M. Hercule Poirot spent his evening listening to an account of Mrs Otterbourne’s mission as a writer.

On his way to his cabin that night he encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was leaning over the rail and as she turned her head he was struck by the look of acute misery on her face. There was now no insouciance, no malicious defiance, no dark flaming triumph.

‘Good night, Mademoiselle.’

‘Good night, Monsieur Poirot.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘You were surprised to find me here?’

‘I was not so much surprised as sorry – very sorry…’ He spoke gravely.

‘You mean sorry – for me?’

‘That is what I meant. You have chosen, Mademoiselle, the dangerous course… As we here in this boat have embarked on a journey, so you too have embarked on your own private journey – a journey on a swiftmoving river, between dangerous rocks, and heading for who knows what currents of disaster…’

‘Why do you say this?’

‘Because it is true… You have cut the bonds that moored you to safety. I doubt now if you could turn back if you would.’

She said very slowly: ‘That is true…’ Then she flung her head back. ‘Ah, well – one must follow one’s star – wherever it leads.’

‘Beware, Mademoiselle, that it is not a false star…’

She laughed and mimicked the parrot cry of the donkey boys:

‘That very bad star, sir! That star fall down…’

He was just dropping off to sleep when the murmur of voices awoke him. It was Simon Doyle’s voice he heard, repeating the same words he had used when the steamer left Shellal.

‘We’ve got to go through with it now…’

‘Yes,’ thought Hercule Poirot to himself, ‘we have got to go through with it now…’

He was not happy.

The steamer arrived early next morning at Ez-Zebua. Cornelia Robson, her face beaming, a large flapping hat on her head, was one of the first to hurry on shore. Cornelia was not good at snubbing people. She was of an amiable disposition and disposed to like all her fellow creatures. The sight of Hercule Poirot, in a white suit, pink shirt, large black bow tie and a white topee, did not make her wince as the aristocratic Miss Van Schuyler would assuredly have winced. As they walked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening,

‘Your companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?’

‘Well, you see, Cousin Marie – that’s Miss Van Schuyler – never gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, that’s her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn’t one of the best temples – but she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.’

‘That was very gracious of her,’ said Poirot dryly.

The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.

‘Oh, she’s very kind. It’s simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I’m a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.’

‘And you have enjoyed it – yes?’

‘Oh, it’s been wonderful. I’ve seen Italy – Venice and Padua and Pisa – and then Cairo – only Cousin Marie wasn’t very well in Cairo, so I couldn’t get around much, and now this wonderful trip up to Wadi Halfa and back.’

Poirot said, smiling:

‘You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.’

He looked thoughtfully from her to the silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.

‘She’s very nice looking, isn’t she?’ said Cornelia, following his glance. ‘Only kind of scornful looking. She’s very English, of course. She’s not as lovely as Mrs Doyle. I think Mrs Doyle’s the loveliest, the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen! And her husband just worships the ground she walks on, doesn’t he? I think that greyhaired lady is kind of distinguished looking, don’t you? She’s a cousin of a duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night. But she isn’t actually titled herself, is she?’

She prattled on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone:

‘This temple was dedicated to Egyptian God Amon and the Sun God Re-Harakhte – whose symbol was hawk’s head…’

It droned on. Dr Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled to himself in German. He preferred the written word.

Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyle’s, was listening attentively, seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.

‘Sixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. An Egyptian live wire.’

‘A big business man, Uncle Andrew.’

Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.

‘You look fine this morning, Linnet. I’ve been a mite worried about you lately. You’ve looked kind of peaky.’

Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.

It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie looked less sulky. Linnet seemed almost light hearted.

Pennington said to her: ‘It’s tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon, but there are just one or two things-’

‘Why, of course, Uncle Andrew.’ Linnet at once became businesslike. ‘My marriage has made a difference, of course.’

‘That’s just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.’

‘Why not now?’

Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quite untenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloon and the cabin. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr Ferguson – who was drinking beer at a small table in the middle, his legs encased in their dirty flannel trousers stuck out in front of him, whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals of drinking – M. Hercule Poirot, who was sitting before him, and Miss Van Schuyler, who was sitting in a corner reading a book on Egypt.

‘That’s fine,’ said Andrew Pennington. He left the saloon.

Linnet and Simon smiled at each other – a slow smile that took a few minutes to come to full fruition.

He said: ‘All right, sweet?’

‘Yes, still all right… Funny how I’m not rattled any more.’

Simon said with deep conviction in his tone: ‘You’re marvellous.’

Pennington came back. He brought with him a sheaf of closely written documents.

‘Mercy!’ cried Linnet. ‘Have I got to sign all these?’

Andrew Pennington was apologetic.

‘It’s tough on you, I know. But I’d just like to get your affairs put in proper shape. First of all there’s the lease of the Fifth Avenue property… then there are the Western Land Concessions…’

He talked on, rustling and sorting the papers. Simon yawned.

The door to the deck swung open and Mr Fanthorp came in. He gazed aimlessly round, then strolled forward and stood by Poirot looking out at the pale blue water and the yellow enveloping sands…

‘-you sign just there,’ concluded Pennington, spreading a paper before Linnet and indicating a space.

Linnet picked up the document and glanced through it. She turned back once to the first page, then, taking up the fountain pen Pennington had laid beside her, she signed her name Linnet Doyle…

Pennington took away the paper and spread out another. Fanthorp wandered over in their direction. He peered out through the side window at something that seemed to interest him on the bank they were passing.