It was inevitable.  While he had believed that very possibly her departure to Cairo was a flight from her husband, Isaacson had had a reason for his hesitation.  If Bella Donna vanished, why torture Nigel further?  Let him lose her, without knowing all that he had lost.  But if she were really coming back, and if he, Isaacson, must go—­and his departure in any case must shortly be inevitable—­then, cost what it might, the truth must be told.

As he paced the garden, he was trying to brace himself to the most difficult, the most dreadful duty life had so far imposed upon him.

When he went back to the terrace, Nigel was no longer there.  He had gone up to bed.

The next day passed without a word between the two men on the subject of the previous night.  They talked on indifferent topics.  But the cloud of mutual reserve once more enveloped them, and intercourse was uneasy.

Another day dawned.

Mrs. Armine had now been away for two nights, and, if she held to her announced plan, should leave Cairo on her return to Luxor on the evening of the following day.  No letter had been received from her.  The question in Isaacson’s mind was, would she come back?  If he spoke and she never returned, he would have stabbed his friend to the heart for no reason.  But if she did return and he had not spoken?

He was the prey of doubt, of contending instincts.  He did not know what to do.  But deep down within him was there not a voice that, like the ground swell of the ocean, murmured ever one thing, unwearied, persistent?

Sometimes he was aware of this voice and strove not to hear it, or not to heed it, this voice in the depths of a man, telling him that in the speaking of truth there is strength, and that out of weakness no good ever came yet, nor ever will come till the end of all things.

But the telling of certain truths seems too cruel; and how can one be cruel to a man returning to life with almost hesitating steps?

Perhaps something would happen to decide the matter, something—­some outside event.  What it might be Isaacson could not say to himself.  Indeed, it was almost childish to hope for anything.  He knew that.  And yet, unreasonably, he hoped.

And the event did happen, and on that day.

Late in the afternoon a telegram arrived for Nigel.  Ibrahim brought it out to the terrace where the two men were together, and Nigel opened it with an eagerness he did not try to disguise.

“It’s from her,” he said.  “She starts to-night, and will be here to-morrow morning early.  She’s in such a hurry to be back that she’s only staying the one night in Cairo.”

He looked across to Isaacson, who seemed startled.

“Is there anything the matter with you?” he asked.

“No.  Why?”

“You don’t look quite yourself.”

“I feel perfectly well.”

“Oh!”

Almost directly Isaacson made an excuse and got away.  His decision was made.  There was no more combat within him.  But his heart was heavy, was sick, and he felt an acute and frightful nervousness, such as he could imagine being experienced by a man under sentence of death, who is not told on what day the sentence will be carried out.  Apprehension fell over him like an icy rain in the sultry air.