Isaacson walked back alone into the temple.  But the spell of the Nile was broken.  He had been rudely awaked from his dream, and so thoroughly awaked that his dream was already as if it had never been.  He was once more the man he normally was in London—­a man intensely, Jewishly alert, a man with a doctor’s mind.  In every great physician there is hidden a great detective.  It was a detective who now walked alone in the temple of Edfou, who penetrated presently once more to the sombre sanctuary, and who stayed there for a long time, standing before the granite shrine of the God, listening mentally in the absolute silence to the sound of an ugly voice.

When the heat of noon approached, Isaacson went back to the Fatma.  He did not know at all how long a time had passed since Mrs. Armine had left him, and when he came on board, he enquired of Hassan whether any message had come for him, any note from the dahabeeyah that lay over there to the south of them, drowned in the quivering gold.

“No, my nice gentlemans,” was the reply, accompanied by a glance of intense curiosity.

Questions immediately followed.

“That boat is the Loulia,” said Isaacson, impatiently, pointing up river.

“Of course, I know that, my gentlemans.”

Hassan’s voice sounded full of an almost contemptuous pity.

“Well, I know the people on board of her.  They—­one of them is a friend of mine.  That’ll do.  You can go to the lower deck.”

Isaacson began to pace up and down.  He pushed back the deck chairs to the rail in order to have more room for movement.  Although the heat was becoming intense, and despite the marvellous dryness of the atmosphere, perspiration broke out on his forehead and cheeks, he could not cease from walking.  Once he thought with amazement of his long and almost complete inertia since he had left Luxor.  How could he have remained sunk in a chair for hours and hours, staring at the moving water and at the monotonous banks of the Nile?  Close to the Fatma two shaduf men were singing and bending, singing and bending.  And had the shaduf songs lulled him?  Had they pushed him towards his dream?  Now, as he listened to the brown men singing, he heard nothing but violence in their voices.  And in their rhythmical movements only violence was expressed to him.  When lunch came, he ate it hastily, without noticing what he was eating.  Soon after he had finished, coffee was brought, not by the waiter, but by Hassan, who could no longer suppress another demonstration of curiosity.

“No message him comin’, my nice gentlemans.”

He stood gazing at his master.

“No?” said Isaacson, with a forced carelessness.

“All the men bin sleepin’, the Reis him ready to start.  We stop by the Loulia, and we take the message ourselfs.”

“No.  I’m not going to start at present.  It’s too hot.”

Hassan showed his long teeth, which looked like the teeth of an animal.  Isaacson knew a protest was coming.