For a long while he stood there without moving.  His eyes were attracted, were held, by a white house across the water.  It stood alone, and the river flowed in a delicate curve before it by a low tangle of trees or bushes.  The windows of this house gleamed fiercely as restless jewels.  At last he lifted himself up from the rail.

“Who lives in that house?” he asked of Hassan.

“An English lord, sah.  My Lord Arminigel.”

“What house is it?  What’s the name?”

“The Villa Androud, my kind gentlemans.”

“The Villa Androud!”

So that was where Armine had gone for his honeymoon with Bella Donna!  The windows glittered like the jewels many men had given to her.

Night fell.  The song of the fellahin failed.  The stars came out.  Just where the Loulia had lain the Fatma lay.  And under the stars, on deck, Isaacson dined alone.  To-morrow at dawn he would start on his voyage up river.  He would follow where the Loulia had gone.  When dinner was finished, he sent Hassan away, and strolled about on the deck smoking his cigar.  Through the tender darkness of the exquisite night the lights of Luxor shone, and from somewhere below them came a faint but barbaric sound of native music.

To-morrow he would follow where the Loulia had gone.

The lady patient that morning had been very communicative.  One of her chief joys in life was gossip.  Her joy in gossip was second only to her joy in poor health.  And she had told her beloved doctor “all the news.”  The news of the Armine menage was that Nigel Armine had got sunstroke in Thebes and been “too ill for words,” and that the Loulia, after a short stay near Luxor, had gone on up the Nile, and was now supposed to be not far from the temple of Edfou.  Not a soul had been able to explore the marvellous boat.  Only a young American doctor, very susceptible indeed to female charm, had been permitted to set foot on her decks.  He had diagnosed “sunstroke,” had prescribed for Nigel Armine, and had come away “positively raving” about Mrs. Armine—­“silly fellow.”  Isaacson would have liked a word with him, but he had gone to Assouan.

On the lower deck the boatmen began to sing.

Isaacson paced to and fro.  The gentle and monotonous exercise, now accompanied by monotonous though ungentle music, seemed to assist the movement of his thought.  When he left the garrulous lady patient, he might have gone to the post-office and telegraphed to the Loulia.  It was possible to telegraph to Edfou.  Since he intended to leave Luxor and sail up the Nile, surely the natural thing to do was to let his friend know of his coming.  Why had he not done the natural thing?  Some instinct had advised him against the completely straightforward action.  If Nigel had been alone on the Loulia the telegram would have been sent.  That Isaacson knew.  But Nigel was not alone.  A spy was