trouble and danger had driven him, almost against his will, to Egypt, had bound him to silence about his arrival.  Then on the terrace at Shepheard’s an acquaintance casually met had increased his fears.  And so, in his quick, terse, unembroidered narrative, almost frightfully direct, he reached the scene in the temple of Edfou.  From that moment he spared Nigel no detail.  He described Mrs. Armine’s obvious terror at his appearance; her lies, her omission to tell him her husband was ill until she realized that he—­Isaacson—­had already heard of the illness in Luxor; her pretence that his dangerous malady was only a slight indisposition caused by grief at the death of Lord Harwich; her endeavor to prevent Isaacson from coming on board the Loulia; the note she had sent by the felucca; his walk by night on the river bank till he came to the dahabeeyah, his eavesdropping, and how the words he overheard decided him to insist on seeing Nigel; the interview with Mrs. Armine in the saloon, and how he had forced his way, by a stratagem, to the after part of the vessel.  Then he told of the contest with Doctor Hartley, already influenced by Mrs. Armine, and of the final victory, won—­how?  By a threat, which could only have frightened a guilty woman.

“I told Mrs. Armine that either I took charge of your case or that I communicated with the police authorities.  Then, and only then, she gave way.  She let me come on board to nurse you back to life.”

“How could you have known?” Nigel exclaimed, with intensely bitter defiance, when at last a pause came.  “Even if it had been true, how could you have known?”

“I did not know.  I suspected.  To save you, I drew a bow at a venture, and I hit the mark.  Your illness has been caused by the administration, through a long period of time, of minute doses of some preparation of lead—­almost impalpable doubtless, perhaps not to be distinguished from the sand that is blown from the desert.  And Mrs. Armine either herself gave or caused it to be given to you.”

“Liar!  Liar!”

“Did she ever herself give you food?  Did she ever prepare your coffee?”

Nigel started up in his chair with a furious spasm of energy.

“Go!  Go!” he uttered, in a sort of broken shout or cry.  His face was yellowish white.  His mouth was working.

“By God!  I’ll put you out!”

Grasping the arms of his chair, he stood up and he advanced upon Isaacson.

“I’ll go.  But I’ll leave you that!”

And Isaacson drew from his pocket the letter Mrs. Armine had sent by the felucca, and laid it on the coffee-table.

Then he turned quickly, and went away through the dark garden.

Before he was out of sight of the house, he looked back.  Nigel had sunk upon his chair in a collapsed attitude.

From the western bank of the Nile came the shrill, attenuated sound of the pipes, the deep throbbing of the daraboukkeh, the nasal chant of the Nubians.