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“To-morrow,” she said; “to-morrow for that, effendi,” and her beautiful eyes hung upon his.

“There’s corn in Egypt, but who knows who’ll reap it to-morrow? And I shall be in Cairo to-morrow.”

“I also shall be in Cairo to-morrow, O my lord and master!” she answered.

“God give you safe journey,” answered Dicky, for he knew it was useless to argue with a woman. He was wont to say that you can resolve all women into the same simple elements in the end.

Dicky gave a long perplexed whistle as he ran softly under the palms towards the Amenhotep, lounging on the mud bank. Then he dismissed the dancing-girl from his mind, for there was other work to do. How he should do it he planned as he opened the door of Fielding’s cabin softly and saw him in a deep sleep.

He was about to make haste on deck again, where his own nest was, when, glancing through the window, he saw Mahommed Ibrahim stealing down the bank to the boat’s side. He softly drew-to the little curtain of the cabin window, leaving only one small space through which the moonlight streamed. This ray of light fell just across the door through which Mahommed Ibrahim would enter. The cabin was a large one, the bed was in the middle. At the head was a curtain slung to protect the sleeper from the cold draughts of the night.

Dicky heard a soft footstep in the companionway, then before the door. He crept behind the curtain. Mahommed Ibrahim was listening without. Now the door opened very gently, for this careful Orderly had oiled the hinges that very day. The long flabby face, with the venomous eyes, showed in the streak of moonlight. Mahommed Ibrahim slid inside, took a step forward and drew a long knife from his sleeve. Another move towards the sleeping man, and he was near the bed; another, and he was beside it, stooping over…

Now, a cold pistol suddenly thrust in your face is disconcerting, no matter how well laid your plans. It was useless for the Orderly to raise his hand: a bullet is quicker than the muscles of the arm and the stroke of a knife.

The two stood silent an instant, the sleeping man peaceful between them. Dicky made a motion of his head towards the door. Mahommed Ibrahim turned. Dicky did not lower his pistol as the Orderly, obeying, softly went as he had softly come. Out through the doorway, up the stairs, then upon the moonlit deck, the cold muzzle of the pistol at the head of Mahommed Ibrahim.

Dicky turned now, and faced him, the pistol still pointed.

Then Mahommed Ibrahim spoke. “Malaish!” he said. That was contempt. It was Mahommedan resignation; it was the inevitable. “Malaish–no matter!” he said again; and “no matter” was in good English.

Dicky’s back was to the light, the Orderly’s face in the full glow of it. Dicky was standing beside the wire communicating with the engineer’s cabin. He reached out his hand and pulled the hook. The bell rang below. The two above stood silent, motionless, the pistol still levelled.

Holgate, the young Yorkshire engineer, pulled himself up to the deck two steps of the ladder at a time. “Yes, sir,” he said, coming forward quickly, but stopping short when he saw the levelled pistol. “Drop the knife, Ibrahim,” said Dicky in a low voice. The Orderly dropped the knife.

“Get it, Holgate,” said Dicky; and Holgate stooped and picked it up. Then he told Holgate the story in a few words. The engineer’s fingers tightened on the knife.

“Put it where it will be useful, Holgate,” said Dicky. Holgate dropped it inside his belt.

“Full steam, and turn her nose to Cairo. No time to lose!” He had told Holgate earlier in the evening to keep up steam.

He could see a crowd slowly gathering under the palm-trees between the shore and Beni Hassan. They were waiting for Mahommed Ibrahim’s signal.