of diplomatic cross-examination would induce her to revealanything further.
"Ah," she cried at last, clenching her small hands and starting to herfeet in a sudden frenzy of despair which amazed him, "if you only knewthe horror of it all--ah! if you only knew, m'sieur, you would, I amsure, pity me."
"Horror of it!" he gasped. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing--nothing," she said hastily, in a voice thick with emotion."Let us return. We must get back. He will be so angry at my absence."
"Then you really fear him!" Waldron exclaimed in surprise.
She made no reply. Only as he laid his hand lightly upon her arm toguide her back along the dark path to where the native boat was moored,he felt her shudder.
He walked in silence, utterly bewildered at her sudden change ofdemeanour. What could it mean? In his career as a diplomat in theforeign capitals he had met thousands of pretty women of all grades, butnone so sweet or so dainty as herself; none with a voice so musical, notone whose charm was so ineffable.
Yes, against his own inclination he had become fascinated by her, andalready he felt that her interests were his own.
They stepped into the boat, being greeted by salaams from theblack-faced crew, and then began to row back.
She uttered not a word. Even when one of the boys brought out the bigtom-tom from beneath the seat, she signed to him to put it away. Musicjarred upon her nerves.
Waldron sat in wonder, uttering no word, and the black-faced crew werein turn surprised at the sudden silence. Ali spoke some low, soft wordsin Arabic to his companions which, had the pair been acquainted withthat language, would have caused them annoyance. "They are lovers," heremarked wisely. "They have quarrelled--eh?" And to that theory thetwo boys agreed.
And so there was silence in the boat until it touched the landing-stepsopposite the great hotel, rising dark in the white desert moonshine.
On returning to his room Hubert Waldron found a telegram from Madridawaiting him. It was from an intimate friend of his, signed "Beatriz."
He flung himself into a cane chair and re-read the long and ratherrambling message. Then he rose, lit a cigarette savagely, and stoodgazing across the broad moonlit waters. That telegram was a disquietingone. Its sender was Beatriz Rojas de Ruata, of the Madrid Opera, thetall, thin, black-haired dancer, who had of late been the rage inPetersburg and Paris, and who was now contemplating a season in London.
From life in the slums of Barcelona, where her father was a wharflabourer, she had in three short years risen to the top of herprofession, and was now the idol of the _jeunesse doree_ of Madrid;though, be it said, the only man she really cared for was the calm-facedEnglish diplomat who had never flattered her, and who had always treatedher with such profound and courtly respect.
But that message had sorely perturbed him. It was an impetuous demandthat he should return from Egypt and meet her in London. A year ago hehad promised to show her London, and now that she had accepted a mostlucrative engagement she held him to his promise.
"Yes," he murmured to himself as he paced the room with its bedenshrouded in mosquito curtains, "I've been a confounded fool. Ithought myself more level-headed, but, like all the others, I suppose,I've succumbed to the bright eyes and sweet smiles of a pretty woman."
For a full twenty minutes or so he pondered, uncertain what reply tosend. In any case, even if he left for London on the following morning,he could not arrive at Charing Cross for fully ten days.
At last he took up his cane and hat, and descending in the lift, crossedthe great hotel garden, making his way down the short hill towards thetown. It was then nearly eleven o'clock, and all was silent anddeserted except for the armed Arab watchman in his hooded cloak. On hisright as he walked lay a small public garden, a prettily laid out spacerising on the huge boulders which form the gorge of the Nile--a placefilled by high feathery palms, flaming poinsettias, and a wealth oftropical flowers.
But as he passed the entrance in the shadow there suddenly broke uponhis ears a woman's voice, speaking rapidly in Italian--a language withwhich he was well conversant.
He halted instantly. The voice was Lola's! In the shadow he could justdistinguish two forms, that of a man and a woman.
He drew back in breathless amazement. Mademoiselle's eagerness toreturn across from Elephantine was now explained. She had kept a secrettryst.
As he watched, he heard her speaking quickly and angrily in animperative tone. The man was standing in the full moonlight, andWaldron could see him quite plainly--a dark, short-bearded man ofmiddle-age and middle-height, wearing a soft felt Tyrolese hat.
He made no response, but only bowed low at his unceremonious dismissal.
The stranger was about to leave her when suddenly, as though onreflection, she exclaimed, still speaking in perfect Italian:
"No. Return here in half an hour. I will go back to the hotel andwrite my reply. Until then do not be seen. Gigleux must never knowthat you have been here--you understand? I know that you will remain myfriend, though everyone's hand is now raised against me, but if Gigleuxsuspected that you had been here he would cable home at once--and thenwho knows what might not happen! I could never return. I would ratherkill myself?"
"The signorina may rely upon my absolute discretion," declared the manin a low, intense voice.
"_Benissimo_," was her hurried response. "Return here in half an hour,and I will give you my answer. It is hard, cruel, inhuman of them totreat me thus! But it is, I suppose, only what I must expect. I amonly a woman, and I must make the sacrifice."
And with a wave of her small, ungloved hand she dismissed him, and tooka path which led through the public garden back to the hotel by ashorter cut.
Meanwhile Waldron strode on past the railway station to the quay,glanced at his watch, and then, half an hour later, after he haddispatched his telegram he was lurking in the shadows at that same spot.
He watched Lola hand a letter to the stranger, and wish him "_Addio ebuon viaggio_!"
Then he followed the bearded man down to the station, where, from aEuropean official of whom he made a confidential inquiry, he learnt thatthe stranger had arrived in Assouan from Cairo only two hours before,bearing a return ticket to Europe by the mail route via Port Said andBrindisi.
With curiosity he watched the Italian leave by the mail for Cairo tenminutes later, and then turned away and retraced his steps to theCataract Hotel, plunged deep in thought.
There was a mystery somewhere--a strange and very grave mystery.
What could be that message of such extreme importance and secrecy thatit could not be trusted to the post?
Who was old Gigleux of whom Mademoiselle Duprez went in such fear? Wasshe really what she represented herself to be?
No. He felt somehow assured that all was not as it should be. Amystery surrounded both uncle and niece, while the angular Miss Lambertremained as silent and impenetrable as the sphinx.
Diplomat and man of the world as was Hubert Waldron--a man who had runthe whole gamut of life in the gay centres of Europe--he was naturallysuspicious, for the incident of that night seemed inexplicable.
Something most secret and important must be in progress to necessitatethe travelling of a special messenger from Europe far away into UpperEgypt, merely to deliver a letter and obtain a response.
"Yes," he murmured to himself as he passed through the portals of thehotel, which were thrown open to him by two statuesque Nubian servants,who bowed low as he passed. "Yes; there are some curious features aboutthis affair. I will watch and discover the truth. Lola is in somesecret and imminent peril. Of that I feel absolutely convinced."
CHAPTER THREE.
IN THE HOLY OF HOLIES.
Five days later.
Boulos, the faithful Egyptian dragoman, in his red fez and long caftanof yellow silk reaching to his heels, stood leaning over the bows of thesmall white steamer which was slowly wending its way around the manycurves of the mighty river which lay between the I
sland of Philae andthe Second Cataract at Wady Haifa, the gate of the Sudan.
No railway runs through that wild desert of rock and sand, and the roadto Khartoum lies by water over those sharp rocks and ever-shiftingshoals where navigation is always dangerous, and progress only possibleby daylight.
Boulos, the dark, pleasant-faced man who is such an inveterate gossip,who knows much more of Egyptology than his parrot-talk to travellers,and who is popular with all those who go to and fro between Cairo andKhartoum, stood chatting in Arabic with the white-bearded, black-faced_reis_, or pilot.
The latter, wearing a white turban, was wrapped in a red cloak thoughthe sun was blazing. He squatted upon a piece of carpet in the bows,idly smoking a cigarette from dawn till sundown, and navigating thevessel by raising his right or left hand as signal to the man at thehelm.
A Nile steamer has no captain. The Nubian _reis_ is supreme over thenative crew, and being a man of
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