“You’ve never seen Baroudi,” Nigel said.  “He’s one of the handsomest fellows I’ve ever clapped eyes on.  As strong as a bull, I should think; enormously rich.  A very good chap, too, I should say.  But I don’t fancy my wife liked him.  He’s hardly a woman’s man.”

“Why d’you think that?”

“I don’t know.  His manner, perhaps.  And he doesn’t seem to bother about them.  But we only saw him about twice, except on the ship coming out.  He dined here one night, and the next day we went over the Loulia with him, and we’ve never set eyes on him since.  He went up river, and we went down, to the Fayyum.”

“But—­but you went off alone to the Fayyum, didn’t you?  At first, I mean?”

“Oh, yes.  The morning after Baroudi had sailed for Armant.”

“And Mrs. Armine was alone here for some time?”

“Yes.  Just while I was getting things a little ship-shape for her.  But we didn’t have much luxury after all.  However, she didn’t mind that.”

“Wasn’t—­don’t you think it may have been rather dull for Mrs. Armine during that time?”

“Which time?  D’you mean in the Fayyum?”

“I mean, while you were away in the Fayyum.”

“I dare say it was.  I expect it was.  But why?”

“Well—­”

Isaacson threw away his cigar.

“Not going to finish your cigar?” said Nigel.

He was evidently beginning to be surprised by his friend’s words and manner.

“No,” Isaacson said.  “I don’t want to smoke to-night; I want to talk.  I must talk to you.  You remember our conversation on the night of Mrs. Armine’s departure?”

“About my illness?”

“Yes.”

“Of course I do.”

“I said then that I wouldn’t accept the usual money compensation for anything I had been able to do for you.”

“Yes, but—­”

“And I told you you could compensate me in another way.”

“What way?”

“That’s what I’m going to try and tell you now.  But—­but it’s not easy.  I want you to understand—­I want you to understand.”

There was a moment of silence.  Then Nigel said: 

“But what?  Understand what?”

“Armine, do you believe thoroughly in my friendship for you?”

“Yes.”

“You believe, you know, it’s a friendship that is quite disinterested?”

“I’m sure it is.”

“And yet you have treated me all this time with almost as much reserve as if I had been a mere acquaintance.”

Nigel looked uncomfortable.

“I didn’t mean—­I am deeply grateful to you,” he said; “deeply grateful.  You have saved my life.”

“I have, indeed,” Isaacson said, solemnly.  “If I had not followed you up the river, you would certainly have died.”

“Are you—­you said you would tell me what was the matter with me.”

“I’m going to.”

“What was it?”

“The bath at Kous had nothing to do with it.  As to sunstroke, you never had it.  You began to feel unwell—­didn’t you?—­soon after you started for your voyage?”