“My dear old chap—­there was no other way, believe me.  From that boat I could see right into his stateroom, but, once in, I dare not leave it—­except late at night, stealthily!  The second spotted me one night and I thought the game was up, but evidently he didn’t report it.”

“But you might have confided . . .”

“Impossible!  I’ll admit I nearly fell to the temptation that first night; for I could see into your room as well as into his!” He slapped me boisterously on the back, but his gray eyes were suspiciously moist.  “Dear old Petrie!  Thank God for our friends!  But you’d be the first to admit, old man, that you’re a dead rotten actor!  Your portrayal of grief for the loss of a valued chum would not have convinced a soul on board!

“Therefore I made use of Stacey, whose callous attitude was less remarkable.  Gad, Petrie!  I nearly bagged our man the first night!  The elaborate plan—­Marconi message to get you out of the way, and so forth—­had miscarried, and he knew the porthole trick would be useless once we got into the open sea.  He took a big chance.  He discarded his clerical guise and peeped into your room—­you remember?—­but you were awake, and I made no move when he slipped back to his own cabin; I wanted to take him red-handed.”

“Have you any idea . . .”

“Who he is?  No more than where he is!  Probably some creature of Dr. Fu-Manchu specially chosen for the purpose; obviously a man of culture, and probably of thug ancestry.  I hit him—­in the shoulder; but even then he ran like a hare.  We’ve searched the ship, without result.  He may have gone overboard and chanced the swim to shore . . .”

We stepped out onto the deck.  Around us was that unforgettable scene—­Port Said by night.  The ship was barely moving through the glassy water, now.  Smith took my arm and we walked forward.  Above us was the mighty peace of Egypt’s sky ablaze with splendor; around and about us moved the unique turmoil of the clearing-house of the Near East.

“I would give much to know the real identity of the bishop of Damascus,” muttered Smith.

He stopped abruptly, snapping his teeth together and grasping my arm as in a vise.  Hard upon his words had followed the rattling clangor as the great anchor was let go; but horribly intermingled with the metallic roar there came to us such a fearful, inarticulate shrieking as to chill one’s heart.

The anchor plunged into the water of the harbor; the shrieking ceased.  Smith turned to me, and his face was tragic in the light of the arc lamp swung hard by.

“We shall never know,” he whispered.  “God forgive him—­he must be in bloody tatters now.  Petrie, the poor fool was hiding in the chainlocker!”

A little hand stole into mine.  I turned quickly.  Karamaneh stood beside me.  I placed my arm about her shoulders, drawing her close; and I blush to relate that all else was forgotten.

For a moment, heedless of the fearful turmoil forward, Nayland Smith stood looking at us.  Then he turned, with his rare smile, and walked aft.