? I thought it came naturally to all men, even the skinny specimens. Apparently I was wrong."

She bent over the box to hide her burning face. "A combination of brain and brawn is ah admirable achievement." She made an attempt at bravado. "What do you suggest? Ju-jitsu, Yoga, or one of those miracle bodybuilding courses they advertise in magazines?" She regretted the words even as she spoke them. They positively invited a scathing comment. She winced as it came. "Neither. I suggest you should have better acquainted yourself with the requirements of field archaeology before you applied for the job." "Oh!" Vicky jerked upright, a very feminine cry of indignation bursting from her, but he had gone. Quivering with fury, she heard the crunch of his footsteps fade in the distance. She was quiet that evening in the canteen. Though her temper had cooled the sting of his scorn remained, and the fact that she could not in fairness blame Fairfax for his attitude did not make acceptance of the situation easier to bear. She had always prided herself on possessing a certain amount of wiry strength and an ability to cope with the innards of a car, all of which had induced a pleasant feeling of self-reliance during emergencies in the past. Now she sadly recognised her limitations and the penalties of assuming a disguise. The average youth of her age could have been expected to make light work of that crate which had proved just too much for her feminine strength. "Cheer up!" Dr. Harving dropped into the vacant chair beside her and groped for his pipe. "What's the trouble?"

After looking round to make sure they could not be overheard she told him. "Why don't you give up, Vicky? You've got here and proved whatever it was you wanted to prove. Be content to leave it at that." He tamped down his pipe and went on: "To carry on with your brand of guerilla warfare is unfair to Fairfax - and yourself. And I'm afraid you're going to regret this business very soon." The obstinate expression he knew so well showed no sign of relenting, and he sighed. "At least be warned. I've a suspicion you've been rumbled." "What!" She sat up. "Who?" And then in horror, "Has Grant said anything?" "No. But I've noticed Laurence Turle watching you on one or two occasions. He helps you, which he doesn't for the others. Not out of the ordinary course of the job. I think he's guessed." "I thought he was just being friendly," she said in a small voice. "He hasn't given me any odd looks or anything like that." "No, but if he has guessed God knows what he's thinking," Andrew said fervently. He leaned forward, his expression worried. "I doubt if this has occurred to you, Vicky. Let's face it, you could so easily have been subjected to unmerciful teasing on the grounds of being 'girlish' or, even worse, unpleasant innuendoes. It's fortunate that we have a decent bunch of men this trip. I do wish you'd see reason. Shall I talk to Fairfax? He isn't the ogre you believe him to be." Vicky's face was pale, but she shook her head. "Please don't do that. I - I couldn't face them if they knew the truth."

"I see," he said grimly. "Lost your nerve. Very well, but I don't like it, Vicky." The Professor and Fairfax joined them and the conversation turned, inevitably, to the dig. After a while Vicky wandered over to the table at which Laurence and Finch were seated. Soft strains came from Finch's transistor radio and the music evoked a nostalgic reminder of a world remote from their present setting. No one spoke, then abruptly the music faded and the spell was broken by the outpourings of propaganda relayed from Radio Cairo. Finch switched it off and remarked idly, "Wonder what brought the Commandant here this morning." Laurence shook his head. "He had quite a lengthy conference with Fairfax.'' Not long enough to keep Fairfax off my bones, thought Vicky bitterly, remembering the unfamiliar vehicle outside the canteen that morning. "He can't have brought any mail," Finch said, disappointment in his tone. Laurence chuckled. "This stand-in for Romeo" - his thumb indicated Finch - "keeps a harem in his pocket book. And you should see the art display plastered over his tent." Laurence's lips pursed in a whistle while his hands sketched impudent curves in the air. There was invariably laughter around the irrepressible Laurence, and suddenly Vicky was happy again. Amid it, no warning intuition prepared her for the bombshell which was to burst over her the following day.

She was utterly unprepared for the moment when the long shadow of Fairfax overtook her late in the afternoon and he said suddenly: "We've got a visitor coming at the weekend. A Mr. Svendsen. As he'll be here for only a few days I thought he could move in with you." She did not hear the comment from Professor Elves, "Not worth shoving up another tent for such a short time." Grant's features wavered and receded before her eyes. Shocked into silence, she did not see the hint of puzzlement that came into his face. Through the waves of dismay rushing over her, swamping her ability to make any reply or protest, she looked blindly at her father. A brief flash of unholy glee illuminated his face for an instant before he became perfectly serious and raised his brows with a sardonic lilt. "Svendsen sounds like a Swedish handle. You'd better brush up the lingo, young Ellis."

CHAPTER FOUR "BE serious, Father. This is no joke!" "Keep your voice down, Vicky. Unless you want to broadcast it to the entire camp." Stretched on his bed, Andrew Harving regarded Vicky's pale, strained face with an unruffled calm that made her want to shake him. The hours since the shock of Grant's announcement had passed in a blur of unreality. Now she was conscious of a tautness strained to snapping point. "Where are all those cigarettes you've been hoarding?" Her father's mild query was the proverbial last straw, and she cried wildly, "Is that all you can think about?" Her hands trembled as she lit their cigarettes and repeated, "What am I going to do?" "They won't last long at this rate. That's the third since you came in." "Listen, Father. In three days' time a hulking great Swede - or whatever he is - whom I don't know from Adam is going to move into my tent. With me!" "More than you bargained for, eh?" Andrew swung his long legs to the ground and sat upright. "Come here, Vicky." He drew her down beside him and put a comforting arm round her shoulders. "Stop worrying and try to get a good night's sleep. You'll see things in a clearer perspective in the morning. For it can't happen, you know. In spite of the fact that you walked into this - or rather plotted your way in - with your eyes wide open, you know perfectly well that I'd never stand by and see you forced into such an embarrassing situation."

Tears were in her eyes and she dashed them away furiously. "I'm getting soft - sorry, Daddy." He patted her shoulder. "Now take my advice and don't worry, because a solution will be found. Even if it means -" He stopped, and she knew what was in his mind. "Sleep well." He kissed her, and she slipped away into the darkness. But sleep did not come easily. By morning the problem of Henry Svendsen's arrival and what it implied was no nearer being solved. The days galloped by remorselessly while her father merely enjoined her to wait. Sadly she realised she could not produce a single valid objection to Grant's innocently made arrangement, except, and she shrank from this, the truth. For the first time she gave serious consideration to what seemed to be the only way out; of going to Grant Fairfax and telling him the truth, and accepting whatever scorn or reprisal he chose to rain on her head. She could blame no one for the present fiasco but herself, and for the first time she felt regret. Had it been worth it after all? But the small core of stubborn resistance remained. She hated to admit defeat. One day was left before the unwelcome visitor arrived and until the very last moment she would hope. Meanwhile, the everyday chores had to be attended to. She squatted on a camp stool and surveyed the bowl of damp garments. Unfortunately she had reached the end of her supply of clean clothing. The shirts could flutter like flags, but the other things ... She looked for a place of concealment to dry the flimsy silk

underthings. Finally she draped them at the .head and sides of her bed and arranged the mosquito netting in elaborate folds until she was satisfied that no give-away traces showed. She went in search of Dr. Harving and found him reading and the lamp burning low. "You're straining your eyes," she greeted him, firmly removing the thriller from his protesting hands. "Solved the problem yet?" he asked, watching her attend to the lamp. "No. I can't think of anything convincing." She turned the lamp up full. "Any ideas, Daddy?" "You're the one who's supposed to be having the ideas." He shot her an innocent glance. "My quarters are not being invaded, so why should I worry?" "But you said -" Vicky's face fell. "I wish you'd stop teasing me!" He smiled. "I haven't forgotten. But he's not here yet. Anything may happen. He might get lost or fall out of the plane." "And pigs might fly," she said bitterly. "Why did Grant Fairfax have to pick on me? Besides, these tents aren't large enough for two people. Not in this climate. And the man is entitled to his own accommodation." "You happened to get one of the larger issue," Andrew said mildly. "I expect Fairfax thought it would save the time and trouble of pitching another one. You can't blame him, Vicky." "I know," she admitted unhappily.

"Come on, let's go and brew coffee." He stood up and reached for his jerkin, waiting until she had turned out the lamp. The same idea had occurred to Laurence and Grant. They looked up from empty cups and Laurence grinned hopefully. "Going to brew? Good. Make it for four. We could do with another cup." Leo Gavison and Alan Brixen conversed in low tones over a spread-out card game at the corner table. They did not glance up as she passed through into the cookhouse, and she noticed that their game did not seem to have made much progress when she returned with the steaming jug and a tin of biscuits. Laurence blinked brown eyes and sniffed appreciatively. "Smells good. I'm sick of that sweet Turkish stuff the boys make." "Better watch out - you'll find yourself transferred to the cookhouse." Dr. Harving reached for the biscuit tin and accompanied his warning with a sly glance. Vicky said nothing. She was intensely conscious of Grant sitting beside her. He had slung his khaki drill jacket over a chairback and leaned forward, resting bare, tanned arms on the table. In one of his rare moods of relaxation, the hard line of his jaw had softened, leaving his face curiously vulnerable. In a flash of insight she knew that he was not the hard, insensitive man she had at first imagined. "Svendsen arrives tomorrow, doesn't he?" Laurence broke the silence and produced the inevitable cigarettes. "Oh yes." Dr. Harving struck a match and casually held it to three cigarettes in turn before unhurriedly holding the flickering stub to

his own. "We'd better get cracking in the morning with some accommodation for him. I'll see to it if someone will give a hand." His eyes rested on no one in particular. Vicky held her breath, not daring to look at Grant. He was hunched forward, doodling absently on the table top, smoke spiralling gently from the cigarette in his left hand. "Sure, I will," Laurence said suddenly. "Keep 'em happy and hope they don't get under our feet." Vicky forced a slight smile and slowly turned her head towards Grant. Would he remind them of the original arrangement? He dropped the pencil and it rolled across the table as he straightened and flexed his shoulders with a tired movement. "You'll see to it, then. Thanks, Harving. Any coffee left?" She reached for the jug. The wonderful sense of relief was almost painful. "There isn't much left. Shall I make some more?" Her voice was cool, concealing the gratitude with which she would have cheerfully brewed coffee all night if he had so desired. "No, that will do." He drained the cup and soon afterwards they broke up, walking through the cool darkness and dropping away as they reached their respective quarters until only Laurence remained at her side. His friendly "Goodnight" floated back as she entered her tent. She would sleep sweetly that night, she was sure. And Henry Svendsen could stay as long as he liked as far as she was concerned. But she dreamed, a fear-filled dream in which the face of Leo Gavison and the name of Henry Svendsen were inextricably

mixed. The sense of menace stayed when she awoke and stared into the darkness, trying to reason away the cold chill which still held her. Suddenly remembrance of an incident came to her and an isolated phrase echoed in her mind. She recalled the face of Grant Fairfax and heard him say: "I've smelt trouble since I first set foot in Zakhirya."

Henry Svendsen was not a native of Sweden, despite Dr. Harving's conjecture. He was a staid, precisely spoken little man with rimless glasses and a neat circlet of greying black hair on a freckled scalp. He was also the first official visitor, whose somewhat delicate duty was to ascertain that the expedition was doing its job and not wasting the considerable funds with which it had been endowed. Officialdom almost perspired from him. The mild flurry caused by his arrival soon dissipated and they renewed the careful, painstaking search. Grant Fairfax's expression became more worried as the third week ended without any encouragement of their hopes. Then late one afternoon, during a spell of dejection which had infected them all, Sherabhim Ben Ali, the foreman, waved his arms excitedly and broke into a torrent of broken English. "Bet it's another false alarm." Vicky found Laurence at her side as they hurried towards the group converging on the tall Arab. Grant was kneeling in the trench and scraping at the earth. Unable to curb her impatience, Vicky scrambled down to see.

"Out of the light, please." His arm barred her way and she retreated a pace. "Find the Professor. Quickly!" She rushed away. The Professor was with Mr. Svendsen and they terminated their conversation rather abruptly when she hurried breathlessly up to them. She thought she detected a gleam of annoyance in the cold grey eyes of the visitor, but her news would not wait on Henry Svendsen's possible displeasure. Back at the excavation, the Professor was levered down into the trench. After a few minutes she heard Grant say: "Well, do we go on?" Then, faintly audible, the reply, "Of course. We must." Work continued at an increased speed, the party toiling until nightfall forced them to halt. They were fortunate in that the site was not of the layer type where indiscriminate trench digging could ruin the accurate recording of the compressed levels deposited by successive periods of building down through the ages. Gradually the great plinth emerged and the party grew jubilant. This was only the beginning. After a further three days a second plinth, identical to the first, was unearthed. Then, after the portents had seemed so promising, they reached a dead end. The grid of trenches widened and branched without further discovery. Dusty and tired, Finch said suddenly-one night when they gathered in the mess: "I think we're on the wrong track altogether."

He fished for a pencil and began to scribble a rough plan on the table top. "Look. This is my theory. The two plinths are so widely spaced and so big that I dare not guess what they originally supported, unless it was a gigantic arch. The Chosroes palace at Ctesiphon, near Baghdad, has one, believed by some to have been draped with a colossal curtain of fabulous beauty. But here," Finch paused and frowned, "it's too near a slope. The angle's wrong. I've been thinking about something on my plan. Remember when we were kids and we used to see those trick pictures in comics, where you turned it upside down and found another picture hidden in it? I know it sounds crazy, but I've a hunch that if we take my plan and work from it upside down we'll get somewhere." Grant said, "Bring the plans, and the photographs, Finch." "And make some coffee, somebody," said Dr. Harving. The coffee jugs needed several replenishings before Grant finally said, "Very well. We'll try it. But I must stipulate a time limit. The season will pass too quickly, as it is, to take risks. If we're wrong " he left the sentence unfinished, and Vicky noticed his use of the plural instead of a directive to Finch and liked him for it. However, at the end of a week it seemed that Finch's theory was to prove groundless. Grant shook his head regretfully and they moved back to the temporarily abandoned excavation. "I'm positive I'm right," Finch said stubbornly, and Vicky's sympathy went out to him. "We could be within inches," he went on. "It's infuriating." "And we could be getting colder." Dr. Harving echoed the old nursery game as he stood behind them, looking down at the forlorn slump of their shoulders.

"I'm tempted to carry on digging myself." Finch sat up. "I could easily fit in a couple of hours each morning." "Why not?" Across the table Vicky challenged him. "I'll help - if you're serious.'' "This is mutiny. But I'm prepared to aid and abet." Dr. Harving's lips twitched. "I'll call you at dawn. It may not seem such an enticing idea then." Just in time Vicky bit back the delighted, "Daddy, you darling!" that sprang to her lips as she jerked round to face him. She contented herself with a nod to the two conspirators, her conviction growing that they were on the verge of the breakthrough they longed for. But they made painfully slow progress which was immediately noticed and cold-watered by Sherabhim Ben Ali. However, Grant said nothing and they continued to work alone in their spare hours. Every muscle in Vicky's body ached after a few days of the backbreaking toil. She longed for the comfort of a proper bath. At least she had talcum powder, she consoled herself as she dressed to meet her father for supper. Suddenly a step sounded outside and a voice called: "Finch here -I say, I think we've found something!" She just had time to grab her jerkin and kick the discarded clothes under the bed before he entered. His face was alight with hope. "After you'd left we were talking about packing in altogether, and Andrew threw down his spade. There was a ringing sound," Finch paused for breath, "and we

scrabbled away at the place and - looked by the light of my big torch. We saw a patch of - of flooring." "Yes?" Vicky urged. "It looks like mosaic. A shining, polished mosaic."

"It's part of a mosaic flooring. There's no doubt about that." As her father spoke Vicky knelt down and cleaned the exposed surface with a soft, moistened cloth. "Wonder how far it extends." Finch voiced the common thought as they stared at the patch of motley colours; colours as clear and unblemished as the day when long- dead hands so patiently laid them. Vicky's face glowed. "Grant is going to get a shock when he sees this." "The shock is unduly pleasant!" The cool tones brought her whirling round to see the long shadow cast by the early morning sun curl into the trench, and the tall figure above. He smiled as he jumped down and they watched silently while he inspected the discovery. He straightened and cast a speculative glance along the trench. "I must congratulate you - you deserve it." For a moment his hand rested casually on Vicky's shoulder and his touch sent a curious tingle down her spine. "I had a suspicion that a spot of private

investigation was taking place up here, and to be truthful, I considered it a waste of time. But I hadn't the heart to put a damper on your efforts." His gaze dropped to where the patch of mosaic glowed against its frame of earth and his expression grew serious. He said with great feeling, "Now I'm thankful I didn't." "Old Cherry Bin did that," Finch commented wryly, and Grant smiled. "Yes. He quite dutifully reported the highly unusual goings-on up at this end." "He would, the old -" Finch appended a rather uncomplimentary epithet as Grant turned and addressed Dr. Harving. "Whose idea was this, by the way?" Dr. Harving shrugged, and his eyes twinkled. Grant did not miss the grins exchanged between Finch and the supposed Victor Ellis. He said, "I might have known. For that the pair of you can see the Professor - if he's up yet." A gay air of celebration filled the mess that evening. During the course of the day's digging a wide area of the mosaic was revealed and the beginning of a definite pattern. Even Sherabhim Ben Ali had forgotten his former disapproval and the taciturn Mr. Svendsen, who still stayed on, had been so infected by the excitement that he had actually sought a spade. Now they relaxed, and Vicky was amazed at the conglomeration of bottles that had been extracted from hidden sources. Loud cries greeted each newcomer as he brought his contribution, especially

when Ben Ali arrived nursing a large flagon of araq, the colourless yet so potent 'Syrian absinthe', but Dr. Harving got the biggest laugh when he solemnly waved a bottle of champagne. Laurence had assumed the role of barman and was dispensing drinks and a rapid flow of humour as Vicky withdrew unobtrusively under cover of the laughter. Standing a little way apart from the cluster round Laurence were Grant and Professor Elves. "Gould be dangerous. I must make that the first -" She caught the fragment of conversation as she passed the two men, but gave it no thought. Outside she paused, drawing in deep breaths of the clear night air, glad to escape from the stuffy, smoke-laden heat of the hut. She looked up at the great silver disc in the indigo dome of sky and hesitated, conscious of a restless, wide-awake feeling which did not augur the right mood for an early retirement. Suddenly she made up her mind. She would walk up to the site and look at the results of their labours by moonlight. The noise from the hut faded as she went to her tent to collect a torch before setting off up the broad centre strip, turned by the moon into a silver avenue, towards the excavation. She passed through the black shadows of the top group of huts and avoiding the Arab encampment turned in the opposite direction and skirted the site by the long way round. The moon glimmered on the mosaic, robbing it of colour and leaving a uniform sheen outlined in relief against the mounds of debris churned from the great man- made gash in the earth.

She descended the rough-hewn steps from the level and walked across the uneven surface until she stood on the smooth, shining expanse and felt the hard slipperiness beneath her feet. Slowly she moved towards the jagged wall of earth where the digging had ceased. She stared down at the point where the mosaic disappeared from view, her imagination trying to probe the mystery yet to be uncovered. Suddenly her eyes lost their dreamy look. She stooped sharply and switched on the torch, tracing with outstretched fingers the slight groove in the mosaic which had caught her attention. There was a line there; a thin depression too fine to admit a fingertip. Thoughts of concealed trapdoors made her seek eagerly for an implement with which to investigate further. A flat wedge nearby proved to be mud and not the stone she imagined. It crumbled in her hand and at last she impatiently up-ended the torch and scrabbled with it at the earth above the groove. She desisted a moment to switch on the light. The groove led straight under the area waiting to be dug. Was it something important? Or merely a very straight crack? A soft rustling made her start. She looked up and brushed at her hair as a light trickle of dirt showered down. Suddenly there was a crack and a rumble, and the jagged face of earth trembled. With a cry of alarm she jumped back as the cave-in came. With gathering momentum and a thunderous roar the whole face collapsed, raining past her horrified eyes as she stumbled away. Then a flying clod whistled past and something caught her a glancing blow on the temple. She staggered, grasping blindly at air. Then the falling earth was a torrent, dragging her down with it,

and her last fleeting thoughts of consciousness spun into soft rushing darkness. Someone was trying to wake her up, shining hurtful, brilliant lights in her eyes, and she didn't want to wake up; something dreadful had happened. Her head hurt and there was a stickiness ... She groaned, trying to move away from the lights that were boring into her skull. The world turned green and whirled dizzily. "Take it easy. Don't move." Hands were pushing her shoulders back and a shadow blotted out the lights. Something touched her head, tangling in her hair, then the voice said: "Might have known it would be you. Hold still. . ." the voice faded . . anything broken . . . get you cleaned up..." Through the mists of darkness came a mounting fear and a flash of returning consciousness. She began to tremble uncontrollably. She had to get up. Escape before - before.... Sheer will-power brought her upright, to stand giddily on legs that seemed to be made of jelly. But all the will-power in the world could not force those limbs to do her bidding. She raised one hand to her eyes, as if to brush away the force that impeded her, before she swayed and toppled, helplessly, into the arms that shot out to catch her.

CHAPTER FIVE "WHO are you?" The words penetrated the curtain of darkness and pounded like hammer beats in Vicky's eardrums. The blackness became red, then a harsh glaring white as she opened her eyes and stared bewilderedly at the cross-beam of the roof. She moved slightly, parting dry lips. The face of Grant Fairfax looked momentarily clear above her, then receded in a haze. From a long way off the whispered words came again. "Who are you?" Vicky lay still, slowly taking in the unfamiliar surrounding, and at last looking at the troubled face of the man who watched her with an intent, unwavering stare. Her hand freed itself from the confining blanket and brushed across her forehead, hovering over the clamminess of a compress and going to the edges of the dressing on her temple. "Where am I?" the words came slowly and painfully. "What happened?" "Don't try to talk if it hurts. You got a knock on the head and possibly a mild concussion. There's a scalp wound - it's superficial - your hair saved it from being worse." "Can I have a drink?" He brought a glass and she sipped the tepid liquid gratefully. Everything was coming back now and she struggled to sit up.

"There was a groove and the - Oh!" She stopped with an indrawn breath as the hammers started again in her temples, and sank back on the pillow. When the throbbing abated a little she asked: "Who brought me here?'' "I did." "But I don't understand - how did you -?" "I went up to look at that crack. Too late. I saw it happen." He stood up and moved to the bedside, his arms folded and the grim expression returning to his face. "Since your head has apparently cleared sufficiently to allow you to ask questions I think you'd better answer some of mine." "What do you mean?" Visible alarm showed in her parted lips and widening eyes as her heart began a panic- stricken pounding. "I think you know what I mean." The quiet finality of his reply did little to quench the awful dawning comprehension that disaster had finally overtaken her. Then she saw the little heap of soiled and bloodstained clothing lying on the floor and she knew. Vicky clutched the edges of the blanket with trembling fingers. But there was no escape from that steely blue glint. "It makes so many things clear now," he said slowly. "Things that I dismissed as fanciful when taken separately but when added up

make the conclusion so obvious." His mouth tightened. "Looking back, I must have been a blind, thick-headed idiot." "So you know," she said dully. "I knew the moment I picked you up. Even the slenderest of youths must weigh a great deal more than you do." Then he shot at her, "Why did you play at this senseless masquerade? And for the third time, who are you?'' She did not answer and with an impatient gesture he continued: "Somebody slipped up badly. Or deliberately helped you." He paused, his eyes narrowing and betraying the ugly thought. "Whose - plaything are you? That my orders were disobeyed. Is it Finch Lesley? Or Laurence Turle?" She gazed at him in horror and he went on remorselessly, a light of understanding coming into his eyes: "Of course! The inestimable Dr. Harving." A gasp of shock escaped Vicky and she tried to shake her head. "I've sensed something between you two right from the beginning. I'll admit he's handsome enough to turn any girl's head, but I would never have dreamed that he would stoop to this. Besides, he's old enough to be your father." The scornful words lashed her, and tears squeezed from her closed lids, vying with a rising hysterical laughter at his parody of the truth. "I hate you!" she cried, when she was able to speak. "Get out! I won't listen to any more of your vile insinuations. Now go. I want to get up."

He pushed her back against the pillow, none too gently, and said grimly, "You will stay here till morning, whether you like it or not. And to make sure you do I'm going to lock you in." "How dare you?" Twin spots of fury burned in her cheeks. "And then?" "You will leave for wherever you belong the moment you're fit to travel." Suddenly exhausted, she lay still, biting her lip as she sought for a way of preventing the complete collapse of her hopes. Without looking at him she asked quietly, "Is there any hope of persuading you to let me stay?" "None," he replied laconically. Then after a pause, "I dislike being made a fool of." She turned her face into the pillow. How could she persuade him to change his mind and relent? Feminine entreaties and wheedling would have no effect on him. She said in a low voice: "Yes, I must have been a weak link." He turned away and paced round the hut, then dropped wearily on the end of the bed. "No." The reply came unwillingly and he gave a tired gesture. "You're game enough. I must admit it. But surely your own common sense must tell you how impossible it is for you to remain here." "I've remained here for nearly six weeks," she reminded him. "Why should it be so impossible now? I'm still the same person." "Because of the event of illness and accident such as you've suffered tonight," he said curtly. "Even now there are things that

ought to be done for you. You need a certain amount of care until we're certain there'll be no unpleasant reactions from the blow." He shrugged. "Face it. You need washing, a change into nightwear — things a man can't very well do for you." "Does Dr. Harving know?" "No. And I've no intention of informing him until the morning." The grimness returned to his expression. "So if you're under the impression that a touching emotional scene with him, or any intervention on his part, will alter my decision, you're mistaken." "I want to see him." Perversely, she clung to the last remaining shred of her secret. "You have no right to refuse to bring him." "I have. And I'm afraid you must want. You will see no one until I've decided what's to be done about you." "I thought you had," she said sharply, and had the satisfaction of seeing him stare at her. "Pass my jerkin, please." An imperious note entered her voice. "It's lying on the floor." He picked it up and handed it to her, watching as she groped through the pockets and came away empty-handed, a disappointed expression on her face. "What do you want?" He sighed impatiently and she glared at him. "As you obviously intend to keep me here by force I shall need several items," she told him sarcastically. "A clean handkerchief, a towel and some soap, toothpaste and brush, something to eat and drink, and nightwear - as you term it. Most of all, I would like a cigarette."

"I can supply the cigarette." A packet landed on the bed beside her. "But not the rest." He was beginning to wear the look of a beaten man. "Where will I find them?" "The trunk in my tent. And there's a tin of shortbread and a couple of books you might bring." Hiding a smile, she watched him go. With her usual resilience Vicky was making a rapid recovery. But she had no more intention of allowing Grant Fairfax to discover that than she had of being sent home. Experimentally, she sat up and cautiously moved her head from side to side. Then she put her feet to the floor and stood up. The room was perfectly steady. Satisfied, she got back into bed, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and waited for him to return. The minutes ticked by, then lengthened into half an hour. Vicky grew restive. Why was Grant so long? A tortoise could have completed the journey by now. Surely ten minutes should have sufficed for him to reach her tent, collect the things she needed, and, if her understanding of human nature was accurate, make the discovery she had fully intended he should make. Then some of that hateful, arrogant assumption would be forced to give way to an apology, she thought with a growing sense of anticipation. A sound outside brought her instantly to the alert. Someone was coming. But the footsteps were leisurely and the owner of them whistled; a soft, swinging little melody that sounded faintly nostalgic. She listened rather uneasily. Grant never whistled. She tried to recall who whistled that catchy refrain, and

failed. The steps were at the door now. Vicky tensed herself to receive the unknown visitor.

"So we've got our first casualty." Vicky relaxed and said candidly, "You gave me an anxious moment. I couldn't remember who whistled." Laurence Turle laughed, then his face puckered with concern. "How did this happen?" While she told him he looked down without commenting and his fingers drummed an absent tattoo on his knees. Suddenly he glanced up and his eyes twinkled as he said: "And now the game's up." "What!" She sat bolt upright. He half rose from the chair where Grant had sat earlier and exclaimed, "Hey, pipe down! I thought you had concussion." His lips quirked. "Though I've got my doubts about that." "So have I." Vicky's expression changed. "He hasn't wasted much time in putting the news around. He can't wait to get rid of me." "Fairfax?" She nodded, and Laurence shook his head. "He's told nobody, my dear, at least not to my knowledge. I saw the light burning and came to investigate. This place runs off the spare generator and isn't usually on. As for your little bit of play-acting, I guessed soon after you arrived."

She stared at him wonderingly. "You chose a difficult role. One that could be played at a distance. But here, under a bright, searching sunlight. . . Perhaps the fact that I've a couple of daughters of my own has made me observant of feminine traits." He interpreted her rapidly changing expressions and added hastily, "I wasn't completely sure and as far as I know none of the others guessed. I said nothing." He shrugged. "It was none of my business." She was silent, and mistaking her hesitation he said: "I'll admit to being puzzled, but you don't have to make any explanations to me." "I do," she said slowly. "You see, I had no other choice. It was the only way I could join the expedition. My father knew and let me go on, against his better judgement. He thinks I'm crazy, and I'm not sure he isn't right. I'm lucky to have such an understanding parent." She sighed, then without reservation told him the story. "Do you think I'm bonkers?" she ended. Laurence could not stop his laughter towards the end of her recital. "No, honey. Just a typical woman." But somehow he was laughing with her and not at her, and Vicky felt more carefree than she had done for weeks. She stopped giggling and cried, "You've no idea what it's like to be back to normal. Not to have to be on guard all the time." She stretched her arms. "It's wonderful to be myself again." "So I see."

The acid tones silenced them and the laughter ebbed from her face, leaving it strained and unhappy. Grant walked in and dumped the bag on the bed. He ignored Laurence, who had sprung to his feet and now stood, looking uncertainly from one to the other, a worried frown creasing his lace. Vicky watched despairingly. She was well aware that Laurence's discretion would work two ways. He had known her secret and remained silent, but he would not interfere on her behalf in whatever decision Grant might make. Sadly she realised that Laurence would give fully of sympathy and understanding, but he could not help her. Grant swung round and stared at him. The implication was obvious and Laurence said quietly, "I suppose I've outstayed my welcome. I'll look in some time tomorrow." He gave her a special smile which excluded Grant and added softly, "Cheer up." A small salute and he had gone. Vicky's eyes followed him until the door closed. Then she turned to the set, implacable face frowning down at her. "Why didn't you tell me?" he got out at last. "Instead of allowing my tongue to run on and say things I now bitterly regret, Miss Harving." He emphasised the name. So he had found the passport in her trunk and, as she had surmised, had suppressed his integrity long enough to seek her true identity. She brushed her hand wearily across her forehead. "I was too dazed. And - and you were - Have you seen my father?" "No, not yet. Do you want me to bring him?"

She did not miss the slight softening in his tone and was quick to seize the advantage. "It doesn't matter now. He would only worry. And I don't think I could face an emotional scene." She bent her head until he digested that one. Then she looked up. "Please don't blame my father for this. He knew nothing of what I was doing. When he left England he believed me to be in Paris." "But surely he-?" She smiled at his puzzlement. "My father and I have always been close to one another, but after Mother died and Robin left home the bond became stronger. I travelled with him wherever he went, and when this trip was fixed I couldn't bear to be parted from him for so long. I made my own plans - unbeknown to him. The night you came on the roof at Zakhirya," she saw by his expression that he remembered the incident as well as she did, "that was the first time he had seen me since we left home. He was terribly worried and very angry. I got round him on the understanding that I would tell you myself - the truth, I mean. Then," her voice dropped to a whisper, "I hadn't the courage, and I - I had to go on. Daddy couldn't very well say anything then, obviously you would ask why he hadn't told you immediately. And I begged him to keep my secret." She sat up straight. "Please, Grant, don't fly off the handle at my father. Say what you like to me - I'll admit I deserve it - but not to " She stopped, her face appealing. Grant had maintained an enigmatic mien during this outburst. Now he took a deep breath. "I must apologise first for the unpardonable accusations I made earlier this evening. I never dreamt you were his daughter. The

other seemed the only possible motive for your presence, and the fantastic lengths you went to to attain your objective." "If I had been - let's be honest and say what you thought, somebody's floosie - do you think I'd have worked like I've done?" "Put like that - no." He felt for his cigarette case and gave an exclamation of annoyance when he found it empty. She fished under the pillow for the packet he had given her and said softly, "I couldn't have kept the pretence going much longer. Already Laurence had guessed." "It beats me how you kept it going so long. Now I can understand your horror the day I mentioned Svendsen's arrival." She coloured. "That was my worst moment." "It must have been," he said dryly, and looked away from her flushed face. She studied the lean profile, wondering if this was the right moment to make her plea. While she hesitated he said awkwardly: "Will you be all right? I don't like leaving you alone. Sure you can cope?" "I think so." She infused what she considered to be the right amount of doubt into her reply and he said quickly: "I'd better send your father to you." "No," she protested. "I'd rather not see him until tomorrow."

He sighed. "As you wish. I'll wait outside until you're settled. If you need me, just call." She waited until he was almost through the doorway, then said softly, "Grant." He reappeared, his brows going up in query. "Are you still going to send me away?" "This is no place for a girl," he countered. "Be sensible." She looked down. "So I won't be here when the temple is finally uncovered. Sharing the wonder of coming upon the inner sanctum, where probably no foot has trod for over three thousand years." She shrugged and said quietly, "At least I've seen the breakthrough. I suppose I must be grateful for that." He avoided her eyes and indicated the bag. "Make sure I've brought everything." When she had done so he said, "Don't be alarmed if you hear someone in the night. I'll be looking in later to check that you're all right. Goodnight, Miss Harving," he ended rather abruptly, and was gone. She did not hear him when he returned, and, reassured, departed without disturbing her. In the morning she awoke to the discomfort of various aches and bruises that advertised their presence sharply when she got up and walked unsteadily into the partitioned-off part of the hut to wash. Her left arm must have taken the brunt of her fall, she thought; the elbow was painful and the joint stiff and swollen. However, the headache had gone, and apart from tenderness under the dressing she felt no ill effects from the blow. She dressed and sat on the bed, uncertain of her next move.

The camp stirred into life. A jeep engine roared into motion, passed the annexe and faded into a distant whine. She crossed to the small, high window and stretched on tiptoe to peer through the mesh stapled over the frame. When she saw her father hurrying up the centre strip she went to the door with a great thankfulness in her heart. She almost fell into his arms and he hugged her tightly before he held her at arm's length and anxiously searched her face. "I'm all right, Daddy," she reassured him. "Just bruised a bit." "Why wasn't I told?" he demanded, and she stopped him with a gesture. "Sit down and I'll tell you." His arm stayed round her and she relaxed within the protective comfort as she explained the events of the previous evening, omitting, however, certain remarks of Grant's, knowing that her usually placid father would immediately give vent to one of his rare bursts of temper. She had every intention of fighting her battles with Grant Fairfax in her own way and a blow-up from Andrew would undoubtedly ruin any hopes of her remaining until the excavation was completed. "You might have been killed, Vicky." Dr. Harving released his breath in a long sigh. He stood up and said abruptly, "Fairfax is right. The best place for you is home and the sooner the better. Do you feel fit enough to travel?" "No," she said firmly. "And that means no to everything you've said. I'm not going home - unless I'm officially sacked."

The defiance was back, bringing the colour to her cheeks and the glint of determination to her eyes. "And if you say one word to undo all the hard spadework I've done on Grant Fairfax - he's almost given in - I'll never speak to you again." "Still as drastic as ever. I've made a poor job of rearing you, I'm afraid." "I'm not going to argue that point - you said it," she said naughtily. "But now I'm ravenous. When do I eat?" Andrew gave an exclamation of dismay. "Help! I'm detailed to look after you today - the obvious choice, I suppose. And now you want feeding.'' "Think I exist on air?" "And there's another thing," his face sobered. "I'm afraid you are shall we say - confined to barracks till further notice." "What?" Vicky's ready temper flared and she cried furiously, "By whose order?" "The gentleman you are so fond of," he told her with quiet humour. "And mine," he added with emphasis. "Try to be sensible, it's only to make sure you have no unpleasant after-effects. So you might as well curl up there and I'll bring you some grub.'' Vicky grumbled, but obeyed, knowing from past experience how far he could be defied before his resistance stiffened and he became completely unyielding. The day dragged on. She finished the thriller he had left her and fretted away the hours till the time when work would cease and he would be free for the rest of the evening. The news would have got

round by now and she speculated on the reactions, wishing the first, awkward meetings and the air of embarrassment that would inevitably be present could be dispensed with. To her relief her first visitor was the Professor. Dear old Professor Elves, with his mild blue eyes and that vague, delightfully abstract air of being slightly lost which had always endeared him to Vicky. He chatted inconsequentially, tactfully refraining from any reference to her sudden transformation, and she relaxed until Laurence made an exuberant entrance with the information that Finch had uttered a warwhoop of delight at the news and had had to be forcibly restrained from tearing up to the annexe there and then. "He was sprucing himself up when I left," Laurence said slyly while Andrew grinned in the background. "He's borrowed hair cream and after-shave lotion from me, and goodness knows what else. He'll be the original composite man by the time he gets here." Vicky had forgotten about Finch and her face betrayed a comical dismay when. Laurence warned, "Watch out, young lady. He's a long way from home - and his harem." He moved to the door as brisk footsteps sounded outside and flung it open revealing a shining immaculate Finch standing on the threshold clutching an armful of books and blushing until his face matched the fiery mop surmounting it. "Is it - is it true? I mean -" Finch stammered at last, "- they aren't having me on?" "It's quite true." She smiled, forgetting her fear of embarrassment as she tried to put him at his ease.

He laid the books on the bed, mumbling, "Something to read," and sat down. The silence lengthened. Then he cleared his throat. "Are you feeling better?" "Yes, thank you." The conversation languished again, and, hiding his smile, Dr. Harving took over, bridging the awkwardness until they were all relaxed. Later he looked at his watch and hinted gently that it was time to go. Finch jumped up. "Sorry, sir. I didn't realise it was so late." He looked at Vicky and added impetuously, "Hurry up and get well. We'll have a dance on the mosaic." Laurence grabbed his arm to haul him away, saying, "Have a heart, man. With us clodhoppers?" "Speak for yourself, clod!" The sounds of their friendly wrangling died away, and Vicky leaned back, conscious of weariness now that they had gone and there was only her father, assembling the things to replace the dressing on her head. She submitted to his ministrations and smiled when he said dryly: "Now I know why you insisted on having your jabs. Just as well you did." He gave a brief smile of satisfaction. "The cut is healing beautifully. Another twenty-four hours and I see no reason why you shouldn't be up and about." She grimaced. "Not another day stuck in here?"

By now Dr. Harving was wise. "I believe there's a train tomorrow lunchtime. If you're feeling well enough to catch it." Vicky maintained a discreet silence. The disappointment persisted when the next morning, then the afternoon, failed to bring Grant. By teatime the enforced inactivity and the sight of the same four walls had induced a listlessness and an unfamiliar depression. Fully dressed, she curled up on the bed and waited ... A vehicle raced up the centre strip. She heard the swish of its tyres as it stopped and the metallic slam of the door. A moment later Grant came in. She sat up, instantly wary, trying to read the intent behind the calm, imperturbable facade. "I've brought your gear up." The words came as an anticlimax, so that she almost laughed, and he gave her a curious glance as he turned away to bring the things inside. Her heart sank as he emerged from the Land Rover bearing the trunk and carried it in. Lastly he brought a handful of miscellaneous oddments which had been scattered in her tent. This looked like the end. He had brought the lot. Evidently he intended her to pack tonight and be ready to leave when ... "I think that's the lot." Arms akimbo, he glanced at her and asked sharply, "Still feel dicky?" "No," she said gruffly through the tightness that had gathered in her throat. "I'm fine, thank you." "You'll be more comfortable here than under canvas."

Vicky's head jerked up. Gould those words be misinterpreted? "What do you mean? Here?" "Isn't it obvious?" He spread his hands in a wide gesture. "You'll have reasonable privacy and the nearest to civilised amenities the camp can offer." A wild, exquisite joy began to spread in her. Still unable to believe he had relented she took a step towards him. "You mean you aren't going to - to -" "Sling you out?" he finished for her. "No. I'd be so unpopular if I did I just haven't the nerve." "Oh." She stopped short, some of the light leaving her face, and said slowly, "It's lonely up here. I think I'd prefer to be down there among the others and put up with the inconvenience." "I doubt if you'll be given much opportunity to be lonely," he said dryly. "You will make this your living quarters whether you like it or not. Unless you would prefer to leave, of course." "Very well." Wisely she did not argue - he might change his mind again! She hesitated, then rather shyly held out her hand and said simply, "Thank you for everything you've done for me, and I'm sorry if - if I've been a shock to you." Briefly she felt the cool, firm clasp of his hand before he turned to leave and added hurriedly, "I don't want this to make any difference - I mean I'll carry on with my work exactly as before." "We'll see." He went out to the Land Rover and drove it across to the parking ground. She watched him get out and stride away without looking back.

With a light heart she waited to tell her father that she had won.

CHAPTER SIX VICKY wiped the film with a soft chamois leather and peered critically at it before she hung it from the rack. She moved into the darkened cubicle and began the processing of another film. A week had elapsed since her accident. Imperceptibly she had slipped back into her former routine. After a day or so of doubtful hesitancy Grant had left her to go on as she wished. There had been a gradual lessening of the air of restraint between them and she was infinitely more carefree now that the constant fear of discovery no longer overshadowed her. Two faces were missing. Leo Gavison and the taciturn Mr. Svendsen had departed for Zakhirya on the day following the accident. Idly she wondered why, then forgot the absent pair in the fascination of seeing the mosaic re- emerge as a long rectangular forecourt and parts of crumbling walls uncovered at its edges. The spades were cutting deep into the incline now and Grant maintained a constant vigilance against the risk of further cavingin. Finch had been right, she mused, reaching for the developing solution. The pattern was clear, and a giant fallen column lay bare by the forecourt. Soon they would uncover the other. She switched off the light and opened the film. As she groped towards the tank somebody entered the outer part of the hut and called her name. "Don't come in," she called anxiously through the thin partition. "Hurry up," a voice bade her, and hastily she loaded the tank. She came out blinking after the gloom and found Grant examining the drying negatives. He swung round at the slight sound she made and his eyes were alight and vivid blue against his tan.

"We've found it!" A rising excitement filled her at the triumphant note in his voice and she cried, "What? Tell me quickly." His smile was indulgent. "Your - what is it you called it? The inner sanctum. At least we've uncovered the entrance." He pulled out a stub of pencil and made a rough sketch on the wall. "It's buttressed by a couple of broad, squat columns with a massive architrave above. There's the usual symbolic ornamentation.'' "The film!" Vicky let out a squeal and dived into the cubicle. Anxiously she joggled the tank. "Actually this isn't one of the official films," she explained hastily. "They're done. Everyone seems to have brought cameras," she added. "I haven't." He had followed her in, and reverted to the main subject. "Our next problem is to open the entrance. We're in for a tricky job with it." Vicky removed the film and plunged it into the rinsing water. She was acutely conscious of him leaning against the wall behind her. She half turned her head and glimpsed him in the eerie light of the coloured bulb. "Tell me what they said when they first saw it." He described the day's work in detail and she mixed the fixing bath, listening to his deep, even cadences with a curious sense of peace. "How long now?" His tone changed. She shrugged. "About half an hour. Why?"

"I want you to see the entrance. It'll be too late by the time you've finished. You know how quickly the darkness comes." "I must finish this." She felt a little sad. It would have been pleasant to walk to the site with Grant, but she had to complete her job first. She added philosophically, "I expect it will look just as exciting at sunrise tomorrow, so I'll save it till then. But thank you for telling me." "Just as you wish." He turned away indifferently. "See you anon." She completed her work and cleaned the hut in readiness for the next day before she locked up. Back in the annexe, she lifted down the dress she had left hanging all day in the hope that the creases of long packing would drop out. She smoothed the full skirt, impatient of the feeling which had suddenly crystallised into a desire to be utterly feminine once more. She brushed her hair, now washed free of flattening haircream, into a softly curling halo and combed down a tendril to conceal the scar on her temple. Her step was light when she walked to her father's tent, enjoying the rustle of poplin and the caress of nylon underskirts against her bare legs. She found Dr. Harving shaving. He caught the bright flash of blue through his shaving mirror and turned, razor arrested in mid-air, to give her a long, appraising look. "So I have a daughter after all. About time too!" She smiled, and perched on a stool until he was ready to leave.

"There, that's better." He stroked his chin. "I suppose I'll have to get into practice again - opening doors for you and all the rest of it." As they went into the night, the long, probing fingers of headlights reached and overtook them, and she remembered the return of Leo Gavison and Mr. Svendsen. They drew aside till the vehicle roared past and she caught a fleeting glimpse of pale set features and the blur of Gavison's hat. "Why is Mr. Svendsen staying on so long?" she asked when they were seated with their coffee. "I mean I thought he'd look round for a few days and then leave, perhaps to come back at a later date. But he stays on and never talks to anybody, except Grant and Professor Elves." Her father drew thoughtfully on his pipe before replying. "I'll admit he's an uncommunicative blighter. But a lot of these officials are. Some of them get so rolled up in their own red tape that the normal, everyday pleasantries of life which we take for granted seem to get squeezed out of them somehow." "I suppose you're right," she said slowly. "But he's so remote, and nobody knows anything about him. He gives me the impression that he's waiting for something to happen. And it doesn't concern the excavation, either." The man they had been discussing came in and glanced around the hut. He remained standing for a moment, then walked deliberately towards them and halted by their table. There was puzzlement in the stare he directed at Vicky, and she had a sudden impulse to

laugh. He looks exactly like a character out of a detective film, she thought, about to pounce on the suspect. Dr. Harving greeted him and made a casual gesture towards a chair. He then introduced Vicky without making any explanations, and no dawning recognition flickered in the cold grey pebbles behind rimless glasses. He replied suavely to Andrew's polite inquiries about the trip, but his gaze kept returning to Vicky and she was glad when he left them and went to join Professor Elves. "You should have told him," she whispered. "Someone will, and he'll wonder why we didn't tell him just now." Andrew shrugged. "What are you worrying about? Besides, it isn't any business of his." "No," she said, and then forgot about Mr. Svendsen. But the memory of those hard eyes was with her when she prepared for bed later that evening. After she had undressed and switched off the light she suddenly pinpointed the expression. It was distrust that gleamed in those eyes; distrust, and a latent curiosity. She shivered and dismissed him from her thoughts as she pulled the blanket up to her chin. Sleep, however, was elusive, and it seemed only minutes after she had drifted into an uneasy doze that she found herself sitting bolt upright, uncertain if she were dreaming or really awake. The patch of the window became visible and her breathing steadied as she turned to the little bedside clock and peered at the glowing hands. Two a.m. She had slept three hours. Sighing, she relaxed down into the warmth, only to tense again at the faint sound.

The soft crunch of a stone underfoot seemed to be immediately outside. Vicky got out of bed and padded over to the door, her hand going instinctively to the key. She listened, her breathing soft and quick in the silence, then the sound was repeated, but farther away each time. Noiselessly she eased the door open and looked out, ignoring the warning tingles that prickled through her. The centre strip was silent and deserted. The waning crescent of moon lay behind banked clouds and her straining eyes could discern no movement in the darkness shrouding the tents. She looked up towards the site and caught her breath. Someone was prowling. A darker patch moved and momentarily divided. Two unknown identities were abroad tonight while the camp lay peacefully asleep. But who? And why? Vicky hesitated for only a moment, then groped for her slacks and jerkin and fumbled bare feet into her shoes. After a cautious glance round she fled silently down the centre strip, keeping to the shadows of the huts, and arrived breathless at her father's tent. Softly she called to him. There was a faint stirring within and a muffled ejaculation. She slipped in, hushing the grumbles from the disturbed sleeper, and hissed: "Get up, Father - it's urgent!" He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes while she told him, and instead of leaping up as she expected, grumbled: "You've been dreaming. What on earth possessed you to rush down here in the middle of the night?"

"Oh, don't waste time," she cried impatiently. "I tell you I saw them and heard them." "Probably insomnia - or sleep-walkers. Anything can happen here, it seems. Now I suppose I'll have to take you back."" "There is something going on," she persisted. "People don't prowl about at this time of night for nothing." Something that sounded suspiciously like "You do" reached her ears as he got up wearily. "I suppose we'd better investigate — or there'll be no peace until we do. You'd better give Fairfax a call, but for heaven's sake don't raise the entire camp." She wrinkled her nose. The prospect of rousing a sleeping Grant on what was only a wild supposition was not inviting. "Go on," said Dr. Harving unkindly. "I'm not one of your fictional heroes who slays an entire gang single- handed." Reluctantly she went. However, the dark head poked out without the sarcastic torrent she fully expected, and when she had quelled the understandable shock at this highly unorthodox visit his concern was much more to her satisfaction than that of her father. He was out and dressed before Dr. Harving at last appeared, and without speaking they hurried into the night. Level with the annexe, Grant halted and nudged Vicky. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "I'm not going to be left out now." Grant seemed disposed to argue, then gave a resigned shrug and moved on. "We'll probably end up breaking a leg or something," Dr. Harving grumbled when they were forced to pick their way over the uneven

surface. "This is the last time for you, my girl." He glowered in Vicky's direction. "Never again!" A warning exclamation from Grant silenced them. They stared ahead, trying to fathom the gloom. In the carved- out hollow the door showed faintly luminous. Then they saw the shadow against it. Grant said, "You were right." He strode forward while Dr. Harving veered to one side. Vicky followed uncertainly, a little afraid now, and saw Grant break into a run, heedless of the pitted ground. The shadow moved and they heard thudding footfalls going in the direction of the Arab camp. Dr. Harving panted back. "Thought I might have cut them off, but I wasn't fast enough. Whew!" He drew in a deep breath. "What now?" "Back to the camp - see if any of our lot are missing." Grant turned sharply as he spoke and met the blinding glare of a powerful torch. Vicky gasped. She raised a shielding arm to her eyes while Grant lunged forward and the beam dropped. "Well, gentlemen," said a quiet voice, "what are you looking for at this time of night - or morning?" Henry Svendsen smiled calmly as Grant said furiously, "We could ask you the same question. Did you see anybody?" "No. I heard noises and got up to investigate. I followed you here, and I've seen no one else." A fleeting suspicion came to Vicky as Grant thrust past. She hurried to catch up with him and whispered urgently: "Grant?"

Without checking his stride, he inclined his head almost imperceptibly. "I don't trust Mr. Svendsen. Can we shake him off?" She looked back to where Mr. Svendsen and her father walked slowly together. "I think we should discuss this now when we won't be interrupted." Grant nodded agreement and she went on, "I'll detain my father if you can dispose of our nosy friend, and we'll meet for some coffee in ten minutes." The sketchy plan worked, and a short while later Vicky had made the coffee while Dr. Harving, having recovered his good humour, murmured, "By all means let's have a party. I can't think of a more perfect time and place than three in the morning in a dump on the edge of the desert. Sorry I've no tie and tails." A moment later Grant came in and they sipped the refreshing coffee before Vicky, with a businesslike air, put her elbows on the table and leaned forward earnestly. "Somebody was trying to open that door for a preview," she said firmly. "And their intentions weren't any better than those of the tomb robbers in the past." "Vicky!" She turned a quelling glance on her father and continued, "I saw two men. One was short and the other was tall, so ruling out you two we're left with the choice of Finch and Alan Brixen -" she broke off, looking at the grin on her father's face and the amused light in Grant's eyes. "I'm only trying to get them sorted out." "Don't get married, old man." Dr. Harving shook his head at Grant, who stared, the obvious question hovering on his lips. "You might have offspring like this." He gestured towards the indignant Vicky

while Grant's puzzled frown changed to a comprehending smile. "You've no idea what it's like. Cloaks and daggers, bodies in the attic, and cold bloodhounds in the bed. Don't risk it." "It's a sobering thought." Grant's mouth quirked, and Vicky's indignation increased. He proffered his cigarette case and became serious. "I think the time has come to take you into my confidence and tell you what Henry Svendsen told me a little while ago." Vicky forgot their teasing and settled back into a more comfortable position. She'd been right; there was something. She waited expectantly. "As you probably know, there are many wealthy collectors of antiquities who are prepared to pay any price for a piece which is unique. Their hobby becomes a mania and their greed so overpowering that it ceases to matter what unscrupulous means are used to gain their objective. For instance, if the Mona Lisa were stolen and successfully got underground, somewhere. there would be a buyer who could not resist possessing it, even if he could only gloat in secret. Which brings us to the old saying - where there's a demand there will be a supply." Grant paused to relight his cigarette, then continued: "Shortly before we left England there was a robbery at the Anglo-American Museum of International Art. Suspicion fell on a certain dealer whom the police had been watching for some time. He disappeared soon after the inquiry began and was believed to have left England. This brings us to Mr. Svendsen. He is working in collaboration with the law and he is working on the theory that this dealer is with us here. It seems difficult to credit," Grant shrugged, "but it's feasible. Apart from the Professor, whom I've known for

several years, we've collected a bunch of strangers this trip. They're all able people, I don't wish to disparage anyone's ability, but it's rather unusual in a case like this when you consider the tight-knit core of our field where the important names, if not the faces, are known to most of us." "We know the Professor and I've heard of Leo Gavison," Vicky said thoughtfully. "I think you're right, Grant." "And the rest are strangers," Dr. Harving mused. "What better place to hide till the hue and cry dies down than an expedition to the back of nowhere, miles from civilisation and the nearest telephone." "Exactly," said Grant, "and the opportunity of being bang on target if we do find anything. The fountainhead open to his thieving fingers." "Yes," said Vicky, "but who's the second one?" There was no reply, and she went on, "We've only Mr. Svendsen's word for what he is. And credentials can be forged. Did he say who he -?" "He's keeping that to himself, naturally," Grant responded. Vicky frowned. "Whom can we eliminate?" "The Professor. Your father and yourself, I presume," he said with a sly glance at Dr. Harving, who grinned. "You'll have to take me on trust, I'm afraid." His eyes were quizzical, and she had to smile. "There's Finch," she said slowly, "and Laurence. I like him. It couldn't be Laurie."

"What do you know of him?" Grant countered sharply. "Nothing. Except that he has two daughters, one of whom keeps house for him. and that he likes gardening." "You know more than we do, then," Grant told her dryly. "No, I'm afraid Laurence Turle can't be ruled out." "What about Leo?" Grant sighed and rubbed his chin. "Yes, Leo. I wonder what they did in Zakhirya for nearly a week. He was supposed to be collecting some patent modelling stuff that doesn't need firing. He had it specially flown over from the States. He wants to do a bust of Ben Ali. He's been raving about his bone structure." Grant yawned and stretched. "At least we've been put on our guard. All we can do at this stage is keep our eyes open." "That's more than I can do at the moment," said Dr. Harving, blinking. "If you two intend to make a night of it, I'm for bed." They broke up then and the two men walked with Vicky to the annexe. "It is rather isolated here," Grant remarked, frowning, and switched on the light. He glanced round the interior and said, "Lock the door at night after this." He bade her goodnight and the two tall figures dissolved into the darkness.

In the early morning rays of the sun the great door was impressive. Vicky stood back, visualising its magnificence when the deposits which clung to its surface were stripped away revealing the intricate relief work beneath.

She was unprepared for the arm that went lightly about her waist and tightened when she gave an involuntary start. "It's only me. You looked like an awestruck elf standing there with that rapt expression." She looked up into Finch's smiling, sunburnt face and made a movement to withdraw from his encircling arm. Reluctantly, he let her go and followed the direction of her gaze. "It is rather wonderful. Wonder what lies behind it." She did not reply and after a moment he crooked his hand under her elbow and said, "Did you hear the rumpus in the night?" "What rumpus?" "Well, it wasn't exactly a rumpus. But there were lots of comings and goings during the small hours." She said casually, "Such as?" "Leo had a headache and couldn't sleep. So he went outside for a breath of air and a smoke. Apparently he saw Fairfax and Svendsen wander along, stand talking for a moment or so, and then go into their tents. Just as Leo was about to turn in himself he saw Fairfax come out again and have a look round and then lope away up the centre strip. What do you make of it? " Finch concluded. "He - they didn't see Leo?" ' 'From what I gather - no."

Vicky shrugged. "There was probably something Grant wanted to see to while it was quiet." It sounded lame, but it was the best she could improvise without explaining everything to Finch. "At three in the morning?" Finch sounded sceptical. "I doubt it. Didn't you hear anything?'' "I'm a fairly sound sleeper," she evaded with perfect truth. So Leo had been wandering. She wondered how far true was his tale of a headache. She stored the item to tell Grant; if he didn't already know. Suppressing a grin, she wondered if anyone had remained snug and slumbering throughout the night. Late in the afternoon Finch barged into the darkroom as she was tidying away the traces of her work. She groaned when she saw the cameras slung over his shoulder. "Only three," he said defensively. "Personal records, so no hurry. One of them is Henry's, and he'd be grateful if you'd develop them as soon as you can." She turned the dishes upside down to drain and closed the cubicle door. Finch had spotted a pile of prints and pounced on them eagerly. He held one out and murmured, "You'd better have this one as a memento." She knew immediately the one to which he referred. His camera had caught her unawares, eyes screwed tight against the power of the sun and one hand out-thrust, as she talked to Professor Elves. "Did I really look like that?" she whispered, more to herself than Finch. She remembered Alan Brixen's remarks and his persistence the day following her arrival at the site. The resemblance to Robin was more marked than she had realised. "He was right," she murmured.

"Who was right?" Finch asked quickly. She told him, and Finch's lips curled with distaste. "That surly blighter! He's the only one of the crowd I can't get along with. Ever noticed how he dodges work at the least excuse?" "He isn't very popular," she agreed. "I wonder if Robin remembers him. I must ask him the next time I write." "Waste of a stamp," said Finch. "Why are we talking about Brixen, anyway? I can think of a much more interesting topic." "Oh," she said absently, beginning to unload the cameras and adding unwarily, "Such as?" "Us, of course." Finch moved nearer and slipped his arm round her waist. "Who else?" She drew away and hastily gathered up his snaps. "Your prints, Finch. There's an empty envelope you can have." He shoved them into his pocket and faced her, some of the light fading from his eyes. "At the moment I wish we were anywhere else but here," he said in a despondent voice. "At home I could ask you out for a meal and a show. Or even a walk in the park and a drink at the local. But there's nothing for miles except the tin shanties that Zakhirya calls a town." Vicky was silent, and Finch gave her a lopsided grin. "Of course!" He snapped his fingers. "Why didn't I think of it before? Let's explore that village in the hills that Laurence talks about. Where he gets the cheese and greenstuff. You know he's found out more about the surrounding countryside in this short time than the lot of us put together. He swears there's a secret pass

through the hills that crosses the border." Finch had regained his earlier enthusiasm. "How about it, Vicky? We could take one of the jeeps and make a day of it." Vicky glanced down at the snapshot lying on the table and sighed. How to approach the fast-developing situation between herself and Finch? She had sensed this outburst building up for two or three days. In her heart she knew she was not yet prepared to give, or accept, more than casual friendship to, or from, any one of her colleagues. "I never expected to be entertained," she said at last. "I came here to work." "But don't you ever want to escape? To dress up and go places?" "Not particularly. I know all that will be waiting when I get home." "I'm not going to challenge your philosophy about work." Finch's smile was a little crooked. "But what about me?" His hands went to her shoulders and he drew her against him. "I certainly don't believe you're as self- sufficient as you'd have us believe. It just isn't human." She put her hands against his chest in a futile effort to push him away. When his grip tightened she said firmly, "No, Finch. I'm not the type for casual flirtations." "Who's talking about flirtations? I'm perfectly serious." Suddenly she stiffened in his arms. "Someone's coming. Let me go. Please, Finch. Can't you hear?" She twisted free as the grating footsteps stopped outside and the door was flung open.

Grant stood there. His gaze rested briefly on Finch, who was now leaning indolently against the table, and settled on her crimson face. He said coldly, "You should have been finished ages ago. Your father is looking for you. He says it's urgent." She looked away from those searching eyes, suddenly convinced that he knew exactly how the little scene had been played before his untimely interruption. But she had been thankful for the interruption, she told herself. Then why did she wish he had not been the one who . . .? Oh, bother Finch, she grumbled under her breath, and murmured aloud: "Lock up for me, please, somebody," before she fled. Outside she remembered Grant's message. What did her father want? Then the guilty memory of a promise made three days before and still not fulfilled drove all thoughts of Finch — and Grant - out of her mind. She had homework to attend to, quickly. "Sorry, Daddy," she said later that evening when she handed over the bundle of shirts, now restored to their full complement of buttons, and a supply of clean socks. "Were you waiting for them?" "Oh no, I wouldn't say that." Dr. Harving waved his hand airily. "I could always turn the shirt I'm wearing to the clean side." Laughing now, he nimbly dodged the towel she grabbed and threatened him with. "And that towel's clean. I washed it myself." "When?" She held it at arms' length and sniffed expressively. "While I waited for you to do your duty."

"I don't turn my shirts, anyway." She skipped out before he could have the last word. The small exchange of nonsense restored her good humour and she was unaware that she was still smiling happily when she almost cannoned into Grant outside the mess hut. "Steady, that must have been a good one." His smile was quizzical as they both side-stepped in the same direction and then halted, unable to pass. "Shall we dance?" he grinned, holding out his arms. Vicky was almost too astonished to laugh. The stern mien of the Great Grant was bending with a vengeance! But not for long. Recovering from her surprise, she said lightly, "Excuse me," and made to move on. He put a detaining hand on her arm and said: "Just a moment, Vicky, if you're not in a hurry." She waited, wondering what he wanted, and his hand dropped from her arm. "I want a driver to go to Zakhirya with me tomorrow morning. Will you do the job?" "Of course," she said readily, overcoming her surprise at the unexpected request and hoping suddenly that it wouldn't mean the truck. "What's the job?" "Supplies." In that case, it would mean the truck. Aloud, she asked, "Will you give me the gen now, or later?"

"Now - it won't take a moment. We'll start early, about five-thirty. I'll take the truck and you follow in the Land Rover. The stuff should be there by the time we arrive - that is if the train remembers to stop and disgorge our load," he put in dryly. "We'll have a meal and a short break at the inn, then start back almost immediately. I want to be back here by nightfall." He paused, and doubt crept into his expression. "Think you'll manage it? It'll be a bit gruelling in one day, I'm afraid." A bit gruelling! Vicky took a deep breath. That was rather a mild understatement. Apparently he read her thoughts. "Forget it. I was a fool even to consider it, to expect a girl to tackle the double journey in those conditions. I still haven't quite got used to the idea - " He broke off and changed tack awkwardly. "I must have a spare driver and vehicle in case of mishap, but on the other hand I'm reluctant to rob a man from the main job. That's why I thought of you." "I see." Her chin lifted. "I'm the most expendable." "I didn't say that." He sounded amused. "You implied it." "To the contrary. You're a competent driver. You don't panic despite your uncertain temper." "Thank you!" Vicky restrained a desire to slap him. "I thought temper and competence didn't mix - at least not at a wheel."

"I'm not going to argue. Now forget it. I'll make other arrangements." He turned away. "Perhaps your boy-friend might like the trip." "He's not my boy-friend." She glared at that infuriating smile. So he had observed the somewhat embarrassing interest that Finch had displayed during the past week. Vicky's resolve stiffened. "Listen. You asked me to do a job. I've agreed. Is it settled?" He looked down at her without speaking for a moment. The amused light had died from his eyes leaving his expression cool and unreadable. "Very well," he said at last. "But I've warned you. Don't expect sympathy if you can't stand the pace. No sleeping in - five-thirty sharp. Oh, and don't forget the coffee." The corners of his mouth turned up as he moved away, and she had a fleeting impression that he was trying hard not to laugh. She stared after him. Really, the man was insufferable at times! Vicky fumed into the annexe and savagely began to wash and change for supper.

CHAPTER SEVEN SHE was still smarting when the two vehicles rolled out of the camp and turned on to the long, lonely track to Zakhirya. Clear of the camp, she matched her speed to that of the vehicle in front and settled down to the first, comparatively easy, lap of the journey. When they had crossed the plain Grant stopped in the shadowy entrance to the Miyan Gorge. She rested on the footbrake and watched him jump down and come alongside the Land Rover. "Bring the coffee?" One brown arm rested along the window rim and he grinned, apparently in high good humour this morning. Unabashed by her unsmiling "Of course", he went round to the offside and got into the passenger seat while she reached for her bag. "Any grub?" Wordlessly she passed over her last tin of shortbread, and when he shook his head and murmured "Too sweet", she said indifferently, "There are some cheesey ones left, but I think they're going a bit stale." "They'll do." He munched in silence for a while, then held out his cup for replenishment. "What's the matter? Still sulking?" Vicky bit back a sarcastic retort, uncertain whether she preferred the usual Grant arrogance to this bantering, rather indulgent air he would sometimes adopt. "Have a cigarette, anyway." He slewed round until he faced her, obviously determined to ignore her cool reserve, and after he had lit their cigarettes asked suddenly:

"What are you planning to do with your life? Spend it trailing over the more inhospitable parts of the globe with a series of expeditions? Until," his smile faded, "the heat and the dust wither the bloom from your skin. And one day you will find you have little except perhaps a handful of crumbling relics and your memories." Vicky leaned over the steering wheel, chin resting on forearm, and stared reflectively at the gaunt hills ahead. "You're almost repeating my father's words. I didn't take much notice of him at the time - parents always worry over their young. But I suppose I'll have to make a decision soon and settle down in a job. That is, if anyone will put up with my temper." She gave him a sidelong glance and looked hastily away from his intent eyes. "I don't want to stay in one place, missing the travelling, and the awakening each morning to a new day which could hold something unforeseen and wonderful." "A spring morning in the heart of the English countryside can hold infinite promise," he said quietly. "It depends on individual outlook." "But surely," she turned her head, "you understand? Not only the searching and the objective but the feeling behind it all when a group of people work together seeking back into the dawn of history." "I understand - I should do - but it's a little unusual in a young girl. Didn't you have any of the more traditional ambitions? Nursing, or — " he groped for alternatives and came up triumphantly with "dress designing?" She laughed, her high spirits suddenly restored. "I bandaged my dolls when I was tiny, and I once had the urge to be a missionary.

And later, I thought of a travelling job. A courier, perhaps, on the more off-the-beat tracks. But there again," she could not resist a dig at him, "my temper would have cost me tourists." "-I seem to be having one thoughtless remark thrown back at me till it feels like a battering ram. Can we live it down from now on, please?" "I suppose so. Until the next time." Her voice was low as she comprehended the ease with which he could break down her barriers. "It's getting too hot to stay stationary. Shall we go?" She shoved the flask and the cups into her bag as she spoke. Grant got out. "Give a toot if anything happens. But I'll be keeping an eye on the mirror." She pressed the starter and shouted over the kick of the engine, "I won't get left behind." He turned to reply, but his words were drowned in the noise and distance. She waited until he climbed into the truck, then smiled to herself as she slipped into gear and followed. They drove straight to the inn when they reached Zakhirya and roused Abdullah from a drowsy contemplation of two plump slippered feet which were hoisted on a stool while he recovered from his morning exertions. The old woman emerged from the murk wherein lay the kitchen region, and once again Vicky experienced the sense of timelessness which had intrigued her when she first arrived. In ten years' time, she mused, we could walk in here and Abdullah would have his feet up and old Maruika would be crooning to herself. Grant ordered a meal for noon. Abdullah nodded, and Grant turned to leave. About to follow him, the voice of Abdullah stopped her.

She listened, trying to follow the rapid flow of patois. At last she shook her head and beckoned to Grant, who had gone out and now waited impatiently by the courtyard arch. "He's saying something about the train, but I can't get the gist of it all." Grant's lips set in a thin line of annoyance as he listened. "No train," he said in an aside to her, "and no means of telling how long it will be delayed." Abdullah paddled away, no doubt to the resumption of his meditation, leaving Vicky and Grant to deliberate over the unexpected setback. "Do we wait?" she asked when the first rush of exasperation died from his face leaving an unwilling resignation. "We must. Even if it means staying overnight." He looked around. "Where's he gone now? Abdullah!" His roar brought the squawking hens tumbling across the courtyard and Maruika appeared, visibly shaken. Vicky smiled, and hastily composed her face when Abdullah shuffled forth, his fat, swarthy countenance assuming an air of long-suffering patience. "I want a room," Grant ordered crisply. "A clean one." He turned to Vicky. "I'm going to the Garrison. While I'm gone I want you to take the chance of a rest." He saw her startled expression and the protest threatening. "No buts. Sleep if you can. You may be thankful later if we make a late start back tonight. Now where are you going?" as she made for the doorway.

"To get my bag." The sun glinted on her short, unruly curls as she sauntered across the courtyard. He watched her reach into the Land Rover, lift out the shabby hold-all, and relock the vehicle before passing through the dusty glare and coming back into the dimness. "Don't you ever go anywhere without that bag?" "No." She walked to where Maruika stood waiting. "Keys, please." The laconic command halted her and she fished them out of her pocket and tossed them to him. He caught them deftly in one outstretched hand and said, "You didn't expect me to go calling in the truck, surely?" He smiled, gave her a sketchy salute, and strode away. She trod the familiar stairs behind the thin bent back of the old woman and was shown through a bead-curtained arch into a long, low room. Sleep was the last thing she desired at that moment, but obedient to orders - he was quite capable of coming back to make sure she was - she took off her jerkin and stretched out on the narrow divan. The room was shaded and still cool. Vicky closed her eyes and curled her feet up. If Henry Svendsen's business at the camp didn't presage something rather sinister . . . And if Finch were not quite so impetuous . . . And if - if Grant would always be as amiable as he'd been today . . . Vicky slept. The sun reached its zenith. In her sleep Vicky's arm moved protectively to her face, shielding her eyes against the bright glare filling the room. The bead curtain rattled, but she did not hear, and Grant called in a louder voice:

"Wake up! Your bag's been pinched!" She shot upright, still dazed with sleep, till recollection came and the precious hold-all landed with a soft thud on the bed. He laughed at the indignant glare from sleep-darkened blue eyes. He said, "I thought that would shift you. Incidentally, how long before your hair gets back to normal? It's a bit - " he stopped, his hands going to his own head and his lips twitching. "I've no illusions about its lack of style," she flashed, "but at least it's cool and comfortable. Has the train arrived?" "No." He walked over to the window and stood looking out while she combed the maligned locks and splashed her face with water from the big ewer. Downstairs, he held a brief exchange with Abdullah which was evidently concluded to the hotelier's satisfaction, for he pocketed that which Grant gave him and beamed them on their way. "No lunch?" asked Vicky, puzzled. "We're going to accept Commander Yurad's hospitality," Grant said, opening the passenger side of the Land Rover for her and taking the wheel himself. "A report has come in of a flare-up over the border - the Kurds again - which has probably caused the delay. However, the Commandant has assured us he'll do whatever he can. He's a decent bloke." They reached the high-walled building at the side of the railway track. The Commandant had placed his personal quarters at their disposal, and Vicky's inward qualms at entering an unknown male stronghold were dispelled when she found he had ensured a much appreciated privacy for her. Gratefully she withdrew, and later, after a refreshing sponge-down, she joined the men at the dining table. Cautiously she sampled the strange wine, half prepared for

the pungency that followed the first deceptively bland innocuousness. The two men discussed the dig, Commander Yurad breaking in frequently with quick, excited questions as Grant recounted the progress leading up to their uncovering of the door. "Commander Yurad suggests we visit the local high place," said Grant. "The approach is most interesting, he tells me - through the valley known locally as the Wailing Valley." "This is due to the peculiar formation of the rocks and the prevalent wind, Miss Harving," Commander Yurad explained. "I can assure you it is not - what would you call it? - haunted." His smile flashed reassuringly. "She's a bit doubtful about the mode of transport," Grant put in. He looked at her. "Can you ride?" "Yes," she affirmed, the old determination rising that he should not find her wanting in any of the skills taken for granted in this part of the world. "I can stick on a mule." "Decided, then?" He raised his brows, and she thought there was a tinge of disappointment in his expression as she gave him a cool nod and turned to thank their host. "You wouldn't have any embrocation in that bag of mysteries?" he queried later when the mules had been brought and they set off behind the boy detailed as guide. "Embrocation?" she cried. Her eyes narrowed. Was this an oblique reference to the possible consequences of the little jaunt? "There's a limit to the state of preparedness," she told him with a trace of sarcasm.

"Pity, I've a feeling I might need lots of it. I haven't ridden - or stuck on - a mule for years. But doubtless you'll come through unscathed." During the course of these remarks Vicky turned to watch him in blank amazement as her unbelieving ears assured her she was hearing aright. The Great Grant was positively human! She hid a grin and they jogged along quietly. Suddenly she remembered Leo Gavison and gave the small item of information, almost regretting she had done so when the carefree air of wry humour fell away from Grant, leaving his features taut with the set expression she had come to associate with him once more in possession. "I placed seals on the entrance before we left," he said grimly. "Not that they'll deter anyone if they happen to hit on the right combination for entering. But at least we'll know an attempt has been made." She voiced the obvious objection, and he shrugged. "We can only hope that Svendsen knows his job. Ben Ali has shifted in a bit closer at nights. Apart from setting up a watch, which will cause bad feeling, I don't see what else we can do." "Can we trust Ben Ali?" "Yes." Grant's tone was assured. "I know what they're like for pilfering, but he's wily enough to know he's well paid to stay on the right side of me." His mouth curved reminiscently. "Ben Ali and I measured each other's worth during the first job he ever did for me." They were forced to cease conversation as the path narrowed and they strung out in single file. The stillness was oppressive and

Vicky began to experience a feeling of awe and coldness that was almost eerie. She jumped when her mule dislodged a small pebble which ricocheted with an unnaturally loud rattle. Then she heard it; the thin rushing wail, faint in the distance and then increasing in volume until it roared about her head. Instinctively she ducked. The sound passed and a light breeze tugged her hair in passing and was stilled. She twisted in the saddle. Grant was waiting behind until she moved on. He smiled. "Yes, that was it. Scared?" "A little," she admitted. "It was rather uncanny." The rock face on her left levelled out and gave way to an expanse of blue. They had reached the summit. The guide had dismounted and Vicky got down thankfully to feel her feet on firm ground again. Slowly they walked across the miniature plateau to the great sacrificial stone. She stared at the dark, foreboding surface and shivered, then lifted her face to the warmth of the sun. The same sun had warmed the stone down through the aeons and shone on the processions winding their way up the route she had just travelled. She turned away to the vista below. She could pick out Zakhirya, a dwarfed huddle of houses among the dotted patches on the outskirts where small communities of families comprising perhaps four generations wrested an existence from the pockets of arable land near the river. Farther away to the south the sun glinted on the railroad tracks, thin silver links with a superimposed western civilisation. "Had enough?" Before the quietly spoken words reached her ears she had sensed his presence behind her. Isolated in a silent setting, away from the

continual distractions of the camp, she was aware of the magnetism which had so profoundly affected her at their first meeting. "I think so." Her voice was low, and suddenly she wanted to escape from his nearness and the disturbing power that had stolen around her. "Then let's go." No wind ruffled the calm of the Wailing Valley as they traversed its shade and came out into the harsh aridity of the late afternoon. When they neared Zakhirya Vicky glanced at her watch and was surprised to find they had been away little over three hours. Somehow, it seemed longer. Commander Yurad met them with the welcome news that their supplies were waiting. Grant gave a sigh of relief when he saw the crates stacked against the Garrison wall. He hurried off to bring the truck and a few minutes later manoeuvred neatly into the courtyard and backed up ready for loading. "We'd better check." He groped in the breast pocket of his shirt. "I've a list here, somewhere." As he pulled out the small handful of papers two snapshots fluttered to the ground. He bent quickly to retrieve them and Vicky caught a brief glimpse of a child's smiling face. The other had fallen face down, and she wondered whose face it portrayed. Probably his wife's. For the first time she realised how little she knew of Grant's background. Almost certainly there would be a woman in it, and she knew a small sadness at the thought.

CHAPTER EIGHT GRANT decided against making the return journey that evening after all, and Vicky found herself in a strange little stone-walled room within the Garrison. A high, grilled window overlooked the courtyard where the enclosing walls trapped the heat of the day long after the sun had disappeared and the dark cool of evening closed in. The inevitable cloud of mosquito netting swathed its way down from a hook above the bed. Just as well, Vicky told herself in the early morning when she stirred from an uneasy sleep which had been broken by the soft, singing whirr of a myriad insects. She tried to smooth out the traces of sleep and travel from tired, unfresh clothing before she met Grant in the chill glimmer preceding the dawn. The truck loomed like a grey- green spectre, silhouetting the pale blur of his figure as he moved against it. His face looked bleak and taut, and she could not resist asking: "How did you fare on the roof?" "What?" For a moment his expression was blank, then a fleeting smile chased the blankness. "Never again! I wish I'd taken your advice, but it was so darned hot last night I couldn't face one of those cells." "So they kept you awake, too?" "I thought I was going to be eaten alive when I heard the racket. Got the famous bag?" "What do you think?" She smiled. So the new pattern of teasing, almost affectionate banter was to continue. Perhaps it lacked the spice of former contest, but it was rather pleasant not to have to be

constantly on guard. Vicky sighed, uncertain of where her thoughts were leading her, and climbed into the Land Rover. The eastern sky glowed as they approached the gorge, and the tip of the sun protruded over the edge of the horizon like a sullen red tongue. They entered the gorge and the dark sides blotted out the fiery orb, giving a transient illusion of night returning. Vicky noticed the distance between her own vehicle and the truck in front was almost imperceptibly widening. She trod on the accelerator, wondering why Grant had chosen to increase speed over a more difficult part of the route, and heard the ominous roll of the smaller crates in the back as the Land Rover swayed and bumped in response. She realised his reason when they came out on to the plain. A sullen copper haze reddened the sun and tinted the barren, rolling stretch to the horizon with a dull, cinnamon monochrome. A hot wind curled the dust into small eddying swirls and filled the cab with a dry, choking acridity. A storm was gathering somewhere in the great desert to the south. Grimly she kept on the tail of the truck, praying that they would reach the river and the shelter of the valley before the worst of the onslaught came. She stole a quick glance at the mileage indicator; they were half-way across. Her foot renewed the pressure she had momentarily relaxed on the throttle and she shifted a little to ease her position. Then she jerked back and gasped. A great dark wave surged over the horizon. Almost simultaneously the tail-lights of the truck stabbed out three quick red jabs. As she skidded to a halt Grant was out and running back towards her, the cry on his lips whipped away. She opened the door and the wind tore it from her grasp, sucking it back as she jumped down

and met the full force of the tempest. She staggered, and Grant seized her arm and dragged her in a stumbling run towards the truck. Her head bent, she followed blindly, then felt herself lifted and swung unceremoniously over the tail-board. "Flat on the floor," he directed tersely, scrambling in. "Hang on and bury your face." She obeyed implicitly, grasping a metal strut along the side and pillowing her head on her arm. How long before the storm struck them? The seconds seemed like hours as she lay waiting, the truck floor vibrating beneath her and the warm metal and oil smell in her nostrils. Against closed lids she saw again that vast wall of dust swirling and converging into fantastic whorls like a horde of dervishes released by an unseen genie's hand. Once seen, it was easy to credit the old superstitious fears. She shivered, remembering that whole caravans had been buried, lying in their desert graves until yet another storm uncovered the pathetic remains. Beside her, Grant stiffened, and through the tumult she heard his quick, indrawn breath and felt his hand grip her shoulder. "This is it. Hold on tight." Over the rasp of his voice the roar screamed to a crescendo and she braced herself, waiting... Then it hit them. The truck swayed and shuddered under the impact and the metal sides quivered like paper against the besieging elements. The choking cloud rained inside, stinging every exposed portion of flesh like a thousand needles, and the sound battered the senses, driving out every emotion but the primitive urge for survival.

Suddenly the piled crates shifted, a slow, ominous slide that increased in speed as the violent heart of the simoom struck. The world spun in a dizzy vortex of blackness in which the one stable thing was the metal strut clamped within Vicky's numb fingers. Then there was silence; and a dark, frightening stillness. Vicky did not move. Still she clung to the piece of metal that seemed to have become part of her while she waited for breath to return to her aching body and the mad pounding of her heart to abate to its steady, rhythmical beat. She became aware of her feet wedged against something hard and ridged and she took a deep breath before she opened her eyes. A lightness filled the truck, so bright it hurt. Then she realised that Grant was no longer near her and she stared round, fearful, as full comprehension came and her mind cleared. The truck had turned over. It lay at a crazy angle and she was half leaning, half hanging on a sloping floor with her legs jammed against the crates. Cautiously she shifted and looked down, then gasped with horror. Below, Grant lay deathly still, his face hidden. She released her hold and slithered to his side. His eyes were closed when she bent over him and touched his shoulder. He did not move, and her heart lurched painfully. She looked at the crates near his head. Had one struck him? Or had he fallen and hit his head? Then she saw the dark wetness trickling along the dusty metal under his shoulder and she wanted to scream. "Grant! Grant!" She shook his shoulder, not daring to look at that ghastly trickle. He stirred under her hand and uttered an indeterminate sound. His eyelids flickered and opened, and he

looked up blankly for a moment before his pupils contracted and focused on her frightened face. She held her breath, then a ghost of a smile touched his mouth and he said: "It's all right. It's over, Vicky." Wordless, she could only shake her head as her voice refused to pass the constriction in her throat. At last she faltered, "Are you are you badly hurt?" He was sitting up, rubbing the back of his head. "I don't think so. Only bumped and a bit winded." The relief was too much for Vicky. The tears spilled over and trickled down her cheeks. She was vaguely conscious of his arm drawing her against him and, unresisting she rested her head on his shoulder and wept unashamedly. He patted her shoulder and ran unexpectedly gentle fingers through her hair. Moments later, she stirred uneasily, a new wave of misery suddenly flooding over her. How could she have allowed herself to break down and weep like that? The truck was wrecked and the supplies stranded. Whatever was he thinking of her weakness? She struggled to sit up and stem her shameful tears, but his arm tightened across her back and his free hand drew her head close again; not to his shoulder this time. Vicky stiffened as he turned and his breath came warm on her cheek. Then his mouth sought and held her own in a kiss that was gentle at first, then insistently demanding as new warmth swept through her and a strange, traitorous longing relaxed her unyielding body. At last his arms slackened their hold and she looked at him with misted eyes, seeing that in his the steely glint had gone and the blueness deepened.

"Was all that concern for me?" His voice was low and his touch gentle on her flushed face. Suddenly aghast, she pulled free and looked away, afraid of those unreadable eyes and of his guessing the wild, tumultuous certainty she was not yet ready to admit to her own innermost heart. "I thought you were injured or - or - " "Or dead," he finished for her. "Oh, Vicky!" Humour showed in the quirk of his mouth. "How was I to know," she defended, "after what happened ! And that - that whatever it is down there." He looked in the direction to which her finger pointed, and cried, "So that's what's dripping down my neck!" He investigated the spreading stain, sniffing his finger tentatively. Then his laughter burst forth. "That, my sweet idiot, is beer. A can must have bust. And you thought it was..." She stared at the mirth crinkling his eyes and suddenly her control snapped. "I'm not your sweet idiot! And how can you sit there laughing when we're - after what hap - " Her voice cracked and she turned blindly away from the hand he put out, not seeing the laughter wiped from his face and concern sober his expression. She scrambled from the truck, fighting back the tears and the longing for his arms around her again. He vaulted out of the truck and stood behind her. "I'm sorry, Vicky. I - I didn't mean to upset you." When she did not reply he said, his tone becoming firmer, "The storm's over. We can deal with the results." His hands dropped from her shoulders. "I certainly didn't intend my attempts at consolation to end like this.

Don't worry - you'll be all right when you get back to camp." He stopped helplessly, watching her bent head. A slow numbness was creeping through her. When she turned her face was cold and set. She said flatly, "We'd better start digging the Land Rover out." Through a blur she saw him stride across to the Land Rover, now silted up to the axles with dust but miraculously standing plumb on its four wheels. She was acutely conscious of him standing beside her while they worked patiently at the engine; cleaning, oiling, checking, and then bending to the back-breaking job of freeing the wheels from the clogging drift. At last he motioned her to get in and try the engine. She did so, and sighed with relief at the sound of the blessed throb. He turned away then, and she got out, some of her former calm regained and stood sharing his moment of indecision as he stared at the crippled diesel. She ventured, "Shall I go on to the camp and bring back some help?" He frowned, shaking his head, and she moved away, suddenly weary, into the shade of the truck. "We don't split up." His voice was decided. He climbed into the truck and she heard him rummaging about inside. No longer caring, she leaned listlessly against the tailboard while the sounds of a crowbar splintering wood continued. Presently he came out with two cans of beer. He punctured one neatly with a screwdriver and handed it to her.

She shook her head and he said impatiently, "It's better than nothing. Anything to wash that dust down." His tone softened. "I'm missing the coffee this morning." Seeing him drink made her aware of how thirsty she was. Reluctantly she took the can he held out when he saw her change of expression. It was warm and she grimaced at the bitterness, nevertheless she found she was gulping thirstily. "That's better." He sighed gustily and tossed the empty can away. "We'll back up the Land Rover and load as much stuff into it as we can - wish we had the trailer - and the rest will have to wait, I'm afraid, until we get some manpower." His last unthinking word tightened her mouth, reminding her again of her limitations. She considered her own idea to be much the best and said so. "I could have been back to the camp by now and bringing the others." She saw his lips compress and she added bitterly, "What's the matter? Do you think I'll strand you?" "No," he said vehemently. "I'm afraid of anything happening to you while you're alone. I can't risk it." "You haven't much faith in me," she retorted, sadly aware that the truce of the past two days was over and that her fighting spirit now lacked the old vigour. "For heaven's sake, let's get on with it," she cried impatiently. "You won't give an inch, will you, Vicky, as far as I'm concerned?" He shouldered her aside as she heaved at a crate. "You just shove another brick up on your wall of independence and retreat behind it." She shrugged and left him to it. "There's an old saying about inches and ells." The words came over her shoulder and he sent an

exasperated glance at the defiantly straight back before he stooped to a crate. When he had finished she got into the Land Rover and, about to reverse, stopped, looking into the distance. She leaned about and called, "I think somebody's coming." He narrowed his eyes against the glare, seeing the small black dot getting larger. He said, "Yes, it's a jeep. Your rescue party, probably." She ignored the hint of sarcasm, watching the jeep eat up the distance and race into clearer view leaving a churned trail of dust in its wake. She moved forward when it stopped, feeling a return to normality at the sight of her father jumping out and Laurence grinning and waving his hand. Before she reached them a third figure leapt from the back and hurled itself towards her. She was enveloped in a frantic embrace and Finch was saying against her hair: "Thank goodness you're safe! Are you all right, Vicky?" In a voice muffled against his chest she cried wildly, "Of course I'm all right - but the truck isn't." She tried to disengage herself. "Are you sure?" He let her go, but kept his hands on her shoulders and looked long and searchingly at her. "We knew you must have stayed overnight, but when the storm hit the camp we were frantic, knowing you must have driven right into the worst of it. Thank God we came to find you." His glance went to the truck. "Were you in that?" She nodded, and he registered horror. "You might have been killed!" He showed every sign of embracing her again and she stepped back hastily, conscious of the interested spectators and the dawning amusement in her father's expression.

Above all, there was Grant, drawn away from her now and breaking in on the scene with a sarcastic inflection that edged his voice with flint. Finch turned away, grumbling, "Isn't the man ever human?" The Land Rover was quickly loaded and Vicky found herself urged into it and Finch at the wheel." Since the arrival of the others Grant had avoided her glance. Now he looked directly at her. Her heart was cold as she saw the bitter, unyielding set of his mouth and the chill of steel hardening his eyes.

The havoc wreaked on the camp by the passing of the storm temporarily banished her emotional worries. She gave a cry of dismay when she stepped out of the Land Rover and gazed at the desolation. Several of the tents had been torn from their moorings and lay in crumpled, dejected heaps of canvas amid the possessions of their owners. Professor Elves and Henry Svendsen were trying to restore a semblance of order. The Professor hammered home a peg and sat back on his heel as Vicky approached. Perspiration glistened on his chubby red face and she said sternly, "You shouldn't be doing this. Where's Alan Brixen?" "Up at the site. The main work must go on. What happened to you?" She told him while he got his breath back, then he renewed his efforts. She called to Finch, who had got back into the Land Rover and was about to drive to the store hut. "Send Alan down when you've dumped the stuff."

Given a free hand, Vicky possessed a flair for organisation. She rounded up some of the boys and split them into a couple of gangs, and when Alan arrived asked bluntly, "Can you pitch a tent?" At the surprised youth's affirmative she told him to get on with it, then took the Professor to inspect the canteen. The sun was low in a clear, unvarnished sky when the transports rolled into a now orderly camp. Vicky had sent hot water to the tents, and with nothing to do but wait for the men to come and eat she felt a queer, tense expectancy take possession of her as she surveyed the spotless hut. She had remained inside when they arrived, leaving the Professor to meet them for the inevitable exchange of accounts. Now she fought to subdue this disturbing blend of excitement, wariness, and impatience that quickened her heart-beat when the tramp of feet and murmur of voices approached. Their greetings expressed their moods as they entered: Dr. Harving's weary and resigned, Laurence's quiet, his puckish humour in abeyance, and Finch's a good deal less exuberant than his greeting earlier in the day. Grant was the last to enter,- behind the dapper figure of Leo Gavison. Where had he been? she wondered, her attention diverted so that she failed to see Grant's expression as he stopped in the doorway and saw her in the unaccustomed position behind the serving table. During the short lost moments Grant slumped into a chair next to her father. The tired droop of his shoulders brought a rush of concern to her. He could not have eaten since they left Zakhirya early in the morning. How long ago it seemed . . . Hastily she removed the protective muslin covering from the plates. She knew a mingled pain and pleasure when Grant looked at the

invitingly arranged plate of sliced ham, cool salad and golden corn-on-the-cob she set before him. "I see the new stores are getting a hiding," he said, raising shadowed eyes in a face drawn with fatigue and giving her a brief smile that stripped her defences and brought the ridiculous lump back into her throat. Blindly she retreated to dish up the fruit and the tinned cream, and go through the mechanical motions of making coffee. Her mind reiterated an unbelieving "No" to the dictate of her heart. That a kiss could unleash such a tumult of emotion, a kiss unwittingly given and returned in an atmosphere charged with the pulsating aftermath of the storm. And now there was this heart- betraying longing that surged at the smile of a man who had sparked off her antagonism before she even met him. Vicky panicked. Was it always going to be like this? How was she going to face him in the gregarious intimacy of the daily life of the camp? Showing an outwardly carefree facade while her heart cried out, I love you...

CHAPTER NINE THE highlight of the following day held a curious flatness for Vicky. She wakened with a sore throat and a parched, burning mouth. This, and a feeling of malaise, did not alarm her. She knew that the unpleasant symptoms, not unlike influenza, were the aftereffects of the dust storm, but she knew too that her depression was not due to the allergic reactions to the storm. During the operation in which the excavated entrance was freed of the accumulated mud and deposits, and the soft amber glow of alloy began to appear, she worked in a mood of detachment, almost as if she watched herself and her colleagues working in the sun against the great gilded door. The mud had set in a cement-like mixture, sealing the lintel and jambs more effectively than lock and key. It took hours of patient toil and quantities of solvent before they could finally stand back and look. Bizarre and golden in the brilliant sunlight, the door blinded with its splendour. The forgotten symbols of an ancient race twined and intertwined in finely chiselled relief and intricate symmetry over the majestic expanse. And now the moment for which they had all waited was very near. The record was completed: every detail sketched, photographed, and in parts cast. And every contingency that Grant could foresee had been carefully guarded against. The same wondering thought was in every mind. The Professor and Grant stepped forward. Slowly, unbelievably, in tiny jerks, the door moved. A soft sigh escaped the assembled party. Gradually it was opening, and their

wonder increased as they saw that it appeared to revolve on concealed central pivots. No one moved. They waited for Grant to take the first step into the dark mystery beyond. He hesitated a moment that seemed an age to Vicky, then she heard Laurence's voice behind her. "The air may be poisonous." At last he entered the right-hand aperture. The Professor and Dr. Harving followed, then the others crowded eagerly behind them. Vicky met Laurence's twinkling eyes, and after a moment's hesitation stepped through the other opening. The door, when fully opened, formed two separate entrances and fitted into the end of a dividing wall. Grant and the others, presumably, trod the other side. She looked back, seeking the rectangular chink of daylight they had left, and stopped uneasily. There was no light at all save the beams from their torches. "We're curving out," Laurence said, his voice unperturbed "also, I think we're going downhill, "very gradually." "Do you think we should turn back? - I mean to where . . ." Vicky began to worry. It did not seem that the two tunnels - or corridors, she wasn't sure which - were going to link up. "Do you want to go back? Or are you scared of what Fairfax might say?'' Her negative was a little uncertain, and Laurence groped for her hand. She sighed, curling her fingers in the warm, friendly grasp, and they moved on. In the darkness was the heaviness of time, a brooding aura of mystery that lapped the senses and made imagination impossible to restrain. Surely they were walking back into history?

Laurence's grip tightened and he paused, playing the beam of his torch ahead. The wall on their right had ended. There was a space, whether arch or door Vicky could not tell. Laurence stepped through and then they saw the columns. Square and tapering, they cast long, wavering shadows in the rays penetrating the gloom beyond. Vicky followed Laurence past the great colonnade, each column looming like a silent sentinel as the light bobbed along till it rested on the far side of the cavern. Underfoot, a mosaic similar to that of the forecourt showed where their feet scuffed the fine dust. Before them, jutting out from a richly friezed wall, was a high, narrow arch. Laurence's voice, hollow and metallic, called excitedly, and she hurried towards him. The light from her torch caught his features from an upcast angle and momentarily twisted the hollows and planes into a laughing satyr with a strange hint of evil. She stopped short, staring, then he moved and the illusion was gone. His eyes twinkled in sudden comprehension. "Ever put a lamp under your chin and looked in the mirror?" Without waiting for her to reply he gestured with one hand. "Ladies first." He made a sweeping gesture with his hands and she stepped through the archway, her expression still doubtful. His long, soft whistle when he followed brought a feeling of shock to Vicky, seeming irreverent as it broke the silence and the awe holding her spellbound. The inner temple was square, and smaller than the place of assembly they had just left. The walls were cut in a series of niches, each one holding a tall, narrow tablet set at shoulder height above the base of the niche. In one there was a dull metal grilled object. Vicky did not touch it, but Laurence put it gently aside and

poked an exploratory finger into the dark powdery substance in the shallow depression beneath. "Some sort of incense," he hazarded, replacing the burner and moving on to the next niche. "This looks like my horoscope for the day," he remarked, examining a sculptured relief depicting a water-carrier. "Aquarius?" said Vicky. He grinned. "I believe the Babylonians started the stargazing business." He took Vicky's arm and turned her towards the focal point of the temple. Set between two massive columns, three shallow stairs led to a central dais and the dust-enshrined shape of an altar. There had been a canopy above and rich drapes, but now only threadbare webs remained to hint at once-magnificent embroidery. Discoloured stonework protruded through the tatters and spidery cracks mottled the surface. But the eyes of the silent man and girl were fixed on the object that lay in the merged twin spots of their torches. Laurence's breath escaped in a sibilant murmur as he leaned forward to peer more closely. The dulling film of time could not mask gold. Gems and an ornamental pattern of leaves encrusted the base of an exquisitely wrought figurine. Vicky gazed, willing Laurence not to touch it. If only Grant had been with them at this moment of discovery, she thought with a surge of longing, dragging her gaze from the figurine as Laurence spoke. "This is the find - unless I'm much mistaken. I wonder how it's survived. There must have been a rare haul here originally."

Vicky moved round to the back of the dais. The small travelling circle of light revealed further strange symbols and carved ornamentation. Suddenly she shivered and there came to her the feeling of being watched by alien eyes. She tried to dismiss the eerie sensation and, about to turn back to Laurence, stumbled and felt something move under her foot. At the same moment he shone his torch upwards and she almost screamed. A blind, graven figure towered above her. She jumped back and Laurence grabbed her arm. "Steady, honey - it's only a second cousin of the Thinker or somebody." Shakily, she put out her hand to touch the cold hardness of stone and gazed at the great statue that overshadowed the altar. "Some pin-up," Laurence said. "Gave you a fright, my girl." He went to examine it more closely. "Look, Vicky," he said suddenly. "The eye. I'm sure it's a jewel." Impatience possessed him. "We can't tell till the grime's been removed." Vicky stretched up on tiptoe, wishing she could reach. "It is! Laurie, the other has fallen out. Or been wrenched out and stolen." "They would have taken both." He whirled. "Vicky, what are you doing?" Heedless of the dust, she was scrabbling on the ground at his feet. Her excited squeal rang out urgently: "I stood on it - before! It rolled down the steps. Laurie, I've got it! Light, please." She rubbed something against her jerkin and held it aloft.

In her excitement she failed to see the man who moved up towards the colonnade and stood watching the small scene being enacted by the light from a fallen torch. Framed by the great arch, Vicky made a curiously appealing picture as she knelt by the three stairs under the shadow of the massive idol towering above her. She stretched out her cupped hands to Laurence and raised a glowing young face. He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet, encircling her waist with a quick hugging gesture. "Clever girl, aren't you?" There was a note of teasing affection in Laurence's voice. "You've scooped the jackpot this time. That emerald's a beaut." He took the stone from her hand, turning the smooth hardness of it in his palm. The laughter died from Vicky's face. "We must go back and find the others," she said anxiously. "Too late." She saw the grin on Laurence's face and swung round, uttering a soft "Oh!" of dismay as she heard footsteps and muffled voices. She saw the tall figure of Grant Fairfax in the archway and took an involuntary, eager step towards him while Laurence said easily: "Take a look at this." Then she saw the displeasure in Grant's face and her heart sank. She stopped, searching for a softening in the hard eyes that rested on Laurence before turning to stare directly at her. His voice had a slightly metallic ring in the echoing cavern as he demanded:

"Why did you leave the main party? You had no right to break away on your own." "I didn't realise the entrances were separate. I - I'm sorry," she stammered, finding a difficulty in meeting his unrelenting stare. "I -I thought - " He interrupted, "Never mind what you thought. In future wait until you're told. There's been a fall in the other passage - it's blocked." "Oh," she said in a small voice, conscious of Laurence's unabashed grin which commented plainly on her lack of fighting response. There was also her father's frown in the background. He did not look particularly pleased with her, either. "I assume you had the sense not to disturb anything." Grant brushed past, ignoring her attempt to begin explaining about the stone. She drew back, her face set and unhappy, as the animated discussion began among the others. The afternoon was spent in rigging lights and photographing and sketching details of the temple. At dusk the door was sealed before the party returned to the camp. Vicky sprawled on her bed, conscious of a weariness which was not entirely physical, and faced up to her reluctance to change and join the crowd. Grant's rebuke had stung more than she cared to admit. Not so much the words in themselves - in fairness she had to admit a measure of liability to censure - but his attitude in singling her out for the blame. Why should Laurence escape? She got up and stripped off her soiled clothing. If she didn't show her face someone was sure to comment, and Grant would conclude that she was sulking. If you flatter yourself that he'll notice, she told herself angrily. And if he didn't, Laurence would.

A buzz of chatter and a rush of warm smoky air enveloped her when she entered the canteen. They were all there: noisy, animated, eagerly discussing today and planning tomorrow. Snatches of conversation floated to her as she toyed with the food she did not really want. After a few mouthfuls she pushed her plate to one side and cupped her chin in her hand. Unbidden, her glance strayed to the clear-cut profile of the man who had never been far from her thoughts since . . . was it only yesterday? She caught at herself, despising her weakness, and looked away, meeting the thoughtful gaze of Laurence who had quietly seated himself opposite her. "Tired?" he asked sympathetically. "A little," she admitted. "Must be after yesterday's excitement." "I'm not surprised. It was rather a nerve-racking experience. All I can say is, I'm glad I wasn't in that truck when it went over." He paused, then added slyly, "And after seeing today's little exhibition I can't imagine Fairfax being exactly sympathetic with feminine nerves." "I did panic a little," she admitted in a low voice, then changed the subject. "What do you think of today's effort?" "Momentous," Laurence said without hesitation. "At least to a certain section of the community. We may fill in another gap in the history of early civilisation. It isn't really my province to speculate." He stopped, and Finch laughed. "It's certainly had a soul-shattering effect on Leo." "So I see." Laurence's smile faded and a rather calculating expression replaced it. "I wonder how much he knows."

"What about?" "The value of that bauble we found today." "Thinking of pinching it, old man?" Finch grinned. "I'm in first for the thieving stakes. What do you say, Vicky? We could do a moonlight flit and get married on the proceeds." She had to laugh then and Finch sat down and drained his cooling coffee. Suddenly he set the cup down and groped in his pocket. "I knew there was something I meant to show you." He held out a letter. "What do you think of this?" "Jilted again?" Laurence took the letter and opened it. "Not likely - this one happens to be from my sister. The one who's a nurse." Vicky finished her coffee and shook her head as Finch gave the jug a shove towards her. Laurence let the thin airmail sheet flutter to the table and murmured a noncommittal "Could be" to Finch's questioning glance. "You must admit it's a coincidence of names. If it is a coincidence," Finch said slowly. "But it's strange that we haven't well, heard anything." "Is it?" Laurence said quietly. "If it were you, would you discuss it with any Tom, Dick, or Harry? I wouldn't. If it is true it's a great pity." Watching them, Vicky felt a rising irritation. She had always considered the bandying about of personal correspondence to be distasteful. Surely a letter was intended by the writer for the eyes of the recipient only. That two grown men could conjecture like a

couple of gossiping old women over a titbit and their teacups showed a lack of consideration for the privacy of others, she thought, making no secret of her disapproval. Then she saw the concern in Finch's expression and wondered if she judged them too harshly. There was no trace of avidness in either of the two faces opposite. Then Finch said: "Sorry, Vicky. We didn't mean to exclude you." She was reluctant to touch the letter he put in front of her. She could not pretend interest in the unknown person or anecdote which had so intrigued her colleagues. She looked down at it as a roar of laughter came from the group at the centre table. She heard Grant's cheerful voice make some rejoinder, then she heard Laurence comment: "It doesn't seem to be worrying him. I think your sister's got things a bit mixed up, Finch." The flimsy airmail sheet quivered in Vicky's hand and her fingers were suddenly icy. A name sprang up from the jumbled blur of words in the unfamiliar handwriting. Her companions seemed a long way off as she scanned the letter she had not wanted to read. It was headed with the address of a psychiatric hospital in the north of England. The opening paragraph was purely personal, written in a light-hearted vein that was curiously reminiscent of Finch himself. The small neat hand of Nurse Lesley went on:

"I must tell you this, my dear, although by rights I shouldn't mention a patient. On my last night of duty before I went into Block a new patient was transferred to us from Briar Hill. Her name is Mrs. Fairfax - a dark- haired, fragile little woman. She was restless that night and seemed worried about someone called Penny. There was a photograph by her

bed of a little girl, a bright, laughing little thing. She also mentioned the name Grant. I doubt if I'd have given it a second thought if your letter hadn't arrived that day telling me about your old dig. The name rang a bell immediately. If Mrs. Fairfax had been a little more lucid I might have told her about you - I don't know if it would have helped. And of course there's the possibility she isn't related at all to your boss. All the same, it's quite an unusual name..." Vicky closed her eyes against the dancing words. She remembered the two snapshots he had dropped when they were in Zakhirya. A bright, laughing little thing; exactly her own impression. If she'd been quicker that day and made the normal instinctive grab at a falling object perhaps Grant would have told her about Penny. But she'd betrayed no interest and he had not volunteered any information. And why should he? It was no concern of hers. Penny could be any small acquaintance of Grant's. The cold voice of logic told Vicky that a man does not carry a child's photograph on a far journey unless the child is as close to his heart as only... Vicky bowed her head. The conviction grew stronger with every passing moment. The Grant of Nurse Lesley's letter and the man sitting a short distance away were one and the same. Laurence was right; Grant would not wish to talk of so tragic a blow. The last smouldering fragments of Vicky's former resentment, almost subdued in the swift flowering of her love for him, were extinguished for ever in a rush of compassion.

Suddenly she could not bear to remain in the canteen any longer. She uttered the first excuse that came into her head. "I've got a headache. It's so hot in here." She managed a smile as she prepared to move away, but she was not yet to be allowed to escape. A slightly pedantic, "Oh, Miss Harving. One moment, please," arrested her, and she saw Henry Svendsen coming towards her with firm, unhurried steps. "I realise how busy you've been during the past two days," he began, "but if you could attend to the matter of my films - " He hesitated, and gave a hasty glance round the hut, "as soon as possible, I'd be extremely grateful. I have another roll in my pocket, if you would be so kind." With a twinge of guilt she remembered the films Finch had brought to her the night before she had gone to Zakhirya. She had completely forgotten their existence. Henry Svendsen cut short her apologies and said softly, "There is one thing which is most important. I must ask you not to make any extra prints, apart from those you do for me." His eyes narrowed and searched her face. "I've been assured of your discretion, but I would like your own assurances.- Do you understand? No extra prints." Vicky looked at him coldly. "No one will ever know they exist, except for ourselves. Is that what you mean?" "Precisely." He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Thank you, Miss Harving." As if anyone cared about his precious snapshots, she thought, closing the canteen door behind her and taking grateful gulps of the cool night air. At any other time she would have been amused

by the little man's plea for secrecy. When she reached the annexe she discovered that her excuse had been perfectly truthful; she did have a headache. She took aspirins, turned the light out, and lay down, waiting for the drug to take effect. After a while the throbbing abated and a restless feeling pervaded her. She sat up and reached for her jerkin, half inclined to open up the dark room and start on the processing of the films. She turned the key over in her hand, still undecided, then dropped it among the oddments on the crate which served as a table. The films could wait, she would have a short stroll to clear her head and then turn in. Outside, she moved through the patch of shadow between the dark room hut and her own and walked down the incline to the stream. On the far side there was an unusually formed outcrop of rock which provided a surprisingly comfortable niche in which to sit. She lit a cigarette and watched the tiny lazy spirals drift up and dissipate in the clear air. For a long while she stayed, willing herself to prolong the tenuous thread of detachment. Warmth on her fingers warned of the cigarette burning low and she sighed, reluctant to move. She shifted awkwardly, feeling the numbness from sitting too long in one position and the tingling onset of pins and needles. She retraced her steps leisurely. Sounds carried with a crystal clarity from the camp; voices and laughter, goodnights, and the tramp of feet down the centre strip. She reached the back of the hut, her sandalled feet noiseless as she rounded the angle, and came into the shadow. Suddenly she stopped, stifling an exclamation of surprise rather than alarm. Someone was trying the door of the darkroom hut a little way up to her left. She could just distinguish the shadowy outline. Vicky blinked, unsure that her eyes were not playing tricks, then heard the grating of a key against the padlock and the click as the hasp snapped free.

Indignation began to replace puzzlement. The darkroom was acknowledged as her special preserve. She groped for her own key as she stepped forward with the intention of challenging the intruder, and while her fingers failed to contact the coldness of metal the figure whirled suddenly, sending a powerful torchbeam directly into her eyes. In the momentary hesitation while she screwed her eyes against the glare the figure disappeared. The soft running thuds faded and were gone as she started in pursuit, then stopped uncertainly outside the store hut. Whoever it was could have dodged into any one of innumerable hiding places among the huts, vehicles, and scattered equipment. Furious at being caught out by one of the hoariest tricks, she walked back to the annexe. Why anyone should want to enter the darkroom at night and so secretively was beyond her comprehension. Her fear that she had lost her key was short-lived as she remembered leaving it among the oddments tipped out of her pockets when she changed earlier in the evening. She bit her lip and, still unbelieving, picked over a second time the small assortment lying on the crate. An unopened packet of cigarettes, nail file, hanky, sunglasses, three other keys, but the darkroom key was not there. She made a hasty but thorough search, certain her memory was not at fault, then sat on the edge of her bed, aware of a coldness against her bare arms that was not entirely due to the chill of the night. The implication slowly sank home. Vicky trembled and began to feel a little afraid. It took quite a bit of courage to go outside again, remove the dangling padlock, and replace it with the smaller one from her own trunk.

"Unlike your father, I seem unable to jolly you out of these fantasies. Are you sure, Vicky?" Grant sounded tired, as if the loss of a key was of little consequence in comparison to his other worries. He said impatiently, "You didn't lose it and imagine the rest?" "I didn't imagine anything," she said distinctly. "I can't offer an explanation any more than you can. And I didn't lose it." A touch of defiance showed in the tilt of her chin as she stared at him. "What about the open padlock? And the torch shone in my eyes?" He made no reply and she went on, "However, I'd like another key, or a new padlock, so that I can have my own back." "If you promise to be more careful with this one." Vicky began to feel annoyed. Obviously her story had not convinced him. She flared, "The key was stolen from my hut. Or borrowed - if you're squeamish about my choice of expression. I did not lose it." His mouth twitched. "All right, I believe you. You'll be setting the bloodhound to work on this, no doubt?" Vicky fumed. Would no one take her seriously? Her father had shown a similar reaction when she had told him of the incident. Before she could frame a suitably sarcastic rejoinder Grant handed her the store hut key and told her to help herself. "By the way," he said suddenly as she moved away, "have you told any of the others?"

"No - only Daddy. This morning. My poor father," she added, reminiscently, "I always seem to catch him while he's shaving." "So I noticed at breakfast," Grant smiled absently. "I think it would be advisable not to mention this little episode to your two," there was a slight pause before he added, "pals." She was aware of the sensation so often experienced during her schooldays of authority being gently, yet firmly, enforced. Cliques had been frowned on then, and she detected the same disapproval in the oblique reference to Finch and Laurence. She suppressed a retort and said quietly, "Very well. Is there anything special for me today? I've masses of developing and printing to do." His eyes narrowed, whether against the sun or in some new line of thought he pursued she could not tell. He stood for a long moment without replying and she felt herself colour under his gaze. Then he seemed to recollect himself and he touched her shoulder and smiled. "No. Just get on with the processing. I'll let you know at lunch time if anything crops up. We're going to try and clear that passage this morning, so you won't miss anything exciting. Oh, and - " "Yes?" she murmured, half turned away. "Don't worry about the key business." "I can't help worrying." She gave a hopeless gesture. "I know it implies an accusation against one of us, but I don't see how else it could have gone." "And another thing." His face had gone grim. "If you have any further strange encounters in the dark just run away and holler as hard as you can. Promise me you won't try to deal with it yourself.

And if you hear noises, ignore them. Do you understand? And promise?" She nodded mutely. "Well, don't forget," he impressed, "and if you have any doubts about anything - or anyone - no matter how trivial, tell either your father or me before you confide in the others." "Have you any special reason for saying that?" she asked. "Apart from what you told us that night we bumped into Mr. Svendsen." "No." His mouth curved wryly. "Only a large and sudden onslaught of the power usually credited to the feminine sex." He smiled into her startled face. "Intuition. And I don't like it a bit."

CHAPTER TEN VICKY'S hopes of a snag-free work session were doomed to early disappointment. The discovery of a faulty bottle of chemical should have warned her, and she had just poured away the offending liquid when the first interruption came. Finch barged in and leaned against the door, a gory finger held out for inspection and sympathy. Minor casualties were inevitable, of course, and of late it had become accepted that Vicky should deal with them. She looked from the injured member to the mock sorry- forhimself expression Finch had assumed and inquired a trifle acidly, "How did you do that?" "On something sharp and cutting, darling." She shepherded him along to her own domain and got out the firstaid kit. After she had finished Finch showed an inclination to linger, but she was not in a time-wasting mood and she chased him out unceremoniously despite his good- natured grumbles. The loquacious Finch gone, she returned her attention to Mr. Svendsen's films. When she held the dripping strips to the light she frowned, running critical eyes down the miniature shadowy squares. Obviously the discoveries at the site did not interest Henry from the photographic angle. Until the film was dry and she could print these negatives, curiosity about the subjects of them was better postponed. About to suspend them from the rack, she hesitated, sending a speculative glance round the bare walls. The interior held no discreet crannies where a film could be left unseen. Finally she sought drawing pins and crawled under the work-bench. She

pinned the films to the underside and emerged, dusting the knees of her slacks as she straightened. It was the only place she could think of. She was just in time; a knock came and a nasal voice called her name. Leo Gavison hovered on the threshold and met her surprised look with a thin smile. He still affected the panama hat and the tinted spectacles which Vicky had to admit were necessary. Close to, the mottling of his skin at the jawline was more noticeable. In comparison to the healthy tan acquired by the others his pallor and the dark glasses combined to give him a faintly sinister look. He wandered in and gazed about him before he crossed to the empty rack and remarked, "You don't seem to be getting on very fast, young lady." His tone nettled her and she said pointedly, "I've had a couple of interruptions and a bottle of dud developer." Her suspicion of him deepened while she waited for him to explain his visit. For Leo was not in the habit of dropping in for an idle natter as the others were wont to. Nor did he waste more than the formal politeness on an insignificant member such as herself. "It's pleasantly cool in here," he remarked, going into the cubicle and peering at the tanks. He came out and wilted against her workbench while she sighed. What did he want? She almost laughed aloud at the innocuousness of his request when it did come. Aspirins! She supplied the panacea and a glass of water and left him in the cool dimness of the canteen nursing his headache. As she made her way back to the darkroom she wondered idly, what next? Laurence unhitched himself off the bench and she saw the bloodstained handkerchief bound round his arm.

"I might as well shut up shop," she said ruefully, not bothering to enter and giving a quick, indicatory jerk of her head. "My own fault," he explained when they reached the annexe and she examined the gash below his elbow. "Horseplay, I expect," she said, pulling a face of disapproval as she swabbed his arm with Dettol-soaked cotton wool. "I bet Finch wasn't far away." "How did you - ouch!" Laurence grimaced. "I thought girls were all so gentle. Little ministering angels with lamps, and so on." She frowned. "There's dirt embedded in here." "It'll work out," he said carelessly. "Shove a lump of plaster over it. By the way, did Leo call?" "Yes." She secured the dressing in place and stood back. "Why do you ask?" "Thanks, honey - he looked pretty groggy earlier on. The heat's a bit much for him. Funny how he sticks it out day after day, just standing around." Laurence grinned, dismissing Leo from his thoughts. "Think we can play hookey long enough for some coffee? I'll make it from gratitude," he wheedled, putting his arm round her shoulders. "I've never tasted coffee made from gratitude," she said slyly, "but I haven't time, honestly, Laurie. I've piles of work to do. Anyway," her nose wrinkled, "Leo's parked in the canteen. He doesn't do much grafting for all the hours he spends up at the site." "Why should he?" Laurence opened the door and waited for her to precede him. "After all, he's paying the piper."

Vicky stopped in the doorway. "He's what?" Laurence gave her a gentle push. "Didn't you know? He's partly financing this expedition. At least the Yankee museum of which he's the big shot is." Laurence explained somewhat incoherently. Vicky digested this new and rather surprising information. She said, "I thought we had the backing of the National Archaeological Society." "Not entirely," Laurence corrected. "We've become a joint AngloAmerican effort." "I see. Nobody ever tells me anything. But I never dreamed Leo had anything to do with the financial side," Vicky said slowly. "He must be well endowed, in that case." "More than you or I ever will be, honey," he said dryly. "You want to draw him out some time about his collection. When he's in a mellow mood. Well," he patted her arm, "I must return to the toil. See you anon." "Bye, Laurie," she said absently, thinking of what he had told her and reassessing Leo in a new light. Anyone who could afford to risk their wealth in a venture of this nature must be classed in the millionaire philanthropist category. She remembered Laurence's earlier information about Leo's collecting tastes; gems and small, fine stuff. No, Vicky corrected herself, Laurence had spoken of Leo being an authority on gems. She started printing the negatives and promptly forgot about Leo. At least there shouldn't be any more interruptions, or casualties. It was against the law of averages for one morning. One by one the prints sprang to life in the dish of developer. A short while later a portrait gallery in miniature was spread along

the bench. Clear, true-to-life studies of her fellow workers. Three angles of each subject: profile, three-quarter, and full face. The only exceptions were Mr. Svendsen and herself. Why? Vicky's breath escaped in a long sigh. How had he taken these without, presumably, their subjects' knowledge? And how had he captured Leo minus sunhat and specs? She shook her head and looked at the picture of Grant. A sudden longing to be near him stirred her emotions, and she tried to quell it; useless to long for a love which could never be hers. You don't even have the right to dream of it now, she told herself with scornful candour, slowly placing the prints one by one on the glazing plates. Her next interruption came as she squeegeed the last one down. She called out "Come in" without turning her head and picked up a cloth to wipe her hands. "First-aid, please." "Grant!" The alarmed exclamation was forced from her as she recognised the voice and spun round. "What happened?" "Nothing, really. A bit of dirt in my eye." The sudden relief that it was not serious brought a sensation of wilting, but she responded quickly: "I'll get some lotion - it may wash it out." "I've tried that," he said flatly. "The idea was that you might be able to remove it." He still stood at the door, obviously waiting for her to accompany him. With a subconscious recollection of Henry Svendsen's instructions she paused to lock the hut before following Grant.

"We've kept you busy this morning," he remarked. switching on the light in the annexe and pulling the packing case forward. "And also made free of your quarters." Holding one hand to his left eye, he sat down and looked hopefully at her. She looked at the eye, which was already inflamed, and was conscious that her hands were quivering. "I'm not very good at this kind of thing," she said doubtfully. "Why didn't my father see to it? He's much more competent at taking dust out of the eye. He has a knack - " "He's busy," Grant interrupted impatiently. "Look, Vicky, all you have to do is turn the top lid back and swab out the dirt with the corner of a handkerchief. Here's a match. It's quite simple. Unfortunately I can't do it for myself, or I would." Somehow she managed to do as he directed, wincing when she saw the black grit embedded in the tender membrane. She could have coped quite coolly with any of the others, but Grant... "See it?" "Yes." She groped for her hanky, cursing her lack of foresight in not having it to hand, then felt the softness of lawn thrust into her fingers. Holding her breath, she dabbed cautiously, and gave a sigh of relief when the second attempt transferred the grit to the material. He blinked painfully as the eye filled with moisture, then he said, "Among the kit there's a small bottle labelled 'Ophthalmicide'. Find it and shoot some in. There's a dropper fixed under the cork." She found the eye lotion and held it out. He made no move to take it. "Go on - finish your job."

She tilted his head and steadied her hand against his forehead and she depressed the rubber top of the dropper. She could feel the pulse beat faintly throbbing under the warm skin of his temple, and his nearness was disturbing. Despite her effort to maintain an air of calm indifference her hand trembled and a small cascade of Ophthalmicide trickled down his nose. Grant's mouth twitched. However, he remained silent, assuming an expression of thoughtful consideration while she tried again. At last he remarked in level tones, "It's a full bottle. You've got approximately fifteen more attempts." She began to laugh, and he took the bottle from her, filled the dropper, and rapidly ejected the contents into his eye. "Never mind," he said, "you did the most important part." He stood up and glanced at his watch. "It's not worth going back now. I suggest we eat if you're ready." He moved the crate back into place and seemed disposed to wait while she put the medical kit away and filled her wash bowl with clean water. "Would you mind?" he indicated the bowl, then, seeing her confusion, added gravely, "I'd like to remove the surplus eye lotion." Hastily she went for a clean towel and found her way barred. "The one you have there will do - after you've finished, if you don't object." Silently she laved her face and arms. The simple everyday ritual became charged with intimacy as she stood back and Grant took his turn, working up a foaming lather to plunge against his face and rinsing if away with liberal, watery abandon.

He pushed back his damp hair and took a deep breath. "That's better. Where do you dry this?" He looked round rather helplessly and she took the wet towel and spread it over the crate. Suddenly she was happy again as they walked the short distance to the canteen. They were the first to arrive and their entry caused a mild flurry in the kitchen where the two cook-boys thrust startled heads round the partition for a moment, then began a busy rattle of plates. Grant shrugged and sat down. "Like a cigarette while we wait?" She accepted one and leaned forward as he bent over the table and held out his lighter. Over the tiny flame his eyes held a thoughtful expression that caught and held her own while he stowed case and lighter back in his pocket. "Still worried about last night?" he asked, half smiling. She hesitated. Moments of privacy with Grant were rare. There were so many questions she wanted to ask. But could he answer them? The temptation to discuss the photographs was strong, but she had promised secrecy and Vicky would not willingly break a promise. However, she might as well seize this opportunity to satisfy her curiosity about the somewhat enigmatic Leo. Aware of Grant's puzzlement at her silence, she said slowly, "Is it true that Leo is backing us?" He gave no hint of surprise. "Yes - I thought it was common knowledge. Just discovered the fact?" She nodded. "Do you know anything about his collection?"

"Do I?" There was a world of feeling in his voice, and she received the impression that Grant's estimation of Leo was similar to her own. "Ask him yourself, Vicky. You'll get all the information firsthand. Faberge egg as well." He sounded bored. "But what's on your mind about Leo? I can't see anything mysterious or - or sinister about him." For a moment she did not reply. The name "Faberge" spoke volumes about Leo's collection. Her suspicions were crazy. Leo couldn't possibly be anything but what he appeared. In fact, Vicky was rapidly reaching the conclusion that Mr. Svendsen and everything he implied were all part of a ghastly mistake. The one or two odd happenings could be explained away in a perfectly innocent context. She almost said so to Grant, but there was one point that still puzzled her. Hoping he would not laugh too unkindly, she asked abruptly: "Did Leo have a beard recently?" Grant's reaction was as satisfying as she could have wished. About to draw on his cigarette, his hand remained stationary halfway between the table and his mouth. "Why do you ask that?" "Because of his skin," she said eagerly. "It's so naked- looking round the jaw." He shook his head. "You're on the wrong track, Vicky." "But did he?" she persisted. "And why did you look so surprised?" He smiled as he stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. "Very well, I'll satisfy your curiosity - though I'll probably get shot for doing so. First of all, Leo has never, to my knowledge, sported a beard. He's genuine enough. Just before I left England I read an

article about him in an American journal. There was a picture of him, and my memory is good. Take notice the next time you see him, the lobe of his left ear is almost non-existent." Vicky's pursed lips betrayed her disappointment as she relinquished her doubts of Leo. "However," Grant leaned back and an amused light came into his eyes, "Mr. Svendsen's quarry has - or did have - a beard." Vicky sat up sharply. So that explained the photographs; Henry wished to make comparisons. She felt mingled amusement and indignation; amusement at a sudden mental picture of Grant bearded, and indignation that he should be included in the suspicious Henry's investigation. Her trend of thought was broken by Grant saying: "Well, can we eliminate Leo?" His voice took on a teasing note as he added, "Not quite so elementary as you imagined, is it? Perhaps you'd better leave - " Whether he was going to suggest leaving the business of detection to Henry Svendsen remained uncertain, for at that moment one of the boys came silently from behind and placed the meal before them. The boy hovered, grinning, and fished in the pocket of his shabby jeans. He produced something which he put into Grant's hand, whispering in halting English and pointing across the hut. At Grant's quick question the boy looked puzzled, then shook his head and edged away. When he had gone Grant held out his hand. On the open palm lay Vicky's key. She stared. "Where did he find that?"

"Over there - on that table. About an hour ago." Grant slid the key across the table and Vicky picked it up, weighing it in her hand before she said: "I left Leo sitting over there about an hour ago." Grant picked up his knife and fork. "Suppose you get on with your dinner. Forget about Leo - or rather forget about the bloodhound. Give the beast a rest." He sounded so like her father that she giggled. "He's starving - the bloodhound, I mean - it's so long since he sank his teeth into a tasty criminal. But I still think," she added darkly, "that he'd like a nip at Leo." Grant merely raised his brows at this, and at that moment a rumble of male voices announced the arrival of the men. Vicky got on with her meal, but at the back of her mind the suspicion still lurked that Leo might surprise them all before the dig ended and they parted to go their various ways.

The following day Leo's allergy flared suddenly and acutely. By the evening he was unmistakably ill. Remorse assailed Vicky. His headache had been genuine, a prelude to the fever he now suffered. Grant and Dr. Harving held a hasty conference and it was decided to move him into the annexe. The transfer was completed with as little discomfort to Leo as possible, and Vicky found herself once again under canvas. In the circumstances, she was the automatic choice for nursing duties, but they had forgotten Alan Brixen. He showed an eagerness almost ludicrous as he volunteered to help to care for Leo Gavison.

Hovering protectively at the bedside, he watched anxiously while Grant and Andrew Harving settled Leo comfortably and gave Vicky her instructions. It took a great deal of persuasion before he accepted their assurances that Leo would be adequately cared for and reluctantly returned to his work. "Young Brixen is a bit too neurotic to be reliable," Andrew remarked after the boy had gone. "I'd prefer Vicky to take alternate spells with us for the first day or so. The boy can take over when we see how Leo goes. A nice little opportunity for our social climber," Andrew grinned, turning aside to wash his hands. Grant made no comment on this and said briefly to Vicky, "Fourhourspells. Okay?" Vicky nodded her agreement, watching Leo. Asleep, he looked curiously vulnerable. The atmosphere of a hospital ward had already invaded the annexe and stripped the patient of the facade with which he faced his daily life. It cast a shadow over the camp. The fact that Leo had never mixed at the informal level they all preferred did not lessen their concern, and an air of relief flowed through the camp when Leo's fever began to abate and his temperature dropped. Vicky and the two men remained vigilant. There was still the risk of a relapse, and awareness of the distance from civilisation and a properly equipped hospital was strong in them. The pattern of broken nights began to show in Grant and Andrew. The pressure of work increased at the site, and while Vicky had abandoned her duties to allow Leo to be her main consideration the two men continued to work at the excavation during the day and split the night spell of nursing between them.

Vicky's heart ached one evening towards the end of the second week of Leo's illness. Grant and her father entered the canteen, fatigue robbing the spring from their walk and etching taut lines of weariness about their eyes. She said impulsively, "Let me sit up with Leo tonight. You both need a good night's sleep. Alan can take tomorrow night, and after that I think Leo could be left if he continues to progress as he is." They looked at her without speaking. "Please," she insisted. "You're whacked, the pair of you. What's the matter? Don't you trust me to recognise signs of emergency?" "It isn't that. You'll be dead tired tomorrow," Andrew warned. "Well, perhaps Grant will give me a day off soon," she said slyly. "I haven't had one for about nine weeks." "You can have two," Grant told her without humour, "if you have anywhere to go that's special." "No, thank you - I'm only serious about one thing at the moment. Yes?" "It's very tempting." Grant rubbed his forehead. "Then be tempted," she urged. "I'll raise the camp if Leo takes a bad turn. But he won't. And tomorrow can look after itself." She could see they were weakening and knew she was going to get her own way. "Keep a temperature check," her father warned, "and if there's any rise come and wake me immediately."

"I will," she promised, and watched them walk down the centre strip to their respective tents. Alan was clearing away the remains of Leo's supper when she reached the annexe. After saying goodnight to the older man he left with a rather dour gesture to Vicky. The hut which had been her quarters seemed alien as she prepared for the night's vigil. An improvised shade on the light shielded the sleeping man from glare and cast a half circle of shadows outside the nimbus in which she sat. The sounds lessened and then stopped as the camp settled for the night. Vicky reached for a paperback Alan had left and dipped into it, occasionally glancing towards the still form of her patient. He had shown the first signs of returning appetite that day and had eaten most of his supper. Now he slept, the shallow, regular depressions of the light covering across his chest showing a normal, peaceful slumber. Reassured, Vicky became immersed in the thriller and the night ticked by. A long while later she was suddenly aware of being watched. She put down the book and tiptoed to the bedside. Opaque eyes stared balefully up at her from hooded lids. "Can't you sleep?" she asked, sympathetically. Leo moved fitfully, turning his sunken face away. He said acidly, "I might be able to sleep if I were allowed darkness. If you must read, Miss Harving, light the oil lamp, but turn off that confounded bulb. It hurts my eyes." Vicky restrained a sigh. Her father had predicted that Leo would be a fractious invalid. Apparently the state of convalescence had begun. She said gently, "I'm sorry, we have to have a little light. I didn't realise it bothered you."

He muttered something she could not distinguish and raised himself on one elbow with a quick, petulant movement. He said, "I must have my sleeping tablets. Two, please." Vicky shook her head. "No barbiturates, I'm afraid." She went into the adjoining room and emerged a few moments later with a glass of liquid. "This may help." He sniffed it suspiciously, then drank it while she plumped up his pillow more comfortably and grudgingly thanked her. There was a small table near the bed. On it stood the oil lamp alongside a pile of books and the two modelled heads of Ben Ali which Leo had been working on before his illness. These had been sent up to the annexe the previous day along with the rest of the personal possessions Leo had insisted on having beside him. More elaborate in design than the traditional type, the lamp had attracted Vicky's interest earlier in the day. She guessed it to be Indian in origin, remembering a lotus lamp she had once come across which was rather similar though not as large as the one she now lit. The flower rose from the bowl and the petals opened on tiny ingenious hinges when the lamp was required for use. The difference lay in the exquisitely formed bronze figure which ornamented it and turned the lamp into an object of art in its own right apart from the practical function it fulfilled. Someone, probably Alan, had filled it, and the soft radiance stole forth, infinitely more restful than the hard white light that died at the flip of a switch. She turned the wick down a little more and settled under the glow with her book.

Her eyelids drooped. Vague images formed against her mental screen, then faded as she finally slept, huddled in the uncomfortable canvas chair. She awoke, cold and cramped, to dismal grey gloom, and blinked round till she realised the lamp had gone out. Wide awake now, she opened the door to air the stuffy hut, and wondered how long she had slept. Quite a while; for the grey half-light that preceded the dawn had distilled the indigo sky to a neutral, watery ash. Idly she examined the lamp. She was certain the oil chamber had been full. She poked an exploratory finger into the depths. It was quite dry. Strange that so deep a base held so shallow a container; no wonder it had burnt out so quickly. She wriggled her finger free, feeling a slight protuberance as she did so. Suddenly there was a slight grating sound of metal against metal and the lamp came apart in her hands. The complete base had fallen away, leaving the inner shell of the oil bowl exposed to view. Alarmed that she had unwittingly caused damage, Vicky cautiously fitted the two components together. They interlinked smoothly, leaving no trace of a join or groove, and she examined the whole with renewed interest and wonder, giving a gentle twist and a tug which failed to prove that the lamp was anything but a solid piece. She wondered if Leo knew and made a mental note to ask him. She refilled and lit it and then prepared some coffee. Soon Leo would awake and the activities of the new day would begin. She had forgotten the lamp by the time she had attended to him and tidied the hut. She had just propped Leo more comfortably against a higher pillow when her father walked in.

Grant was with him. They entered briskly, replete from breakfast and refreshed, bringing a clean tang of shaving lotion and a fresh crispness of attire that made Vicky instantly aware of her own crumpled state and that she badly needed a wash. She moved to the door, conscious of a hollow under her belt that needed padding; preferably with bacon and eggs, she thought longingly, instead of cereal and the yellow concoction that passed for scrambled egg. Grant put out his hand and tweaked her chin as she passed him. "Still mad at me? I didn't suggest that you should make a night of it." "I'm not complaining," she responded coolly. "No?" His glance was provoking. "I think I prefer the bad temper to this haughty mien." He gave her a maddening grin, but something in the grey eyes belied the grin as he looked down at her. Vicky felt a pricking against her eyelids and forced the semblance of a smile. If only he would be matter-of-fact or merely impersonal. Why did he have the power to assail all her painfully erected defences and start the ache of longing all over again? Head high, she said as pertly as she could, "It's becoming difficult to predict your preferences from day to day. I must try to do better in future. Please give me ample warning when you would like me to sing and dance." Grant rocked on his heels and roared with laughter while she turned to say a brief goodbye to Leo, then, in a moment of abrupt transition, the bantering mood fell from him, leaving his expression serious.

He said, "Catch up on some sleep this morning. But before you do" - Vicky paused in the shaft of sunlight flooding through the open door - "Henry Svendsen wants to see you." Grant shook his head at the querying brows she raised. "No use asking me why - he didn't enlighten me." Breakfast and the subsequent interview with Henry Svendsen effectively banished the rather jaded mood with which she had left the annexe. Shock and indignation crystallised into anger during the short time it took her to return to her tent. Mechanically she went through the actions with toothbrush and water and soap, then, partly undressed, she stretched on her bed and stared at the shadowy green translucence where sun struck canvas. Henry Svendsen's request had appeared innocent enough at first, if utterly out of character. She had almost laughed, before she made a wild guess at the motive behind his strange suggestion. Without thinking she had challenged him and he had instantly closed the conversation with a cold dismissal. When she left him she realised she had betrayed Grant's confidence. Vicky rolled over and closed her eyes. She regretted her enthusiasm the night she had roused her father and Grant to follow shadows. Her colleagues had been a team of strangers during those early days on the dig. Now they had emerged as individuals, most of whom she had come to regard with affection, and all with respect.' She found to her surprise that she could now whip up only a very half-hearted dislike of Leo. It had been stupid to suspect a man because his manner was aloof and he failed to merge into the more conventional pattern of the others. The desire for sleep had vanished. She moved her face on the pillow, seeking a coolness which would not immediately become clammy on contact with her warm skin. Suddenly action became

imperative. Anything rather than this warring between a tired body and a restless mind. She dressed quickly. There were several chores waiting, some mending to catch up with, then she would have a cup of coffee with the men at their morning break before she resumed her normal duties. The canteen door was open and a flurry of voices sounded within as she approached. The mending jobs had taken longer than she had estimated, and surely the men were later than usual this morning. She hesitated in the doorway, her greeting stifled before it was uttered. The clash of voices, the blur of gestures, the half-seen faces in the dimness, even the backs of the two men just inside the doorway, combined to tell her that something was wrong. They sensed her presence, although she had made no sound. The buzz stopped and they swung round, opening out into a ragged half-circle of faces as she took an uncertain step towards them. For a moment no one spoke, and her gaze travelled along until it reached her father's face. He was white and shocked under his tan. After what seemed an eternity he stepped forward and said in a startled voice: "Vicky... I'd forgotten you." His expression frightened her, but did nothing to prepare her for what was to follow. Through the silence his words dropped like stones into deep water. "We - we've had a dreadful shock. The emerald and the figurine are missing."

CHAPTER ELEVEN "MISSING!" Vicky could not check the echo. Uncertain if she had heard aright, she stared at her father and then turned to Grant. His grim expression and compressed mouth silently and effectively endorsed her father's statement. Someone moved, and the tight thread of tension that bound them all slackened. A low, murmuring discourse commenced. Vicky put her hand on her father's arm. The warm sunburnt skin under her touch told her she wasn't dreaming. "When? What happened?" Her grip tightened. "For goodness' sake, tell me, Father." A shadow crossed the doorway. The frozen silence came again as Henry Svendsen entered. "At the moment we know little more than you." Andrew Harving drew away from the group and Vicky automatically kept pace with him. "The Professor had been working on the figurine and other small items in the lab hut. Last night he locked up as usual and -" Andrew stopped, seeing Grant approach, then said, "Just a moment, darling," as the younger man motioned him aside. With a small exasperated cry Vicky spun on her heel, meeting Laurence's resigned shrug and rueful smile. "No use asking me." He waved his arms to ward off the flood of questions she was longing to ask. "We'd just finished our coffee not ten minute ago - when the Professor buzzed in like an irate bumble bee and demanded to know who'd been playing damn fool tricks in his lab."

"Yes-go on." "We asked him what the hell he was talking about - seeing that he has the only key. Then he told us. Finch and I bowled up to the lab and searched the place - it didn't take much searching. Result -" Laurence shrugged - "nothing." "But was there any sign of a break-in?" she asked. - "Had the door been forced, or -?" "That's the strange part of it," Laurence said, pulling a chair forward and interposing, "Sit down and relax, honey." He went on, "The lock had not been tampered with. The Professor could even remember that he'd left the padlock turned at a certain angle in the staple last night, and it hadn't been moved when he went to unlock it. There was no sign of anything unusual, except - and it's a big except -" Laurence's smile was cynical, "our two most precious finds had disappeared." He subsided back in his chair and regarded Vicky with bright, speculative eyes. "The Professor didn't go straight to the lab hut this morning?" "No. He came up to the site with us after breakfast. He was still pottering about there when we came away for coffee. We'd almost finished when he burst in with the news. We found Fairfax with Leo and when we told him he ordered everybody in here while he sought His Nibs." Laurence jerked his thumb towards Henry Svendsen with a gesture that sadly lacked deference. "At that point, you arrived." A ghost of a twinkle glimmered in Laurence's eyes. "I suppose you haven't got the golden goddess in your pocket, by any chance?" "I wish I had." Her reply was unsmiling. "I suppose it couldn't be a ghastly practical joke?" she said, knowing all too well the inanity of the suggestion.

Laurence grunted. "All I can say is I'm sorry for the joker when Fairfax gets his mitts on him. Look at him. Thundercloud. This has really torn it," Laurence added, half to himself. She stared at Grant. Thundercloud was an apt description. "Uh-uh! Here he comes." "This won't be pleasant," said Grant, "but we've no choice about methods. Please co-operate with Mr. Svendsen. If you can think of anything that may give us a lead you must not withhold it. No matter who is involved. The sooner this is cleared up, the better." He turned sharply and left them. They waited. No one seemed inclined to converse and soon the silence became uncomfortable. Vicky looked at the morose faces. Alan Brixen sat alone in one corner, moodily splitting matches. Dr. Harving and Finch were hitched on the edge of a table in almost identical stances, long legs dangling and toes tracing circles on the floor. Beside her, his dark head bent, Laurence cupped a match to his cigarette. He said suddenly. "Henry's court of inquiry is being set up - why him?" She did not reply and he added in mock warning, "Better prepare to be grilled, honey." She got up and wandered restlessly outside. A haze shimmered over the centre strip and the hot, sullen air closed round her with a stifling intensity that seemed charged with foreboding. A door thudded nearby and quick footsteps came towards her and halted. She looked up from the short stumpy shadow into Grant's lean face. "Isn't there anything we can do," she begged, "other than hang around and wait?"

"What do you suggest?" Grant countered, a sardonic quirk twisting the corners of his mouth. "A mad rush round turning everything upside down?" He propped one elbow against the hut wall and leaned his weight on it. "I doubt if we'd find the treasures that way." "I suppose not." She bent her head. Trust him to hit unerringly on exactly what she longed to do - rush out and search. She said obstinately, "I expected you to take a much more forceful line of action. Not" - her eyes came up to meet his - "not leave it in Mr. Svendsen's hands." Without replying, Grant straightened up, and, to her surprise, took her arm and began to walk her up the centre strip. Abreast of the lab hut he stopped. "How would you set about breaking in?" She eyed the solid lock and the sturdy padlock that had been fitted when they first arrived, then the rough, pug-mud walls. Like the annexe, the hut had one small window, set high in the wall and covered with a close mesh screen stapled on to a metal frame. Short of a duplicate key or ripping out the wire mesh she could not see how an entry had been effected. "They didn't tunnel underneath at the back . . ." She stopped, the situation was too serious for facetious suggestions. "I'm sorry. That was rather stupid." "It has been done - in rather different circumstances," he said dryly, and moved along the wall until he stood below the window. "You're not very tall, which is an unfair disadvantage."

Before she could realise his intention a pair of iron- fingered hands gripped her waist, and she was swung up against a broad shoulder. "Now have a look," he directed. Gripping the narrow window ledge, she peered at the frame, then cried out with sudden excitement. "The whole frame has been wrenched out and then stuck back in afterwards. I can see the cracks at the corners and they've wedged something in here to hold it. It - it's a squashed matchbox." Grant slid her down gently and she turned within his hands almost before her toes touched the ground. "You see now?" he said quietly before she could speak. "Mr. Svendsen has been right all along. This is deliberate theft." Conscious that his hands still encircled her, she said in a low voice, "That means... one of us?" "I'm afraid so." He stepped back and glanced up at the window. She was silent, and his returning glance did not miss the forlorn quiver of her mouth and the hasty controlling of it before his gaze. "I can't believe it," she burst out. "I'd have trusted any of them." "Even Leo?" a smile hovered. "Even Leo," she affirmed sadly. "He's the only one who couldn't have done it. He was never alone last night. I can vouch for that. But the others..." Grant, as if he guessed at the trend of her thoughts and understood the fear of disillusionment she was experiencing, gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

He said, "I always knew there was a soft spot under that tough exterior, even before I knew the truth about you. Sweets for every scruffy little ragamuffin who accosted us." She remembered, and wondered that he had retained so small an incident. "The tough shell seems to have softened of late." A slight smile flickered momentarily on Grant's face. "I suppose a certain someone is responsible for that. It was bound to happen. But I sincerely hope ... for your sake ..." It was Grant's turn to leave his thoughts unspoken. She stared at him for a moment. Then comprehension of his meaning came to her, followed by a wild urge for denial. "You don't understand, Grant," she cried, then stopped. How could she correct his erroneous assumption without becoming hopelessly involved in explanations? He would almost certainly adopt a teasing attitude, which from any other man would leave her totally unaffected. But from Grant! The risk was too great and her feelings too difficult to conceal from him. She said carefully, "My feelings don't matter. Not in the way you imply. It's the thought of a person with whom you have worked, shared hopes, meals, discomforts, and fun, being a secretive stranger inside. A frightening stranger. That's why I couldn't go through with the plan Mr. Svendsen suggested this morning. I - I couldn't have looked any of them in the face afterwards, because I knew why, even though Mr. Svendsen wouldn't tell me." "What was this?" Then, sharply, "Tell me." She looked down the centre strip. "Finch is coming."

Grant muttered something under his breath. With an impatient "Wait here" he hurried away. She watched him intercept Finch, listen, and then turn towards her with a brief shake of his head before his long strides took him down to the canteen. Finch took her arm. She was grateful for his silence, yet aware of a sense of restraint in his manner. Lunch was a miserable occasion, and later Grant tried to establish a semblance of their normal working routine which failed dismally. Meanwhile, Henry Svendsen continued his interrogation. When her turn came Vicky did not escape lightly. She forced herself to remain unruffled while he probed into her account of her activities during the previous eighteen hours. He seemed reluctant to let her go, betraying a marked disappointment that she had heard nothing to excite alarm or suspicion during the hours spent watching over Leo. "I recall a former occasion when you ventured out after some fancied disturbance." Pen in hand, he tapped thoughtfully on the papers before him. "Yet last night you were awake, within a very short distance of the break-in, and you tell me you heard nothing. Are you sure, Miss Harving?" "I'm sure," she affirmed, secretly annoyed at the reference to fancied disturbances. "If I had, I fail to see how it would help you. It wouldn't identify the -" she hesitated, and he finished coldly: "The thief, Miss Harving." She watched him steadily and did not falter under his gaze as he went on:

"We must not allow sentiment to blind us to facts, however unpleasant they may be and however amiable our fellows may seem. If you have any knowledge which might lead us to the missing objects or the person who has taken them you must tell me. We have very little time." The words were heavy with emphasis. "To be precise, Miss Harving, we have three days." The dry, measured tones were soft and unhurried, yet they conveyed a sense of urgency which puzzled her. "I don't understand," she said. "Why three days? We haven't finished. The excavation - yes - but there's all the cleaning up to do." He raised a thin white hand, fingers outspread, in a gesture which silenced her. "You probably haven't heard - the outside world invades us then. Press, photographers ... I'm sure your imagination can fill in the rest. The great discovery, and so on, unfortunately minus the star exhibits. Quite a story, Miss Harving." Aghast, Vicky stared at him. Her imagination could, and did, conjecture the results if the story broke. The ugly shadow would darken each of them long after the initial shock died down. Unless . . . How could he sit there asking interminable questions? No one had left the camp. The emerald and the golden figurine must be hidden somewhere in the near vicinity. "Can't we organise a search?" she cried, knowing before she spoke that his reaction was going to be similar to that of Grant. But she was unprepared for the undertone of ice when he gave a thin smile and said: "I find your attitude somewhat changed since this morning."

"That was different," she flashed. "You wanted me to organise an impromptu barbecue picnic, saying it was my birthday, and getting everyone to drive out to the river with me for the day. You wanted a clear field to do some snooping among the men's personal belongings. It didn't need much intelligence to realise your reason not after those photographs." Contempt showed openly in Vicky's face. "Did you really expect me to play traitor like that? The things hadn't gone then." "Been stolen," he corrected. "You certainly have a somewhat exaggerated sense of drama - traitor indeed!" Again he smiled. "Are you convinced now that I'm not here on a cock-and-bull story?" She inclined her head, suddenly weary. For a moment he was silent, ruffling his papers together with small, meticulous movements. When they were neat and even on the table he looked up and his expression had altered. "I'm in a difficult position, Miss Harving," he told her with a frankness which contrasted sharply with his former brusque manner. "I'm a private investigator, therefore I have no power of arrest. My job is to acquire information, and proof. You are probably aware that there are certain countries in the Near and Middle East with whom we have no treaty of extradition. This province does not yet belong to Interpol, all of which makes my job more difficult. Unless I'm very careful this man will slip through my fingers. Make no mistake, he is within this camp - has been since the beginning. His real name is Arruld, Nelson Arruld." Henry Svendsen smiled again, his eyes intent on Vicky's startled expression. He went on:

"I can see that the name means nothing to you. But the name by which he is known to you would come as a great shock, I'm sure. It's not wise to name him at this stage - I still lack positive proofbut I've identified him beyond my own doubt. And I believe he knows this." Vicky had slowly sat upright during this divulgence. The colour had ebbed from her face and she felt strain holding her immobile. From a long way away she heard her own voice, curiously false, from a throat suddenly taut and dry. "You know — you know who has the figurine and - and the-" "Yes, Miss Harving." The face of Henry Svendsen blurred. Through a mist, other faces floated before her: dear, rubicund Professor Elves, the moody, withdrawn Alan Brixen, sunny-natured Finch, her beloved father; none of them was even remotely sinister. And Laurence, easily her favourite if she excepted the one man who loomed larger than life above them all, the man who had stolen so quickly into her unwilling heart. Mr. Svendsen's voice recalled her attention. "My guess is that he'll make a run for it. If he does" - the cold grey eyes behind the pebble lenses hardened - "we'll be ready for him. With luck, your missing relics will be restored to you, while he . . ." Svendsen paused and leaned back, sliding his sheaf of papers to one side with a slow, deliberate movement, and for the first time Vicky felt the impact of power behind the quiet, almost prim facade. "You see, Miss Harving, I have his passport."

The moments of silence that followed stretched like an eternity to Vicky while she stared at the slim, dark blue book held between his fingers. She was irresistibly reminded of a conjuror flicking forth a playing card; if she took her glance away for a second the passport would disappear. Suddenly she could bear it no longer. She muttered an incoherent excuse and stumbled from the hut into the sunshine. Despite the heat she shivered. There had been a sadistic anticipation behind Mr. Svendsen's chill, calm manner, and she was guiltily aware of something very like sympathy for the unknown miscreant. The wiry little investigator would not give up until his quarry was driven from his earth and into the jurisdiction of the law. Vicky steeled herself to suppress the conscience-pricking thought. The slur of suspicion could so easily have rested on them all. But . . . she would have given a great deal to have her fears set at rest. Who was the man?

Somehow the miserable day dragged over. By nightfall the strain had shadowed the party with gloom and a wariness of speech which was contagious. Vicky was suffering from a temporary inability to be shocked by anything else which might occur, therefore she felt no surprise at an imperious summons into the presence of Leo Gavison. She found him in querulous mood, still fuming from a visit from Henry Svendsen. He demanded the full story, waving aside her protests that she knew no more than was general knowledge. She answered his questions patiently, hesitating over his insistence on knowing what

had been said during her own interview with Mr. Svendsen. She was a little puzzled at the avid interest he displayed, particularly over the passport. Should she have told him that? But surely Leo's financial interest in the expedition, if nothing else, entitled him to know everything that concerned it and its personnel. But she was aware of an uneasiness; somewhere there was a false note and, try as she might, she could not pin down that nebulous impression. At that point Alan Brixen arrived. She gathered that the young student was little impressed Henry's potential talents in dealing with crime. Suppressing desire to squash him, she contented herself with ignoring his placed witticisms until she could make her excuses to leave oddly assorted pair.

by the illthe

"Alan looked like a cat that had been at the cream," she commented disgustedly when she joined her father later for their nightcap. "He has a good right," Andrew Harving said, absently continuing to stir his coffee long after the sugar had dissolved. "His sycophancy has paid a handsome dividend. Gavison has offered him a job - personal secretary. He's taking him back to the States shortly after the wind-up here. Our Alan has fallen on his feet this time." Andrew lapsed into silence and the depression they could not shake off closed in again like an insidious cloud. At the next gable Grant was writing. Hunched over the table, he looked up suddenly as if he sensed Vicky's meditative glance. He half smiled and shrugged, murmuring, "Never felt less like writing cheerful letters," as he scribbled his signature. She watched him address and seal the envelope, then straighten, flexing his

shoulders with the gesture she had come to know so well. A moment later he came towards them. He said, "If you've any mail to go let me have it. I'm sending a boy to Zakhirya tomorrow morning with a note for the Commandant. In the present circumstances the least I can do is call in the local representative of law and order." He turned to leave them, his letter in his hand, and Vicky saw the name and address inscribed in his firm, heavy writing: "Miss Penelope Fairfax, Oak Lodge, West Whitton, Dorset".

CHAPTER TWELVE IT all added up: Finch's letter, the snapshot, and now this. For a while Vicky forgot the missing treasures, Henry Svendsen and his quest, and the whole unhappy business. Wide awake in the dark, she tried to picture the woman who was ill. Was she young, charming, and pretty? What had caused her breakdown? And how long before she came back from the dark world of shadows to which she had retreated? Vicky forgot her own longing and felt sadness for her and the tiny girl who was bereft of her parents at a time when the happy security of mother love was so vital. Too young to understand, would Penny forget her mother until the rapidly widening horizon of psychiatric medicine pushed back the dark tide of mental illness and a woman who might well seem a stranger was restored to her? And Grant. In the weariness of waiting would he turn in a moment of despair towards a temporary consolation? To other lips, as he had once in a moment of stress? A moment which Vicky would never forget. Somehow she knew that Grant's strength of character would overcome a transient weakness. The kiss that was seared on Vicky's memory had been born of her own weakness and the ageold instinct of like to cling to like in the face of danger. It could have happened to any two strangers confronted with fear and disaster. She found a small comfort in the thought, and was touched that amid the worries besetting him he could write the promised letter to a little girl who waited. It was a long time before Vicky's eyes ceased to roam the velvety darkness and closed. She drifted into the nebulous limbo between wakefulness and sleep, and finally slept. Distorted fragments of the day's events chased across the panorama of her dreams, blending,

fading, vividly alive, then plunging abruptly into the core of pure nightmare. She shivered violently and opened her eyes, her breathing subsiding in the wondrous relief of waking. She brushed her hand over her brow, uncertain if she had uttered aloud the cry that had broken the spell of the dream. The silence of the night pressed around her and she relaxed taut limbs, knowing the fear of being almost too afraid to go to sleep again. Then she heard it; the faint, stealthy rustle, not so very far distant. Her nightmare forgotten, she sat up, gripping the sides of her bed while she remembered Mr. Svendsen and all he had said. Had something happened? Impossible to sleep until she knew. With Vicky, to think was to act. Bundling her blankets aside, she fumbled for her clothes and hastily dressed. Outside, the night was still and clear. Stars frosted a purple canopy of sky, a myriad pin-points of quicksilver, unmisted and unbelievably beautiful. Vicky, however, at that moment was blind to the wonder of the night. Her gaze ranged the shapes of the neighbouring tents. No betraying blurs from lighted lamps indicated that others apart from herself might be astir. Obeying an inner compulsion that motivated her hesitant limbs, she left the shelter of her tent and ventured into the open space of the centre strip. She thought grimly, if I had the emerald and the figurine and I wanted to escape would anyone be waiting to prevent me from hopping into a jeep and being away in a matter of moments? She moved on, making no sound, until she reached the canteen. There she stopped, realising that the chill shivers coursing down her back were not caused by the coolness of the night. There was a reassuring comfort in the thought that Leo was in the annexe a few

yards further on, and she smiled at the irony of the thought; it was not so long since Leo had been her number one suspect. When she reached the annexe she could distinguish the dark blobs of the vehicles lined along the opposite side of the centre strip. She tensed. A dull but unmistakable click came from that direction, the sound of an engine bonnet being eased shut, but the final click of metal upon metal could not be completely silenced. The next moment passed in a whirling blur. Before she could move, the door behind her was flung back and a shape rushed out, cannoning into her and sending her stumbling sideways. The figure slackened its headlong rush, but only for a second, then crashed on, and she was vaguely aware of a voice from the annexe as she regained her balance. Ignoring the voice, she raced after the running figure, towards the vehicles. She heard a scuffle of feet mingled with grunting cries, and blinked in the sudden dazzle from headlights. An engine throbbed into life as she came abreast of it and for the second time a dark form thudded against her. It fell at her feet, seeming to have flown from the cab of the vehicle, and she staggered back, looking down at the man who had rolled over and now lay still. In the seconds while she stooped over him the Land Rover jerked forward and she had a confused glimpse of a figure hunched over the wheel. Vicky sprang up, an angry cry torn from her lips as the backlash of exhaust reeked over her. In a hairbreadth decision she turned from the man on the ground and launched herself in a desperate spring at the back of the vehicle.

By a miracle her scrabbling fingers found a grip and held fast as the driver's fierce acceleration took effect. Somehow she managed to roll into the back and collapse like a stranded starfish, feeling as if the breath would never return to her body, while the Land Rover hurtled into the darkness, bound for where...?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN FOR a long while space and time ceased to exist for Vicky. Badly winded, she could only lie on the heaving floor of the Land Rover and wait for the croaks from her throat to subside and her lungs to start expanding with their normal, unnoticeable action. Vaguely she sensed the turn to the right, away from the track to Zakhirya, and the gradient becoming steeper. She felt her bruised shins and made a cautious movement to sit up, and then, at the moment of reassurance that she still remained in one piece, the voice snapped: "Don't try any tricks or you'll regret it." Vicky froze. The hard voice was underlined with menace and she felt the first quivers of fear. For an infinity she crouched there, trying not to imagine the consequences of her reckless action. The fears would not be brushed aside. Like winged invaders they converged upon her, supplanting reason with insidious darts. She could blame no one for this nightmare journey into the unknown in quest of a golden figurine and an emerald with the sunkissed glow of the sea in its depths. And still she had not penetrated the identity of the driver. The Land Rover lurched and swayed like a mad thing, and she tried to picture the hidden face within an arm's length of her fingers' touch. She searched her memory. Who drove as fast and as heedlessly as this? With an appalling disregard for the conditions below and the unseen snares ahead. The gradient was steeper now and the Land Rover lagged. She heard a muttered imprecation and felt the jerk and renewed power of a lower gear.

Careful to make no sound which might attract his attention, she twisted round and upwards until she could peer out over their wake. It took all her self-restraint to bite back the cry of joy that surged to her lips. Far away in the distance they had left she saw two tiny, bobbing lights. Someone was following. She was not alone. With a silent prayer of thanks she repelled the last little winged invader and fixed her eyes on those blessed twin spots. If only the distance would lessen, or at least remain undiminished. She had no means of knowing how long she crouched there. In her hasty departure she had forgotten her watch. She rubbed her bare wrist impatiently, aware of [a sudden desire for a cigarette, and knowing before her automatic grope that her pockets contained neither cigarettes nor lighter. The next moment she forgot both watch and cigarettes. The pinpoints of light disappeared. She blinked, trying to hold captive the place in the darkness where they had glowed. But they did not reappear. There was only the night and the star-studded heavens above. The bright flare of hope slowly flickered and burnt low, and the returning fear closed like a cold fist in her stomach. They hit a bad patch in the track, and the Land Rover pitched, tyres and springs groaning under the punishment. But she was hardly aware of the discomfort, hanging on, preparing for each lunge and riposte, while she continued to search for a further glimpse of those tiny beacons. Suddenly the vehicle steadied, and the gritting, crunching noise of the tyres stopped. The new, soft contrast below could mean only grass. Vicky held her breath. They were slowing. She felt the

swing over of a turn and the slight, involuntary thrust forward from braking. Her first instinct was to leap out and run, but she was not given the opportunity. She sensed rather than saw the dark figure vault into the back, then a vicelike grip fastened on her shoulders. She struggled wildly, and lashed out with both fists. He avoided her easily, pinioning her arms behind her with a cruel twist that made her gasp with pain. Then the grip slackened, and, unbelievably, she was free. She caught a faint, elusive tang of hair oil and before she heard the quick, indrawn breath and the startled exclamation she knew. "My God .'Vicky!" Her senses reeled from the shock of recognition and the pain in her shoulder as she tried to sit up. A lighter snapped and flared. Feeling that her world had suddenly crashed about her, she stared over the tiny flame into brown eyes which were as horrified as her own. "No! I - " She dragged her gaze from the shadowy features and raised shaking hands to her eyes. "I - I can't believe it. It's a dream!" Her voice rose wildly and she turned away and broke down completely. Laurence reached down and gathered the weeping girl into his arms. "I'm sorry," he murmured at last, stroking her hair with fingers that were gentle now. "Sorry it happened this way." He held her until the sobbing, born more of disillusionment than fright, lessened and

her shoulders steadied under his hands. She moved, and without looking at him said in a muffled voice: "So it's true, Laurie." He hesitated. "I'm afraid so." He felt her recoil and for the first time knew a mingling of regret and guilt that was foreign and rather unpleasant. He said uneasily, "Honey, I won't hurt you. I make no pretence to' be a paragon, but I draw the line at some things." In spite of her aching shoulder she could believe him. Without thinking, she rubbed it, then shook her head despairingly. "Why did it have to be you? I can't believe it." He had noted her action and said, "I did hurt you. Forgive me." She said dully, "It'll pass. It isn't that." "I know." He looked away. "I never dreamed it was you in the back. You gave me some pretty bad moments. I was expecting a crack on the head any minute. Why did you follow me?" He faced her. "And how did you know?" "I didn't. Didn't know it was you, I mean. And surely it's obvious why I followed you. Please, Laurie." She flung out her hands in impassioned appeal. "You can't go through with this. You must give them back." His eyes narrowed, then the familiar puckish grin curved his mouth. He shook his head. "You're asking the impossible, Vicky. I -" "You must." She cut him short. "Can't you understand? They belong to no man. Only to the past. And the future."

"I understand all right." Suddenly he gripped her arm. "But will you? Will you believe me?" His voice became urgent. "You want the emerald and the figurine. But I haven't got them. I haven't got them, Vicky. And I never did have them." He punctuated every word of his denial with force and it took her by surprise. For a moment she could not speak. "I assure you, I'm not lying. How - " he broke off and groped helplessly over his pockets; Laurence could not remain serious for very long. He sighed. "In the absence of a Bible, what can I swear on? How can I convince you? Search me if you don't believe me." The banter carried more conviction than his previous denial, and Vicky felt the first wavering of doubt. In spite of Henry Svendsen, and Laurence's sudden flight, was it possible that he was innocent of the theft? But if Laurie were innocent, and suddenly she was desperately anxious that he should be, then who . . .? She said slowly, "I don't know what to believe." "Listen, Vicky," he said. "Those two objects have been photographed and sketched, every detail minutely recorded and memorised by several people. Nobody in their right senses would try to flog them - apart from the odd little details like getting them through the Customs. Admittedly, the emerald could be cut, if you knew the right channels to approach. Take it from me, those baubles are hot." For a moment he watched her consider this in silence, then he sprang up. "Honey, I can't stay here." He rubbed his brow and looked down at her. "I never bargained for a female sleuth. What the blazes am I to do about you?" His humour bubbled up again. "Choice to the lady. A nice long walk for you, or hear my life story. They're somewhere down there. Which is it to be?"

Across the tail of the vehicle he faced her, waiting, and against the logic of better judgement feminine curiosity won. She held out her hands and he helped her down, then reached into the cab and brought out a small, worn canvas bag before he touched her shoulder. "This way. With luck they'll miss seeing the jalopy in that hollow." She followed the slim, dancing pencil of his torchlight up a narrow, winding path that climbed steeply round the curve of the hillside. All the while her head argued furiously with her heart. Fool to trust him; an admitted crook, else why did he flee? This makes you an accessory. Dr. Harving would have recognised the jargon and in happier times smiled. But Vicky was remembering the early days of the expedition when it seemed she could do nothing right for Grant. She recalled Laurence's kindness, his unfailing good humour, and the unobtrusive ways he had helped her before Grant finally discovered the truth. After that she had found a pleasant companionship with Laurence, rare between an unrelated man and girl, in which she could be entirely natural without the fear that an unguarded word or action would be misconstrued, and where there was no need for the verbal fencing she had to employ continually where Grant and Finch were concerned. Some twenty minutes later Laurence stopped, sending the torchlight playing over a small area before he said, "This will do." There was a small, flat shelf falling away from the path and fronting a cleft in the hillside. A jutting spur of rock afforded protection from the wind, which was chill at that height, and also, Vicky thought grimly, shielded them from observation from below. Shrugging away the thought, she watched Laurence grope in the bag and pull out a dark, shapeless bundle which he shook loose and spread on the ground, motioning her to sit.

"It'll take the edge off the hardness," he remarked, throwing himself down and producing a squashed packet of cigarettes. She took one gratefully, and aware of the thick rough material under her other hand asked suddenly, "Is this an Arab robe?" He smiled and nodded, adding, "I've a smart little line in a matching kheffiyah if Modom is interested." Impossible not to laugh. "Oh, Laurie, you're hopeless," she gurgled. "Do you expect to get away with a disguise like that?" "Not among the Arabs," he said humorously, "but at a distance from an Englishman I might. Actually it's to sleep on." "You know," she said, inhaling deeply and blowing the smoke away with a long sigh, "I had a crazy idea I didn't dare mention in case the others laughed into cahoots. That you - " She stumbled a little, "that the man Mr. Svendsen was after was among Ben Ali's gang." Laurence roared. "Can you see me as one of Sherabhim's cherubim?" She smiled, and suddenly her former feeling of unreality disappeared. In spite of everything that had happened Laurence had not changed. It seemed perfectly natural to be laughing with him in a strange cave near a mountain summit during the young hours of another day. But in a moment she was serious, remembering. "Are you really Nelson Arruld? And - " She stopped, trying to see his face through the darkness. The tip of his cigarette glowed and in tiny, brief illumination she saw a trace of sadness in the puckish features.

"And Laurence Turle?" he finished for her. "Yes, Vicky." He paused to settle himself more comfortably. "To explain why I must go quite a long way back - to the end of the war. I was twenty-four then. I'd made a wartime marriage, one of those crazy, let's live for today impulses, like thousands of others did. There was a baby Janice -I didn't see her till she was two years old. When I finally got home for good we both knew we'd made a mistake. Aileen my wife - was quite honest; there'd been someone else. After the first fury cooled down I didn't really blame her. How did she know whether she'd get back a man, or a handful of relics? I'd not been exactly faithful to the letter myself, so what's sauce for the goose ..." Laurence paused to light another cigarette from the butt of the first one. He went on: "We decided to patch things up and give it a fair trial. Soon there was another baby on the way which was apparently entirely my fault, and I resigned myself to the endless petty quarrels and my not being able to settle in a civvy job. I told myself it was all due to the aftermath of the war and that time would ease out the difficulties. Anyway, one day I bumped into one of my fellow officers who'd been demobbed at the same time as myself. You'll not remember, but the shortages, the rationing, coupons, and all the other miserable results of the war were still with us. I'd gone to an auction room to bid for a pram. Incidentally, that caused another row. No woman ever wants a second-hand pram, even for a child she doesn't want. "But I was desperately hard-up and it seemed the only solution. Jim - my buddy - was there, bidding for a secretaire, a dainty little walnut piece. He got it and we went for a drink. That was the beginning of the boom in antiques. Jim was trying to build up a sparetime business and was doing better than he'd ever expected. So much so that he was contemplating chucking up his proper job. I thought it over for a long time and decided to have a shot myself.

I soon learned the tricks, to spot the fakes and the rigged auctions. The Yanks were interested, anxious for anything old- English and willing to pay well." Laurence rubbed his hands reminiscently. "Those lovely dollars! Soon I gained a reputation as a reliable source of supply, then I began to move in the big stuff, the world of the connoisseur. It because necessary to travel a lot more, and the final split came with Aileen. I was free then, and when the first illegal proposition came my way I took it. The greed of the collectors had to be satisfied. I was well paid, and when small, good stuff was offered to me I asked no questions and neither did my market. And so we come to the recent episode at the Museum of International Art. I expect you saw the headlines a few weeks before we came over here." Laurence slewed round until he was facing Vicky. "There's no reason why I should lie to you now. You can please yourself whether you take my word or not. Not long before the robbery I'd tried to do a deal with an old dame for a particularly fine jewelled snuff-box. I had a client waiting, but it was no go. She knew the market value and refused to be beaten down. When the robbery took place, one of the things taken was the mate to her snuff-box. Now, I knew nothing at all about this robbery. Two of the men got away, completely, this was common knowledge. The third man was nabbed a few days later. He had a scrap of paper with my telephone number on it. Now comes the coincidence. The investigator from the insurance company concerned happened to be a nephew of the old dame with the snuffbox. She remembered me and had kept my card. That, combined with other things he ferreted out, made him unduly interested: in me. Things happened quickly after that. I had a visit from the police. I'd sailed a bit near the wind on too many occasions. Naturally I denied any knowledge of the robbery, but they searched my premises and

asked if I intended going any place. Then they pulled in a fence who had disposed of various goods to me at various times and I decided it was time that Nelson Arruld disappeared for good. I shaved off a small goatee I used to sport, blessing the whim which had made me grow it, and got out while the going was good." Laurence's eyes twinkled and he looked sideways at Vicky. "You'll have guessed by now that the old lady's nephew and our Henry are one and the same." "Of course!" Vicky snapped her fingers. "It all ties up now." "With what?" She told him of the conversation during the night she had seen, the intruders. Laurence watched her closely and frowned. "Was one of them-?" He put up his hands and shook his head vigorously. "It wasn't me, honey. Not that night. But I must plead guilty to scaring you the night I tried to investigate Henry's mysterious portrait photography. I knew then he was suspicious of me. Sorry, honey." She made a face at him, then asked abruptly, "How did you get into the expedition?" "Through Leo." "Leo!" Vicky sat up sharply. "But how...?" "I'd known him for several years. He was one of my most lucrative clients."

"You mean Leo knew all the time?" Vicky could not keep amazement out of her voice. "You trusted him?" "I'd no other option," Laurence shrugged. "He's not bad under his pompous exterior.'' Vicky was silent. She felt an instinctive reluctance to accept Laurence's easy assurances of Leo's integrity - if that's the right word, she reflected, all her old distrust of him returning more strongly than ever. "What beats me," Laurence went on ruminatively, "is how Svendsen got on to me - out here, I mean." Vicky remembered something else. "You know, I suppose," she said abruptly, "that Henry has your passport?" "He has a passport," Laurence told her, "but fortunately it's the wrong one." As he spoke he drew a bulky wallet from an inner pocket and extracted a slim blue rectangle. In the light of the torch she examined it. The particulars were all quite clear and it was obviously a genuine passport. Silently she handed it back. Laurence seemed to have thought of everything. After a while she asked: "How do you have two passports? Henry is under the impression that Nelson Arruld is your real name and Turle the alias." "Henry has made two very astute guesses, but he doesn't know everything. No, Vicky, the other was a business name. As for the passport - I've no intention of telling you. What you don't know you can't tell." He shifted his position and pushed the packet of cigarettes towards her. "You do realise the pressure you're going to be under when you get back?"

She nodded, her face shadowed. Then she pushed the unpleasant thought away and asked, "What will you do now?" She was almost glad when he evaded the question and said: "Same advice applies, honey. But I think I'll get away. If I do, I'm finished with shady deals in future. Besides," his eyes were remote, "I've my younger daughter to think of. She wasn't happy with her mother and as soon as she was sixteen she came to me - to keep house for me. I owe her something a bit better than this." Laurence's mouth twisted. "I'm a bit late in thinking about it, aren't I?" They were silent for a while, wrapped in their own thoughts. Later, he said, "Soon be dawn." Then, "Will you think of me when all this is over?" "Of course," she replied impulsively. There was a catch in her throat and she swallowed hard, knowing she was more fond of Laurence than she had previously realised. He stood up and drew her up beside him, and they moved out on the fiat shelf of rock. The pearl radiance of the dawn lightened the sky and touched the valley with a glowing wash of colour where the fertile green mingled with brown and amber and ochre of rock and earth. Suddenly Laurence tensed and drew back into the shadows. Vicky stared at him for a moment before she looked over the landscape below. She narrowed her eyes, but could see no living soul or movement. Then she heard the sound his keener ear must have detected before she had. It was clear now; the faint throb of an engine through the still air. She moved back into the cover of the jutting spur and continued to watch. A little while later the jeep came into view, far below, crawling up the track like a determined, industrious ant, then a second one, a short distance behind.

She could just distinguish the figures inside. Grant was leading, and behind, her father was with ... Vicky bit her lip. It wasn't Henry Svendsen. He had been .. . Then she heard Laurence's laughter. "For heaven's sake! They've brought Ben Ali!" She could see the foreman now, and she thought again of the insensate figure at her feet in the moment before she plunged in pursuit of Laurence. She looked at him. "He was hurt, Laurie. Mr. Svendsen, I mean." "It was he or I, Vicky. He'd have had no mercy." Picturing the pale, inexorable eyes and remembering the undercurrent of ruthlessness she had sensed behind Henry Svendsen's quiet mien, she knew Laurence had had no alternative. He broke in on her thought with a gesture towards the jeeps below. "There they are, honey. All you have to do is yell. But remember, there's no emerald - and no golden figurine. You'll have to look elsewhere for them." Wordlessly, she fought her inner battle. Grant, her father, and the entire party were involved in her decision. Yet if Laurence spoke the truth - and somehow she was sure he did - they were no nearer discovery of the missing treasures. Suddenly she knew she could never betray Laurence. Her mouth twisted with anguish and she bent her head to hide the tears that threatened to brim over. Laurence stood silently at her side, not touching her, waiting for the moment when she raised her distraught face and whispered:

"I can't. Oh, it's no use. I can't!" She shook her head and turned blindly away. He put his arm round her shoulder and drew her gently against him. He said quietly, "I'll never forget this. Some day perhaps I'll be able to repay you." She did not reply, and for a while they stood still, silent and troubled, until she looked up and asked worriedly: "How are you going to manage? I mean about food and money and the Customs. They might stop you." "I've precious little to declare if they do. It's all in there." He gestured towards the canvas bag which lay on its side, most of its contents spilling out. "But not to worry about me." A ghost of his old grin flashed. "You're the one I'm concerned about - getting you back. You know, I'm glad this has happened, in a way. Except that it makes me wish ..." He stopped, and she gave him a quick, surprised glance. "Wish what?" She could not resist the feminine question. He sighed and tweaked her chin. "Never mind. I'm just being idiotic. Must be the effect of all these confessions." "I'm feeling a bit idiotic myself." She almost giggled. "The effect of lack of sleep, I should say," he said lightly. She shook her head, conscious of the warmth of his hand on her shoulder and of a new thread woven into the skein of their friendship. "It's Grant, isn't it?" he said unexpectedly, and she nodded, no longer surprised at his perception.

"You always could see things. Sometimes, before I was aware of them myself." "And this isn't going to improve matters. I wonder . .." He stopped, his expression thoughtful. "There's nothing to improve - besides, he's married." "Hm. You're thinking of that letter Finch had. If that's all, it's hearsay to an extent." She turned away. "I'd rather not talk about it." "As you wish, but don't put two and two together and make five." Laurence tugged at his lower lip. "I'll tell you something. Fairfax has the idea that you thoroughly dislike him." "Did he say so?" Vicky would not look up. What was the use of Laurence trying to provide encouragement? "No - but I can tell. Try talking to the guy like you talk to me, and - well, help him out a bit." Vicky smiled bitterly at the last remark. This was one occasion when Laurence was hopelessly and completely wrong. She said, "I'll try. That is if he ever speaks to me again after this." "He will." Watching the unguarded expression on the young, wistful face, Laurence tried to instil more confidence than he felt into his tone. "Now, Vicky," he was tense again, "they didn't spot the Land Rover or they'd have stopped. My guess is they'll go as far as the village. The blank stares they will meet will be perfectly genuine, and it's almost certain they'll turn back and make fresh plans. When they've gone I want you to take the Land Rover back before there's a fresh hullaballoo over your disappearance. No," he

stopped the protest she started to make, "you're going back - can you manage the drive? If not I'll have to risk... I can't leave you here." "Yes, I can drive back," she cried, when she could at last get a word in. "But what about you? You can't walk to wherever you're going - " "I don't intend to take exercise, honey. I'm going to acquire a mule and some food at the village." There was a silence, then he said, "I'm afraid we're in for a chilly and hungry wait." The last hour with Laurence passed in desultory conversation. When the time came to leave the cleft and walk down the path Vicky felt a wave of sadness subdue her. She could not analyse the strange attraction Laurence Turle had held for her from the beginning. Now he unlocked the Land Rover and handed her the keys. He said, "When this is all over I'll get in touch with you." His eyes twinkled. "When you decide to get married, let me know. The address I've given you will find me eventually, and if it's humanly possible I'll be with you. Bless you, honey." He leaned forward and kissed her. At the moment of parting she had a wild, impossible desire to roll back time and wipe away all the miserable events of the past twenty-four hours. She flung her arms round him impulsively. "Good-bye - and good luck," she whispered, staring over his shoulder while he patted her hair and then gently disengaged himself.

"In you get." He closed the door firmly on her and stepped back as she leaned out and stared worriedly at him. A final salute, and she felt the vehicle respond to her and slide away. Her last glimpse of him was through the mirror; a brown-faced, smiling man, shading his eyes and watching till the Land Rover rounded the curve in the track.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN "I REFUSE to believe it!" Vicky faced them and her gaze did not falter. "The other thing yes. But this" - her cheeks took on a bright glow of anger-"no!" The two men glanced at one another, then back to the slim, defiant figure. Beneath her outward show of spirit Vicky was trembling. During the drive back to the site she had alternated between wildly divergent moods of remorse and stubborn self-justification. By the end of the journey she was determined and wary. Losing sight of the vital little fact that the others as yet remained ignorant of her breach of faith, she was prepared to parry anger, recrimination, and disgust, everything except the joy and relief on her father's drawn face. And Grant; even after her assurances that she was unharmed the anxiety remained in his eyes, bringing to her a feeling of shame which made the telling of her story infinitely more difficult than she had anticipated. When it was told she saw her father's face whiten and the lines of grimness re-form around Grant's mouth. Dr. Harving took a step towards her and she knew that his anger had reached the danger limit of provocation. Grant put a hand on the other man's arm with a brief, warning gesture before he moved nearer to Vicky and indicated a chair. She sank into it, the weariness of almost two days without sleep suddenly rushing over her. "Why did you take matters into your own hands and run such an appalling risk?" The force behind the quietly spoken words was far more quelling than her father's anger.

"I didn't stop to think. All that mattered was that he was getting away and there was no one but myself to stop him." "In other words you were going to capture a criminal and recover the loot." The scorn in his voice effectively reduced her efforts to a hoydenish schoolgirl's escapade, and she flared again: "At least I was more successful than three of the supposedly stronger sex - no, four - I'm forgetting Ben Ali." Grant let that ride, but the expression in his eyes brought another rush of shame. Her father was pacing the hut and suddenly he stopped short and stared at her. "Did you say Ben Ali?" The same reaction occurred simultaneously to Grant. Vicky bowed her head. She had no choice now but to fill in the missing gap in her story. She had hoped to keep it from them, not from a wish to deceive but to avoid hurting them more than was necessary. "Is Mr. Svendsen all right?" she asked in the silence which followed. "He's out at the Garrison," said Grant. The anger had died from his face, leaving it bleak. He lit a cigarette and she watched longingly, determined that pride should overcome the craven desire for nicotine; she would not ask for one. However, he pushed the case towards her and kept his lighter in readiness, saying, "You smoke too much." The comment was flat and automatic, yet the tiny interlude, more than anything else, threatened her self-control and she fought the temptation to get up and run; anywhere to escape his disapprobation and the steely contempt in his eyes. She heard his voice:

"Tell me, what convinced you that Turle didn't have the stuff? Apart from feminine intuition, which we won't go into at the moment?" "The Land Rover was never out of my sight," she said wearily. "He took nothing from it but a bag - a canvas bag, similar to mine." "I presume he allowed you to search it?" sarcastically. "No!" she flared. "And the figurine wasn't in it. I'd swear to that. Besides, there wasn't much room for anything in it with that great bulky - " She stopped, and Grant said quickly: "Go on. A great bulky - " "A - a sweater," she lied. "In this climate!" Grant's mouth turned down at the corners. "Don't lie tome, Vicky." The misery in her face was plain for them to see. She repeated, "The bag was open and the contents falling out. I saw some of the things. Socks, shaving kit, a tin box . . . There was no figurine." Grant was silent, his eyes searching her face. She withstood the long scrutiny and received the impression of a judge formating the summing-up. The illusion broke when he sighed and the verdict followed. "I'm afraid your trust is naive and misplaced." He stood up and glanced at her as he turned away. "I suppose it's quite safe to surmise that Turle did not divulge his plans for the future."

Her bowed head gave him her answer and his face tightened into a grim mask. "Your loyalty does you credit, Vicky. I'm sorry your discrimination doesn't match." The final taunt brought the sting of tears. She heard his angry footsteps and the thud of the closing door as he left the hut. She got to her feet and turned to her father, her hand going out to him in a blind, groping gesture of which she was hardly conscious. Her mute despair reached out to him like a living, tangible rapport. She knew only that she needed him and he must not fail her. The anger died out of his face as she went into his arms, to be enfolded with the comfort for which she longed. Anxiously, in short, disjointed sentences, she began to pour out the story of Laurence. In her distress she failed to consider the completely erroneous impression her concern for Laurence might be creating in her father's mind. She sniffed and blew her nose violently. "I seem to have overworked the taps lately - sorry, Daddy, I'm not usually such a wet blanket." "No, you're not," he said bluntly. "And I'm not altogether happy at the change in you during the past few weeks." She said suddenly, "Last night - I saw headlights. And then they disappeared. What happened?" "Fairfax had engine trouble. He blocked the track," Andrew explained. Then his expression darkened. "Why did you do such a foolhardy thing, Vicky? I shudder to think what might have happened. If it hadn't been for Henry Svendsen recognising

you we might still have been ignorant of your whereabouts. And to think it was Turle," Dr. Harving added bitterly. She had no illusions as to her father's opinion of Laurence. She said hastily: "I want you to know that Laurence made no attempt to persuade me to keep our presence secret when - when you appeared on the track below us. There was no coercion. I made my own choice. Forgive me, but I couldn't choose otherwise." Her voice trembled. "Try to understand, Daddy, please." He shook his head and his face was troubled. "I'll try, Vicky, but I doubt if Fairfax will." As they walked out of the shadowy hut into the sunshine her heart echoed his words and asked the sad little question to which there was no answer: do you really expect him to try?

The pattern of the following days made it easier for her to avoid Grant Fairfax. The air of coldness towards her began to lessen from some of the party, particularly so from Finch and Professor Elves. Finch, in fact, made no secret of his admiration of her efforts to stop the escaping miscreant, and she was grateful for his affectionate understanding of the problem of loyalty which had beset her. For several days; however, Leo and Alan maintained an aloof attitude of disapproval which was almost censure. She carried her head high, refusing to be penitent, and went quietly about her duties. The interview with Henry Svendsen passed more easily than she had anticipated, fizzling into a sullen anticlimax, and she was unsure whether to be glad or sorry when he informed her that it had been decided to suppress her part in Turle's defection.

"It can serve no useful purpose regarding information as to his whereabouts," Henry said dryly, "and may cause the type of publicity we are averse to." His tone left her in no doubt of his disapproval of the easily imagined story the reporters would make of her midnight journey. She found later that her father's intervention had been responsible for this, and she was grateful for his foresight when the press contingent rolled into the camp and the questions began. Grant declined to be interviewed and insisted on Professor Elves being the official spokesman for the expedition. Leo came in for his share of prominence, and Ben Ali was photographed, proudly holding the sculptured head which Leo had presented to him. A general sense of relief rippled through the camp when the last notebook closed and the cameras were stowed into the transports. Gradually the stir settled and routine was resumed. The season was almost over. In a little over a week the packing would be completed and dispersal would begin. From the bare stretch of terrain to which they had come had emerged a discovery which surpassed even the most optimistic hopes. Another magnet to lovers of antiquity, to add to the awe-inspiring cavalcade of the past; Petra, Ur, Baalbek... At a quiet moment Vicky went to the great door which had yielded the secret it guarded so long. She sighed and her face was wistful. If only . . . Useless, horrid, disheartening little phrase. She would give much to be able to lift the burden of worry from Grant's shoulders and see the tenseness relax from his face. The theft of the treasures, followed by the shock of Laurence's defection, had been a blow to them all, but doubly so to Grant. She turned away from the door and crossed the mosaic forecourt, pausing at the place where she had found the groove. The shock of

her secret being discovered had minimised her disappointment when the groove had proved to be part of a pattern in the mosaic. She walked on, the puzzling whirl starting again in her brain. Where? Who? And why? Instinct still persisted that the emerald and the figurine were not very far away. Against the setting sun she wandered back to her tent. In her mood of abstraction, the Commandant's Citroen outside the canteen escaped her notice. So many had come and gone in the previous few days. She sat on her bed and once again went over everything that had happened since the night of the theft. Exempting Grant, the Professor, and Henry Svendsen, and leaving Laurence out of it, there remained Finch, and Alan, and Leo. Leo . . . And Alan. Strange how one automatically bracketed them now; the moody, erratic young student and the brilliant, imperious scholar. They had been curiously quiet lately. Vicky sat up sharply and frowned. Leo had known about Laurie. A wild supposition budded and flowered in her imagination with the rapidity of a tropical bloom. No. It was too impossible; the expedition had held more than its fair quota of deception, beginning with your own, she told herself. The tent had grown dim and moodily she got up to light the lamp. It needed filling, and with a mutter of impatience she sought the kerosene, wiping the oily film from her fingers before she struck a match. The lamp flared, filling the tent with radiance and her own leaping black shadow as she moved. Bending to adjust it, she froze, staring into the glow. The lamp danced before her eyes, its serviceable contours taking on the unfolding petals of a lotus and the soft, sculptured drapes of

a robed figure. In her trance Vicky was back in the annexe, the lamp apart in her hands, the flower plucked from the hollow base, and then merging with its component in an invisible join. Her own lamp flickered and the vision dissolved. Could this be the solution? Conviction grew stronger with every passing moment. She hardly dared to let her imagination carry her farther. The little hollow that was just big enough to conceal the emerald. An emerald to enhance the most fabulous collection. She sank back on her bed. Forget the figurine for the moment. She had to examine that lamp. But when? Her heart began to race as she considered the problem. After the evening meal would be the safest time; when Leo and Alan settled down to that interminable game of cards. She stood up and moved restlessly round the confined space, automatically lighting a cigarette. Almost twenty- four hours must elapse before she could test her theory, And the ironic fact that she herself had provided Leo with an unquestionable alibi for the night of the theft rose like a barrier which seemed breach-proof. There had to be a way round. Engrossed in her thoughts, she did not hear her name being called. The second, more urgent, summons alerted her and she went to the opening. Finch entered. His sunburnt face looked yellow and taut in the lamplight, and alarm stirred in her when he made no response to her smiling greeting. Then he said dully, "They've got Laurence." "What?"

He hesitated, then rushed on while she stared at him, aghast. "I don't know the full story - something to do with an arms run up in the hills. He ran slap-bang into the military. Apparently they collared the entire cache, half the villagers, and Laurence. The Commandant came to tell Fairfax, just after we'd finished coffee why didn't you stay, by the way? - and when he left he took Svendsen back with him." Finch paused for breath, and Vicky broke in: "Where is Laurie now?" "Zakhirya - the Garrison. What happens now is anybody's guess. They searched him, of course, and found nothing. You know" Finch's mouth tightened - "I think you're right. Whatever Laurence is supposed to have done before he came here he didn't lift our stuff." He paused, and tried to instil a lighter note into his tone. "Old man Elves is so absent-minded he could have stowed the stuff away in a safe place and promptly forgotten where." Vicky made a sad little gesture of dissent. "No, Finch. The Professor's forgetfulness only extends to the mundane things in life, like remembering to shave and eat occasionally." She looked down and her voice trembled. "But I know I'm right about Laurie. I'm glad you feel the same way. And" - determination strengthened her tone, banishing the tremble - "I'm going to prove that I'm right." For a moment her gaze held his, then his eyes flickered and he looked away uncomfortably as the effect of her vehement statement faded and doubt crept in. He let his hands fall helplessly to his sides. "How can you, Vicky?" "Were Leo and Alan still in the canteen when you left?"

Finch nodded, somewhat surprised by the abrupt question. "They seemed quite upset about Laurence. It was a bit of a change of tune from them after the vituperation they've poured out since he went. By the way, did you know they were leaving?" "Leo and Alan? When?" "They announced it after the Commandant departed. They were making the arrangements with Fairfax as I came out. Tomorrow morning, I believe." "Tomorrow?" she ejaculated. "Oh, but they can't!" She frowned, biting at her lower lip, oblivious of Finch's bewilderment. "Listen." She grasped his arm. "Go back to the canteen and keep them there. Somehow. Open a bottle — say it's a farewell drink. Anything you like. But keep them there. Understand?" "But why?" Finch gaped at her. "I haven't time to explain. Go on!" She almost pushed him out of the tent, ignoring his protests. He said suddenly, "What do I do after that?" "Nothing. Just give me fifteen minutes. Longer if you can. Do hurry, Finch." At last her urgency communicated itself to him and his footsteps died away. Vicky grabbed her jacket and went through the pockets with anxious fingers till they closed on the object they sought, the annexe key. She blessed her own forgetfulness in handing it in and Grant's in omitting to request its return.

Outside, she broke into a run, conscious of the seconds ticking by. Suppose Leo or Alan should be in the annexe? Suppose Finch were too late? Perspiration moistened her hands and she closed her mind against the fear that she was dreadfully mistaken. Someone was coming towards her and she swerved to avoid the looming figure. An arm shot out, barring her way, and a voice said sharply: "What's going on? First Finch barging along like a madman, and now you." "Grant!" For a moment she stood irresolute, then made her decision. "Grant," she cried, "will you come with me now quickly - and ask the questions afterwards? Please," she begged. "It's terribly important." She strained to read his expression through the darkness, hardly realising that she had caught at his arm until she felt his warmth through the thin stuff of his shirt and hastily dropped her hand. "Please, Grant. Hurry," she repeated despairingly. At last the spate of her words and the urgency of their delivery got through to him, and he was turning, lengthening his stride to keep pace with her as she almost ran forward. She gabbled on: "You can call me all sorts of a fool later if I'm wrong, but I can't let them get away with it without trying." There was a silence while he sorted this out. Then he said, "Whatever it is you feel you may be wrong about, you're no fool. Impulsive and foolhardy perhaps, when you get one of your crazy hunches. I suppose by 'them' you mean Gavison and Brixen?"

She stumbled and gave a slight gasp as she regained her balance. They were passing the canteen now and he did not miss the anxious turn of her head towards the lighted window. She heard a faint drift of music; Finch must have taken his transistor, she thought, to aid the farewell toast. There was no light from the high little window of the annexe. Vicky slid the key into the lock and Grant began to realise her intention. His hand closed over hers and the key. "You mustn't, Vicky." She threw off his grip with a surprising strength. "It's the only way," she said in a fierce whisper. "And it's better that you should be the witness." She gave a great sigh of relief when he stood aside and the door swung open into the blackness beyond. She brushed past him, hearing him kick the door shut with an impatient movement and switch on the light, flooding the hut with a hard, dazzling glare. A partially packed suitcase lay on the bed. On top of it was Leo's panama hat. In a corner was a trunk, its locks already snapped home. Various oddments were strewn about the floor, and a bag, half open, held modelling implements. Vicky's gaze roved the hut. She was conscious of the time limit and the tall, forbidding figure watching her from the door. There was no time for scruples or distaste. She lifted the neatly folded linen from the case on the bed and groped under it. Nothing. Desperate now, she shifted the oddments on the floor, seeking the place of concealment. Then she saw the long brown box that was exactly the right size and shape. It was partly concealed by a hanging fold of blanket.

In a moment her scrabbling fingers were inside, drawing out the soft bronze glow of sculptured metal. Still on her knees under Grant's startled stare, her hands went unerringly to the hidden spring and the lamp came apart. She shook it, and Grant gasped. A ball of green fire rolled across the floor and lay winking at his feet. He looked at the emerald, and then at Vicky's white, triumphant face. Like a man in a dream he bent and picked up the stone, turning it over in his hand as if to assure himself of its reality. "It's incredible," he said at last. "But how did you know?" She shook her head and scrambled to her feet. Triumph and vindication brought a strange lassitude and she could only sink on to the edge of the bed and gaze at the stone in Grant's hand. He moved forward and picked up the lamp, wonderment still in his face, and examined it curiously, much as she had done the night she discovered its secret. She told him of the incident, adding: "I'd completely forgotten its existence until tonight. Then I was sure., I had to find out." She watched him steadily, knowing the turmoil of conjecture and reassession he was experiencing. "You always did have a suspicion of Leo - even against the logic of your common sense." He dropped the lamp on the bed and his expression hardened. "The time has arrived to ask Leo a few pertinent questions." "And I would like to ask the meaning of this intrusion."

Vicky jumped up as Grant whirled round. Leo stood in the doorway, his face congested with fury. Behind him, peering over the smaller man's shoulder with wide, shocked eyes, stood Alan Brixen. Without speaking, Grant opened his hand and revealed the emerald. Vicky held her breath, watching the horrified reactions Gavison and Brixen could not suppress. "Where did you find - that.?" Leo blustered, his eyes darting to the lamp on the bed and then to Vicky. "She's planted it!" Alan Brixen thrust forward into the hut, his hands opening and clenching. "She's in this with that crook, Turle. And now she's afraid he'll involve her. Tell them!" He turned to Leo and his voice rose shrilly. "Tell them what a crook Turle was in the past!" Vicky looked directly into the venomous face of the youth and made no attempt to hide her scorn. She said, "They got Laurie too soon for your purpose." She rose and took a step towards them. "It would have suited your plans if Laurie had got away, at least until you were safely back in the States - with another acquisition for your collection. Do you think he would have gone to the trouble of pinching the emerald only to leave it behind? No!" She rushed on tempestuously, "When you gave Laurie your supposed help the half-formed idea was already at the back of your mind. He made a perfect scapegoat, and who would ever dream that a wealthy, esteemed man of repute like yourself would stoop to common theft? You're just another collector whose avaricious greed supplanted all sense of integrity."

"You interfering little chit - don't let her fool you." Alan Brixen almost spat out the words, and the menace in his eyes made her draw back. "Be quiet!" Leo hissed. With a visible effort he controlled himself and faced Grant, whose guarded expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. "These unpardonable accusations are most distressing." Leo cleared his throat. "I suggest Miss Harving and our young friend here" - a faintly contemptuous hand indicated the scowling youth "remove themselves and continue their somewhat theatrical argument elsewhere. Then perhaps this dreadful misunderstanding can be cleared up." The even, controlled words contrasted sharply with the heated exchange which had taken place. A flicker of what looked like doubt broke Grant's impassive calm, and Vicky's heart sank. Leo was going to talk himself out of it. And where was the figurine? Dimly she heard him say: "To clear this monstrous suspicion you're perfectly at liberty to search my belongings. In fact I insist. But I can assure you that the figurine is not among them." For a moment the attention was centred on Leo. Again Vicky stared at the clutter of Leo's possessions. There was something . . . Something that was staring her in the face. If only she could remember. She sought to pin down the fragment of memory that hovered just beyond grasp, tantalising . . . She looked at Alan. He had calmed now-, but uneasiness still lurked in his eyes.

A new confidence obviously buoyed Leo. He was searching his key ring, selecting one, holding it out to Grant. He said firmly as Grant hesitated, "Take it. I insist." Grant took it, and after a further moment of hesitation bent to the trunk. He unlocked it and pulled it open, his hands reaching reluctantly towards the contents. With a quick movement Leo stooped and began scooping the clothes out of the trunk, dropping them carelessly to the floor where they fell with soft, limp plops. He said easily, "Several people knew about the hollow base of that lamp, you know. Certainly Turle did. I showed it to him myself one evening." "Did you?" He ignored Vicky's interruption and continued to address Grant. "I dislike making unpleasant inferences, but obviously someone has — er - taken fright and ..." The smooth tones went on until the trunk was emptied. Despairingly, Vicky saw them turn away and Grant returned the key. The doubt had died from his expression now, and Alan had regained his aplomb. Leo gave a small, regretful smile and said, "Charming as the Turle fellow was - particularly so to you, my dear," his glance flickered to Vicky, but the coldness in it belied the smile, "I'm very much afraid ... The main thing is that the emerald has turned up." There was a general turning in the direction of the door, Leo murmuring something about a drink after that. Vicky sighed, vaguely conscious of Grant's hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She had failed. She had found the emerald, but failed to clear Laurie. And the precious figurine was still missing. Through the

dejection of defeat there was a faint comfort from Grant's sudden tightening of his grip and his whispered, "Cheer up, darling, you did your best," as she allowed him to draw her towards the door, where Leo waited impatiently. Then the voice she had never expected called from outside and with a blinding flash of intuition the missing piece clicked home in the puzzle. "Meester Grant! You there?" Before the echoes of Ben Ali's voice had stilled she had whirled back into the hut. Ben Ali . . . She knew now where Leo had concealed the figurine. There had been two clay heads. Leo had given one to Ben Ali. And there were still two... She lunged for the models. Which one? Of course! The weight! She knew a wild, exquisite relief at the startling disparity as she seized them. Everything happened quickly after that. Alan leapt at her. Ben Ali crashed in and joyfully floored the youth while Grant restrained Leo. Somehow, during the scramble, the clay head was wrested from Vicky and crashed to the floor. There was a sudden frozen silence. Amid the rubble of clay, through tatters of black tissue paper, shone the soft glow of the golden figurine. After that Leo collapsed limply, forgotten, while Vicky smoothed away paper and dust with reverent fingers and Grant and Ben Ali looked.

Later, when they drank coffee and told the story, saw the Professor's joyous reunion with his golden goddess, and Dr. Harving remarked, "Funny how I always seem to go to sleep and miss the ending of the big film," Vicky relaxed, contented, and let the conversation flow over her head. Leo and Alan were to leave the next morning as planned. As the Professor had remarked, the relics had been recovered and a great deal of unpleasant publicity would ensue if action were taken against them. The admission had finally poured from Alan. He had carried out the actual theft, reassured by glib promises and bribes from Leo. He seemed to have been completely under the domination of the older man, held in an almost slavish submission she found difficult to credit. She thought of Laurence. Why should the guilty escape unscathed while he . . . Surely Grant could do something? She put her clasped hands on the table and looked round the circle of faces. "What about Laurie?" "I thought you'd gone to sleep." For a moment Grant's warm hand covered hers, and the smile left his eyes, leaving a smokiness she could not fathom. He said, "I was about to mention the matter of Laurence. I'm going to Zakhirya tomorrow morning. I'll do what I can - it's the least I can do for you - but I can't promise, Vicky. You see," he paused, "there's the other thing." She looked away, unable to bear his sympathy and that other unfathomable something behind his expression. The elation of discovery had ebbed, leaving only weariness and a strange feeling of emptiness, as if everything had ended. Abruptly, she pushed back her chair and murmured a quiet goodnight.

She wakened late the next morning from a heavy sleep which had neither rested nor refreshed. Grant had left several hours earlier, taking Leo Gavison and Alan with him. An air of desertion hung over the camp like the brooding stillness of a theatre after the final curtain-fall. The workmen had been paid off; only Ben Ali remained. He was drinking coffee with her father and Finch when she wandered into the canteen and helped herself to half- cold coffee with slow, listless movements. "Sleep well?" Andrew asked, and Finch switched on his radio. Finch said, "You need cheering up - like to dance?" "No, thank you." She turned a tart look from Finch to the transistor as the music stopped and the news took its place. He hastily twiddled the dial, then sighed as he silenced the instrument. "Where's Professor Elves?" she asked, already regretting her unkind rebuke to Finch. "In the lab. Packing his gear." Finch stretched lazily and shook an extended fist under her nose. "For the heroine of the day you're putting on a poor show, my girl." He stood up and turned to Ben Ali. "I'm going to work on the truck. Coming?" Ben Ali finished his coffee and followed Finch with his flowing, dignified tread. "I suggest you also find something to occupy your hands - and your mind." Dr. Harving pressed an adjusting forefinger to his freshly filled pipe. When the fragrant tobacco was satisfactorily alight he settled the pipe comfortably at the corner of his mouth

and regarded his daughter. "If you care to start packing in the darkroom I'll give you a hand." She drank her coffee and stood up obediently. "When you're ready, Daddy." There was a certain solace in undemanding, methodical tasks. While working beside her father her emotions became more stable and the memory of the past week, though still vivid, took on a dreamlike quality. She had almost persuaded herself that her perspective had returned to normal, and even that some day she would be able to look back in reminiscent mood with her heart untouched by thoughts of Grant or Laurence, when her father looked up from the slides he was packing and said suddenly: "How much does the Turle fellow mean to you?" The alleviating mood of tranquillity fled. The plastic dishes clattered in her hands as she stared at her father. How blind can parents be? she wondered, then quickly banished the unfair thought. "Nothing. In the sense you mean." She fitted the dishes neatly into their box and stowed it in the crate. "Thank heaven for that!" Andrew let out a sigh of relief. "Not that I've anything personal against the man, but..." His 'but' spoke volumes, and she bent her head to hide a smile. The packing continued in silence after that. Once she caught his gaze resting on her, still with a hint of puzzlement in its depths. He hammered home the nails and pushed the crate over to the door.

"I'm not sorry this one is over," he sighed. "Too much excitement of the kind we could have well done without." He shot her a sly glance. "Still think it was worth it? All the intrigue in which you indulged to get here?" She did not respond, and he went on thoughtfully: "At first I thought you'd met your match in Fairfax, but the fireworks fizzled out much sooner than I expected." She turned away to hide the betraying colour that stained her cheeks and failed to see the sudden comprehension dawn in her father's expression. "You must have charmed him," he prompted, feeling his way with caution. "Or was it the other way round?" "Daddy, you're a nosy, interfering old man!" A suspicious quaver broke the attempted lightness of her tone. "You're quite mistaken." Dr. Harving sniffed doubtfully. "I'm sorry, darling, but I don't think I am." He patted her shoulder. "In fact, I can tell you when it dates from. The time of the storm - what went wrong?" "He just doesn't feel that way about me," she said in a muffled voice. "And he's married," she added flatly. "Is he now?" Dr. Harving's eyebrows came together as he pocketed his pipe. "Well, it's the first I've heard of it. Are you sure?" She nodded. "Finch showed me a letter. And a lot of other things all added - oh, Daddy, I wish we were home. I've had enough." She bent over the packing case, fighting for control.

Andrew reached out and took the packets of printing paper from her hands. He put his arm round her shoulders and turned her to face him, and his manner was suddenly authoritative. He said, "You shall go home. There's no earthly reason why you should wait for me," "But-" He hushed her protests. "Listen, Vicky. How about a few days' holiday? I could join you later and we'd travel home together." He hurried on before she could argue. "I suggest Haifa. Have a shopping orgy. Buy some of the frivolous fripperies so dear to women's hearts and have a hair-do. I can provide the necessary if you're short of cash," he went on persuasively. "Now let me see . . . your best route. I wonder if there's a quicker one than the way we came. Where did I put those time-tables?" He muttered on, half to himself, while Vicky hovered between astonishment and mirth. "And stay somewhere lush," her organising parent enjoined. "The St. George or the Europa, and I'll get away from here as soon as I can. I could do with a break myself and I've always wanted to sample Haifa's night life," Andrew added, afired now with enthusiasm. The prospect was inviting. Vicky struggled against temptation, feeling she ought to stay until the final wind-up at the site was completed. She said weakly, "I've only a couple of dresses with me." "I've told you - buy what you need. I've been let off pretty lightly in the past concerning your clothing tastes. Now go and start packing. We'll set off after lunch." He betrayed his impatience to get Vicky away from the site without further delay.

"But I can't," she said, aghast. "I must wait until Grant comes back. I - I want to hear about Laurie." "Of course. And see Fairfax again?" Andrew challenged quietly. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "Very well," he sighed. "Tomorrow morning, then." He finished labelling the crates and then swept her away to lunch. However, his plan worked out exactly as he had intended and Vicky did not see Grant Fairfax before she was driven out on to the Zakhirya track for the last time. She had packed the battered trunk which was to remain and be shipped later with Dr. Harving's luggage. The few necessities for her journey went into a small case of her father's, and the famous bag was regretfully left behind. She was drying her hair when she heard the jeep roar into the camp, signalling the return of Grant Fairfax. A few minutes later her father arrived. She looked up expectantly at him from under the towel. "He got Laurence freed of the camp nonsense business - our stuff," Andrew told her without preamble. "Thank goodness - but what about...?" "I don't know yet. I gather Henry Svendsen is waiting for a .call from London. Until that comes through . . ." Andrew gestured, "By the way," he hesitated as Vicky resumed her vigorous towelling, "I've told the others you've got a bit of a headache. I'll bring you some food later, but I think you've had enough excitement and late nights." He gazed at her with elaborate concern. "An early night for you, my girl."

Unsuspicious of his intention, she sighed. "I suppose you're right. And I must do something about my hair until I get to a hairdresser." When he returned half an hour later she was curled up under a blanket with her hair pinned neatly about her head under a gauzy scarf. He stayed a little while, until she had eaten, then he tucked her in and kissed her with the old remembered tenderness of childhood days. But his intention became obvious when he aroused her before dawn and hurried her through the chill, depressing greyness to the canteen and the breakfast he had already prepared. "I can't go without saying goodbye to them," she protested wildly, and then, with dawning horror, "Oh, Daddy, when you make up your mind to do something you're so ruthless!" "I'll say your good-byes for you later." A grim smile played round his usually placid mouth. "You said you'd had enough," he reminded her. "I know." She pushed her plate aside. "But I never intended to go like this." "I did. It's far easier this way. After a few weeks it will merge into your background life. Whether a happy time, or otherwise, depends how you look back on it. You'll forget him, Vicky." "I expect so," she said wearily, knowing that to be untrue. He stood up. "Come on - it's time to go." She pulled the zip of her jacket up to her chin and cast a final, lingering glance round the cheerless hut where she had spent so

many hours. Memories flooded back; the first day with its hopes, uncertainties, and fears. The scene of the celebration after their major breakthrough to the past, and Grant rescuing her ... A key in a man's hand, the theft, Laurie, letters, and bitterness. Her eyes misted and a lump came in her throat. Blindly she turned her back on it all and stumbled outside to the waiting Land Rover.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN THE warm light of the early morning sun glissaded in liquid golden flecks over a tranquil sea. The cool of the night was still in the water; later it would be warm and the sun at its height would bring torpor. Now, a light breeze brought an invigorating freshness. Vicky slowed her stroke and rolled on her back, closing her eyes and allowing the buoyant swell of the Mediterranean to lull her into lazy relaxation. Three days had passed since her arrival in Haifa. Three days of transition, in which to put Zakhirya firmly where it belonged, in the past, a small island in her life over which the future would gradually lap yet never • completely destroy. Tomorrow would bring her father and they would leave the gateway to the East to soar over Europe and then home. She opened her eyes and spiralled a little until she could see the pink and white sun-soaked buildings edging the shoreline. She began to swim steadily, cleaving a smooth, unruffled channel towards the terrace and the yellow splash where her beach wrap lay. She slowed, dashing the water from her eyes, and stared across the silken ripples. A man stood at the water's edge, seeming to look directly at her. His hand went up to shade his eyes, then dropped to his side while he remained there, still and watchful. She blinked, and went slowly on across the narrowing strip of water. When she looked again he was still there and she could see his features clearly, deeply tanned against the white of his shirt. Her heart began a rhythmic pounding in her breast. She looked away. Sun and sea, and the need for breakfast, were creating a mirage. When she looked again he would be a stranger, a guest savouring the fresh morning and idly watching a water-skier far

out beyond the floats; as she would probably do if she were in his place. A final thrusting stroke, a blaze of white before her eyes, and then warm hands were reaching out and gripping the wet bareness of her arms. An eternity seemed to pass as she stood, immobile, conscious only of the warmth of his touch and the unwavering gaze of those clear grey eyes under shadowing black lashes. Grant broke the spell binding her as he stooped and gathered up the yellow robe, draping it round her streaming body and closing the edges at her throat. It came to her that he had not yet spoken, and panic succeeded shock as she seized at the only reason which could have brought him here. "My father - has something hap -" She stopped, her voice unreal to her ears. Grant shook his head, his gaze not leaving her face. "Dr. Harving is extremely well, physically. His - er - equilibrium was a trifle disturbed when I left." His mouth quirked. "Surprised, Vicky?" She bent her head, uncertain of his meaning. "Then why -?" Again she stopped, unable to name the question. The slight shake of his head was repeated. "Plenty of time for questions later. There are quite a few to be asked — and answered. But now you should concentrate on a shower and breakfast." He was turning her and guiding her steps away from the sea. She accompanied him in silence, moving in a strange, dream-like quality. But there was nothing unsubstantial about Grant, or the push he gave her when they entered the hotel.

"Don't run away till I get back. I've an arrangement to make and one or two things to see to, but I won't be long." His voice brought reality at last. She watched his tall figure, unfamiliar in casual town wear, which seemed formal in comparison to the garb they had worn at the site, vanish out into the sunshine. Back in her room, she spurned the shower. The luxury of a bathroom was still too great an inducement after the primitive conditions at the site; lavish unguents, scented water, and taps that gushed at command: all the things she had dreamed of. Vicky luxuriated, and completed a leisurely toilet. Dressed at last, she rang for breakfast and hugged the thought that Grant had come. Why, she had ceased to conjecture. She knew only that she would snatch and hold this unexpected happiness, no matter how brief, uncaring of what might transpire later. She got up and whirled before the mirror, secretly glad she had taken her father's suggestions literally. The results of her shopping forays in the city's dress-shops had wrought a transformation. The billowing rose-coloured skirt wafted to stillness about her limbs like the petals of a flower at sundown as she poised on tiptoe in dainty white sandals, a little uncertain that the vibrant, glowing girl in the mirror could be herself. She ran pink-tipped fingers through her hair, now shining and groomed, a bronze, softly curling cap. The burr of the telephone brought a sudden tingle of excitement. She sped to the instrument, holding back for a second, till she could bear to do so no longer, and lifted the receiver. A click, then Grant's voice was with her, strangely new with the subtle change effected by wire. "Vicky?" A pause, then, "Are you ready?"

She was aware of an absurd rush of shyness and curled her fingers more closely about the receiver. "Where are you?" "Not very far away - about eight rooms, I think." So he was staying here! She sensed the smile behind his reply and said hastily, "I'm ready." A- few moments later he rang off. She took a deep breath and gathered together her things. Handbag, a clean handkerchief, a light jacket - he'd said to be prepared to stay out for the day. A hasty spray of perfume, and she sped on quicksilver feet to join him. She picked him out instantly beyond a cluster of newly arrived tourists, and slowed to a more sedate pace, conscious of the appreciative warmth of his glance as he encompassed the cool, fresh crispness of her. He took her arm and guided her out into the sunshine, stopping beside a car and saying, "A bit of a change from the old Land Rover," as he held open the door for her. "A change?" She stared at the rakish American chassis and the multi-dazzles of chrome, and added, "You don't expect me to drive this time, I hope." He caught the sidelong glance and the inflection she intended he should. "Not this time." He emphasised his reply and she knew he remembered. He settled her in the passenger seat, tucking in a stray rose fold of skirt before he closed the door. She relaxed back into the softness of white leather and the mantle of protectiveness he was weaving about her. "Borrowed for the day," he told her as he eased out into the stream of traffic. "Luckily I have a friend at the medical school." The

sedan shot forward in eager pursuit of an enormous Cadillac which was bulldozing its way along regardless of the ear-splitting hootings and the frenzied curses of the Lebanese taxi-drivers. "I'll never complain about London's traffic after this," Grant commented wryly, skilfully holding the advantage of the wake of the preceding monster. They lost it at the next intersection. The Cadillac leapt into Rue Vallon and with a defiant snort careered down an offshoot, scattering pedestrians and a sauntering group of students. Grant continued more steadily, past the medical school (was it only yesterday she had walked in the garden?), and on to the Corniche. Vicky lifted her head, revelling in the breeze tugging at her hair and bringing a sparkle into her eyes, content to gaze at the shimmering sea. Near a headland Grant stopped the car and produced his cigarette case. When he had lit two cigarettes he turned until he could face her and rested his arm on the steering wheel. His expression was inscrutable. "Why did you run away?" Suddenly the air seemed very still and the sounds of the passing cars far away. She looked down at her hands, away from that disturbing smokiness, and sought an answer which would convince without betraying. "There seemed nothing to keep me there," she said at last. "My work was finished." "I see." His mouth tightened. "You preferred to leave without the conventional good-byes."

"I'm sorry." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "I -I didn't exactly intend it to be that way." Grant hunched over the wheel and sent the car shooting forward. For a long time he drove without speaking, following the Corniche, then leaving the sea and skirting the city until he reached the Karmel road. The colourful vista passed in a blur. Vicky's misted eyes hardly saw the pines and the red sand dunes. The sea curled away on her right as they turned inland. The mountains stretched up behind the city, touched with a silvery sheen where the sun glinted on the olive groves, and the red dots of roofs among the terraced slopes soaked in the warm light and glowed coral. Grant by-passed the summer resorts, and a little way past Kishon turned off the highway and took the Kfar Ata road. The air was cooler than in the city and sweet with the tang of pines. Vicky stole a glance at her companion, sensing that his mood had changed. He was driving more slowly now and a few minutes later he pulled in at the side and stopped the car. "Thirsty?" She nodded, and he leaned over to lift a large picnic basket from the back seat. "Araq, Musar," his lips twitched, "or Coca-Cola?" "Coke, please." Impossible not to smile after wrinkling her nose at his wine list, yet the ache remained. She drank the dark sweet liquid, then noticed he was quiet again and saw he was holding a large, vividly hued picture postcard. He turned it over and began writing, a smile lingering on his mouth which was not quite hidden by the down-bend of his head. "Approve?" He looked up and held out the card in a rather deliberate manner.

She read the conventional, affectionate greeting, and then the signature she had not thought of. She glanced up, half wondering, half fearful, into his serious face. "Penny is my niece. I hope you'll meet her when we get back. Hers is a sad story." Grant took the empty glass and stowed it in the basket before he went on: "My brother died last year, suddenly and unexpectedly in his armchair. Heart failure. He had been a pilot, which made his death ironic from that respect. When Penny was born he gave up flying in deference to Lucille, my sister-in-law. She's delicate and highly strung, and should never have married an airman. However, they were deeply in love, and when Penny came she completed their happiness - until tragedy struck." Grant paused, his expression clouded, "Lucille broke down completely. Even for Penny's sake she seemed unable to pull herself together and try to face life without Bruce. Instead she retreated into an inner world of her own, refusing all our efforts to help her. It may be months before she recovers." Vicky murmured the words of regret which seemed so pitifully inadequate. "Who's looking after Penny?" she asked. "My parents. Until next year when she goes to boarding school. She'll be eight then." Tumbled into boarding school at that tender age; Vicky's sadness for the little girl mingled with her relief at knowing the truth at last. In imagining the tragedy shadowing Grant's life she had been dreadfully mistaken. She turned to him, suddenly aware of a delicate bond drawing them closer. She said softly, "I'm glad she has you," and felt his hand brush hers with a fleeting gesture. For the moment she was content with his nearness and the promise of the long, idyllic day ahead.

They rambled away from the road and found a tiny glade with a clefted rock at one end and a tumbling stream of crystal water. They unpacked the picnic basket. Grant had thought of everything, she mused, realising she was hungry. There was a spit-roasted chicken, little flat rolls of freshly baked bread, goat's-milk cheese, olives, fruit, and an enormous golden melon. "Gorgeous," she complimented, kneeling on the edge of the green checked tablecloth. "It's the best mezze I've seen." "I didn't know if you'd brought the bag to Haifa," said slyly, keeping his expression solemn as he arrayed the glasses and the liquor supply. That, however, remained practically untouched, and later, after they'd packed away the remnants, Grant relaxed supine on the grass and Vicky curled her feet under her and listened to the ripple of the stream and the rustle of the leaves. "What happened after I left the site?" she asked idly. "Very little." Grant regarded her through half-closed lids. "Most of them were getting ready to leave. Finch was making arrangements to have his harem meet him at London Airport. Professor Elves is staying on at the site for a while to meet the first party of historians. And - this will please you - Laurence is free." "Laurie?" He smiled at her delight, then said, "I have a message for you from him - but it would be rather pointless to give it to you at this stage. Come over here, Vicky. I can't talk to you over this distance." He stretched out his hand and slowly she moved nearer.

Grant twisted round until he could pillow his head on her lap, flashing an impudent grin up at her before he closed his eyes and gave a contented sigh. "Much better." She stayed still, restraining an impulse to stroke the dark head. "I left your father in charge, entertaining Commander Yurad, who was fussing over the site like a hen with one chick." "And Henry Svendsen?" "Back in London by now, I should think — looking for more criminals. Vicky, was it your wish to keep your destination a secret?" Grant's eyes shot open and watched her intently. "Your parent closed up like a clam when he got back. All I could get out of him was that you were on your way home. I doubt if I would have found out yet if it hadn't been for Laurence." "But how did Laurence -" Puzzled, she stared down at him. "Laurence came back to the site, mainly to see you. And of course found you gone. He then asked me a very ordinary question, which, coupled with your father's rather peculiar attitude, helped me to begin to see daylight." Grant sat up suddenly. "I owe a great deal to Laurence. But for his question I would never have come chasing to Haifa." She faltered under that intense gaze and began to tremble. Between them, what had her father and Laurence done? She made a movement to escape, but his hand forestalled it, gripping her shoulder and turning her till she was in the circle of his arm. Gently, he put a finger on the pulse throbbing at her bare throat. ' 'You thought I was married. Oh, my darling!"

The words were warm against her lips and then she was submerged in the sweetness of his kiss. His arms imprisoned her more closely, and there was no time or space, only the warm strength of him and the thud of his heartbeat against her own. At last he drew back, looking tenderly at the dark sweep of lashes fanning her cheeks. He kissed the closed lids, then murmured, "I love you, Vicky, and I want to marry you. Let there be no more misunderstanding - at least about my feelings." He waited, the question in his eyes, and with a sigh of pure joy she reached up to draw his head down, nestling closer, and unashamedly offering up her mouth. Later, he said softly, "So that kiss in the storm did mean something." The inclination of her head was almost imperceptible as she whispered, "I thought it just happened - or was sympathy or-" "I cursed that leaking can of beer for a long time afterwards, but at the time I couldn't help laughing, though I know now it cost us weeks of happiness. After that everything seemed to go wrong." Grant sighed. "There was so much competition. First Finch, then even Laurence seemed as if he ... I came to the conclusion that you disliked me as much as ever." "I was terrified you would guess." Her voice was muffled in his shirt. "And I always seemed to make mistakes and earn your scorn." "I'm sorry about that. And some of my dreadful remarks." His fingers strayed through her hair. "But you know now what was the matter with us, and how easy the remedy - if we'd had the chance." He kissed her lightly. "When Laurence casually asked if I'd had

any news of my wife I was flabbergasted. When he told me you were the source of his information, though from where I couldn't imagine, I began to hope." Darling Laurie, she thought. "By then you'd gone, without even saying good-bye." Grant contrived to look stern. "For that you deserve chastising!" He proceeded to turn words into action, but his method of chastisement was entirely satisfactory to Vicky. "Laurence prised the information I needed out of your inestimable father, and here I am. The rest you know, you minx." Laughing, she said weakly, "Was that Penny - the snapshot you dropped that day at Zakhirya?" "What a memory!" He extracted the snapshots from his wallet and handed one over. She smiled at the sunny-faced child and returned it. "What's the other?" He sighed, and laid the other one face down on the grass. She turned it over and dissolved into fresh mirth. "I took that from the darkroom one day when you'd left in rather a hurry. Finch was there ..." Firmly he retrieved the snapshot Finch had taken during her time of masquerade and which she considered most unflattering. Nevertheless, knowing he had kept it brought a rush of emotion and a tender curve to her mouth. He looked at his watch and said regretfully, "Time to move - come on, lazybones." He pulled her to her feet and added, "I've a surprise for you tonight when we get back."

"Surprise?" She was brushing away the traces of dishevelment. "Give me a clue, please." But he was proof against her most ardent wheedling and they began the return journey. Beirut came into sight, far below at the edge of the sea, white and gold in a blue glass setting under a cloudless sky. The tarmac raced beneath their flying wheels and the blissful time passed all too quickly. But Grant did not enter the city. He kept their destination secret until they had almost reached Jeita; then she guessed. The fairyland wonder of the famous grotto awaited her. The boat glided into the subterranean depths where rainbow reflections from hidden lights danced on the water. Each bend and cavern brought a new vision of breathtaking beauty formed by the stalactite traceries. When they came out into the open after their hour of enchantment Grant took her hand. "Happy, darling?" She smiled, still bemused with the wonder of the grotto and all that had come to her that day. An orange sun was flooding the sea with fire and silhouetting the town's skyline when they reached the hotel and parted, reluctantly, long enough to change for the evening. Grant tapped on her door a little while later and they exchanged glances of mutual admiration. Vicky wore a slim jade-green sheath of Damascus brocade that moulded her slender form and enhanced the burnished glow of her bronze hair. Happiness radiated from her as she held out her hands to him. It was the first time she had seen him in formal wear. In a cream tuxedo he looked even more handsome than ever, she thought. Then she remembered the surprise he had promised and

heard an irrepressible laugh as he beckoned to someone out of range of her vision. A figure joined Grant in the doorway and she dropped her stole, uttering a cry of incredulous joy. "Laurie!" If it were possible to add to her happiness his coming did so. Grant stood aside, pretending to frown, while she forgot her newly found elegance and hurled herself at Laurence, who grabbed her round the waist and swung her aloft, much to the shocked disapproval of a large American matron emerging from a nearby room. "A fine day I've had today," Laurence grinned. "Keeping out of the way while Galahad here," he jerked his thumb towards the laughing Grant, "is busy collaring the girl." "So Henry didn't get his man," she exulted when they had retreated to her room. Laurence adjusted his tie. "No, it was all cleared up. Henry got word from London that the stuff had been recovered and the culprits all tucked cosily in their little cells. Then I managed to convince Commander Yurad that I didn't know one end of a smuggled rifle from the other." "That will teach you to behave in future," she told him sternly. His puckish grin flashed. "I'll have to - if I'm going to be a best man soon. And later, perhaps, a godfather." Vicky blushed.

After a moment of pronounced throat-clearing Laurence said, "Well, shall we celebrate our happy endings?" Grant's smile was for Vicky alone as he took her hand in his and added softly, "And our happy beginning, my darling."