Weakly I got up, poured myself a jigger of brandy and then, having drunk it all at once, fell across my bed and slept and did not dream, which is a rare blessing in these feverish last days.
I was awakened by the sensation of being watched. I opened my eyes and saw above me, looking like a bronze figure of Anubis, Jessup who said, “I’m sorry ... didn’t mean to disturb you. Your door was open and I....”
“Perfectly all right,” I said, as smoothly as I could, drugged with sleep. I pulled myself up against the pillows. “Excuse me for not getting up but I’m still a little weak from my illness.”
“I wanted to see you,” said Jessup, sitting down in the chair which I indicated beside the bed. “I hope you don’t mind my barging in like this.”
“Not at all. How do you find Luxor?” I wanted to delay as long as possible the questions which I was quite sure he would want to ask me, questions concerning my identity.
“The people are not so fixed in error as we’d been warned. There’s a great curiosity about Cavesword.” His eyes had been taking in the details of the room with some interest; to my horror I recalled that I had left the manuscript of my work on the table instead of hiding it as usual in the washstand. He saw it. “Your ... memoirs?” He looked at me with a polite interest which I was sure disguised foreknowledge.
“A record of my excavations,” I said, in a voice which descended the scale to a whisper. “I do it for my own amusement, to pass the time.”
“I should enjoy reading it.”
“You exaggerate, in your kindness,” I said, pushing myself higher on the bed, preparing if necessary for a sudden spring.
“Not at all. If it is about Egypt, I should read it. There are no contemporary accounts of this country ... by one of us.”