“Ruby Armine.

     “P.S.  Don’t let your men make too much noise when passing us.  Nigel
     sleeps at odd times.  Perhaps wiser to pole up along the opposite
     bank.”

* * * * *

Yes, the detective had been right—­of course.

Isaacson read the letter again, and this time slowly.  The handwriting was large, clear, and determined, but here and there it seemed to waver, a word turned down.  He fancied he detected signs of—­

He read the postscript four times.  If the handwriting had ever wavered, it had recovered itself in the postscript.  As he gazed at it, he felt as if he were looking at a proclamation.

He heard a sound, almost as if a soft-footed animal were padding towards him.

“My gentlemans, the Noobian peoples waitin’ for what you say to the nice lady.”

Isaacson got up and looked over the rail.

Below lay a white felucca containing two sailors, splendidly handsome black men, who were squatting on their haunches and smoking cigarettes.  In the stern of the boat, behind a comfortable seat with a back, was Hamza, praying.  As Isaacson looked down, the sailors saluted.  But Hamza did not see him.  Hamza bowed down his forehead to the wood, raised himself up, holding his hands to his legs, and prostrated himself again.  For a moment Isaacson watched him, absorbed.

“Hamza very good donkey-boy, always prayin’.”

It was Hassan’s eternal voice.  Isaacson jerked himself up from the rail.

“Ask if the lady expected an answer,” he said.  “They don’t speak English, I suppose?”

“No, my gentlemans.”

He spoke in Arabic.  A sailor replied.  Hamza always prayed.

“The lady him say p’raps you writin’ somethin’.”

“Very well.”

Isaacson sat down, took a pen and paper.  But what should be his answer?  He read Mrs. Armine’s letter again.  She was Nigel’s wife, mistress of Nigel’s dahabeeyah.  It was impossible, therefore, for him to insist on going on board, not merely without an invitation, but having been requested not to come.  And yet, had she told Nigel his friend was in Egypt?  Apparently not.  She did not say she had or she had not.  But the detective felt certain she had held her peace.  Well, the sailors were waiting, and even that bronze Hamza could not pray for ever.

Isaacson dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote.

“That’s for the lady,” he said, giving the note to Hassan.

As Hassan went down the stairs, holding up his djelabieh, Isaacson got up and looked once more over the rail.  His eyes met the eyes of Hamza.  But Hamza did not salute him.  Isaacson was not even certain that Hamza saw him.  The sailors threw away the ends of their cigarettes.  They bent to the oars.  The boat shot out into the gold.  And once more Isaacson heard the murmuring chant that suggested doom.  It diminished, it dwindled, it died utterly away.  And always he leant upon the rail, and he watched the creeping felucca, and he wished that he were in it, going to see his friend.