The Nambour Institute of Egyptology was a big name for a modest house in a relatively quiet suburb of Cairo. It mostly held copies of parchments and scale models of pyramids. It was a meeting place for retired diggers – not ex-servicemen but ex-grave diggers. Though among themselves, they preferred to be called Archaeologists. Professor Godfrey Blamey was one of them. His friends did not call him God for short.

Professor Blamey was a pear-shaped man with shiny pink cheeks that gave back to the sun as good as they got. He was very clever in the reading of any number of ancient languages but was totally barbaric in the speaking of anything foreign. But he liked living in Egypt with its Anglo ex-pats and he had gone from g’day to goodo in less than sixty seconds flat.

Normally cheerful, currently the Professor was excited. He had found an old map on a bookstall in a street market, the souq. The map had contained a mixture of writings. With increasing excitement, Professor Blamey had decoded them. Gradually, he realised that the map revealed the location of stolen antiques. For as yet unknown reasons, though the Professor suspected something occultish, the text informed him that he needed a dog. So he had put an ad in The Cairo News. He’d hoped to find a dog that was also an Archaeologist. Failing that, he’d settle for an Archaeologist who also owned a dog. Dr Bill Windchime was the only person to reply. He was a tall lean Aussie who’d left the surf into order to go down the mines. He studied industrial Archaeology.

Professor Blamey skimmed Bill’s resumé. “So you know nothing about ancient Egypt?” he said.

“Neither ancient nor modern,” Bill answered cheerfully.

“So you, er, why…?”

“My aunt lives here. I was just on a bit of a visit.” He patted the German Shepherd at his side. “Ramses is her dog.”

“Ramses, eh? Goodo.” The Professor glanced up. “And what is your aunt doing here?”

Bill blushed. “I thought she said to become a surfie. She said she said to become a Sufi.”

“Sufi, eh? Splendid.” The Professor again studied Bill’s handwritten resumé. “Graceful, him?” he said absent-mindedly.

“A graceful hymn?” Windchime looked at the Professor in surprise. “I know a disgraceful hymn.” He opened his mouth like a frog about to catch words. “All girls bright and lewdiful/In skirts both great and small…”

It was Professor Blamey’s turn to look at Bill. He looked at him as if the other had gone completely mad. “I said…” He went over the words in his head, “graceful, him?”

“Oh, him! You mean Ramses. Well, he’s no bloody ballerina but he’s better than a pelican in a tutu.”

Godfrey sighed, his blood pressure mounting. But he tapped the map in his pocket. He had a Secret. One he knew and that Windchime didn’t know. So he blinked, and blinked again, until his blood pressure came down. “It could be important,” he said. “Jolly good if I could see.”

“Right, mate.” Bill rose. “Ramses, walk.”

Dog and man began to wobble around the room. Godfrey’s blood pressure did climb. Yet, with admirable restraint, he said, “Yes, goodo, very graceful. Very graceful for a dog with three legs.”

“Three legs?” Windchime looked down. He waved a finger. “Ramses, bad dog. No tricks.” And he pulled down the fourth leg.

“Oh yes, that’s better,” Professor Blamey said. “He does move well. Very sleek.”

As if he understood, Ramses gave the Professor a big doggy grin.