Mrs. Armine put down the cup she was lifting to her lips.

“Staying!  Doctor Isaacson!” she said, staring at her husband.

“I suppose so.”

“But—­do you mean he has left here?”

“Yes.  He went away last night.”

“Why?  Why?”

“Why?  Well—­well, we had a discussion.  It ended in a disagreement, and he left the house.”

“You quarrelled?”

“Yes, I suppose it might be called that.”

In the midst of her exhaustion, her physical misery and mental distraction, Mrs. Armine was conscious of a sharp pang.  It was like that of joy.

“Doctor Isaacson has left the house for good?” she said.

“Yes.  He won’t come here again.”

She drank some more tea, and went on eating.  For the first time for days she felt some appetite.  A shock of fear that had assailed her had passed away.  She remembered how Nigel had held her hand closely in the hall.

“But why did you quarrel?” she said, at last.

“Oh, we had a discussion—­” He paused.

“I know,” she said, “I know!  You did what I asked you to do.  You spoke about being strong enough now to let Doctor Isaacson go back to London.”

“Yes, I did that.”

“And about what we owed him?”

“Yes.”

“And he was angry?”

“I had been speaking of that; and—­Ruby, what do we owe him?  I—­I must send him a cheque.  I must send it to him to-night.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know.  He’ll open his mouth very wide, no doubt, now you’ve quarrelled.”

“I think—­I’m sure that you wrong him there,” Nigel said, slowly.

“Do you think so?  Well, I must go up and take a bath.  I may be a good while.”

“Let me come and sit with you.  Shall I?  I mean in a few minutes.”

“Not just yet.  Better try and calculate out your debt to Doctor Isaacson.”

She hastened away.  Directly she reached her room, she locked the door, went out on to the balcony, and looked across the river to the Loulia.  She saw the Egyptian flag flying.  Was Baroudi on board?  She must know, and immediately.  She rang the bell, and unlocked the door.

“Ibrahim!” she said, to the Nubian who appeared.

He retreated, and in a moment Ibrahim came, with his soft stride, up the staircase.

“Ibrahim,” she almost whispered, “is Baroudi on board the Loulia?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She could hardly repress an exclamation.

“He is?  Ibrahim”—­in her astonishment she put one hand on his shoulder and grasped it tightly—­“to-night, as soon as dinner is over, you are to have a felucca ready at the foot of the garden.  D’you understand?”

He looked at her very seriously.

“Can you manage to row me across to the Loulia without help?”

“My lady, I am as strong as Rameses the Second.”