“Peut-être. But I tell you, I am not happy, my friend. If I am right, and after all I am constantly in the habit of being right”—Race smiled into his moustache at this typical utterance—“then there is matter for grave inquietude. And now, you come to add yet another complication. You tell me that there is a man on the Karnak who kills.”
“He doesn’t usually kill charming young ladies.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
“I am afraid, my friend,” he said. “I am afraid…Today, I advised this lady, Madame Doyle, to go with her husband to Khartoum, not to return on this boat. But they would not agree. I pray to Heaven that we may arrive at Shellal without catastrophe.”
“Aren’t you taking rather a gloomy view?”
Poirot shook his head.
“I am afraid,” he said simply. “Yes, I, Hercule Poirot, I’m afraid….”
Twelve
I
Cornelia Robson stood inside the temple of Abu Simbel. It was the evening of the following day—a hot still evening. The Karnak was anchored once more at Abu Simbel to permit a second visit to be made to the temple, this time by artificial light. The difference this made was considerable, and Cornelia commented wonderingly on the fact to Mr. Ferguson, who was standing by her side.
“Why, you see it
ever so much better now!” she exclaimed. “All those enemies having their heads cut off by the King—they just stand right out. That’s a cute kind of castle there that I never noticed before. I wish Dr. Bessner was here, he’d tell me what it was.”
“How you can stand that old fool beats me,” said Ferguson gloomily.
“Why, he’s just one of the kindest men I’ve ever met.”
“Pompous old bore.”
“I don’t think you ought to speak that way.”
The young man gripped her suddenly by the arm. They were just emerging from the temple into the moonlight.
“Why do you stick being bored by fat old men—and bullied and snubbed by a vicious old harridan?”
“Why, Mr. Ferguson!”
“Haven’t you got any spirit? Don’t you know you’re just as good as she is?”
“But I’m not!” Cornelia spoke with honest conviction.
“You’re not as rich; that’s all you mean.”
“No, it isn’t. Cousin Marie’s very cultured, and—”
“Cultured!” The young man let go of her arm as suddenly as he had taken it. “That word makes me sick.”
Cornelia looked at him in alarm.
“She doesn’t like you talking to me, does she?” asked the young man.
Cornelia blushed and looked embarrassed.
“Why? Because she thinks I’m not her social equal! Pah! Doesn’t that make you see red?”
Cornelia faltered out: “I wish you wouldn’t get so mad about things.”
“Don’t you realize—and you an American—that everyone is born free and equal?”