Miss Van Schuyler was established in the best corner. Cornelia knelt in front of her, her arms outstretched with a skein of grey wool upon them. Miss Bowers was sitting very upright reading the Saturday Evening Post.

Poirot wandered gently onward down the starboard deck. As he passed round the stern of the boat he almost ran into a woman who turned a startled face towards him – a dark, piquant, Latin face. She was neatly dressed in black and had been standing talking to a big burly man in uniform – one of the engineers, by the look of him. There was a queer expression on both their faces – guilt and alarm. Poirot wondered what they had been talking about.

He rounded the stern and continued his walk along the port side. A cabin door opened and Mrs Otterbourne emerged and nearly fell into his arms. She was wearing a scarlet satin dressing gown.

‘So sorry,’ she apologized. ‘Dear Mr Poirot – so very sorry. The motion – just the motion, you know. Never did have any sea legs. If the boat would only keep still…’ She clutched at his arm. ‘It’s the pitching I can’t stand… Never really happy at sea… And left all alone here hour after hour. That girl of mine – no sympathy – no understanding of her poor old mother who’s done everything for her…’ Mrs Otterbourne began to weep. ‘Slaved for her I have – worn myself to the bone – to the bone. A grande amoureuse – that’s what I might have been – a grande amoureuse – sacrificed everything – everything… And nobody cares! But I’ll tell everyone – I’ll tell them now – how she neglects me – how hard she is – making me come on this journey – bored to death… I’ll go and tell them now-’

She surged forward. Poirot gently repressed the action.

‘I will send her to you, Madame. Re-enter your cabin. It is best that way-’

‘No. I want to tell everyone – everyone on the boat-’

‘It is too dangerous, Madame. The sea is too rough. You might be swept overboard.’

Mrs Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.

‘You think so. You really think so?’

‘I do.’

He was successful. Mrs Otterbourne wavered, faltered and re-entered her cabin.

Poirot’s nostrils twitched once or twice. Then he nodded and walked on to where Rosalie Otterbourne was sitting between Mrs Allerton and Tim.

‘Your mother wants you, Mademoiselle.’

She had been laughing quite happily. Now her face clouded over. She shot a quick suspicious look at him and hurried along the deck.

‘I can’t make that child out,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘She varies so. One day she’s friendly – the next day, she’s positively rude.’

‘Thoroughly spoilt and bad-tempered,’ said Tim.

Mrs Allerton shook her head.

‘No. I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s unhappy.’

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

‘Oh, well, I suppose we’ve all got our private troubles.’ His voice sounded hard and curt.

A booming noise was heard.

‘Lunch,’ cried Mrs Allerton delightedly. ‘I’m starving.’

That evening, Poirot noticed that Mrs Allerton was sitting talking to Miss Van Schuyler. As he passed, Mrs Allerton closed one eye and opened it again.

She was saying, ‘Of course at Calfries Castle – the dear Duke-’

Cornelia, released from attendance, was out on the deck. She was listening to Dr Bessner, who was instructing her somewhat ponderously in Egyptology as culled from the pages of Baedeker. Cornelia listened with rapt attention.

Leaning over the rail Tim Allerton was saying:

‘Anyhow, it’s a rotten world…’

Rosalie Otterbourne answered:

‘It’s unfair… some people have everything.’

Poirot sighed. He was glad that he was no longer young.

On the Monday morning various expressions of delight and appreciation were heard on the deck of the Karnak. The steamer was moored to the bank and a few hundred yards away, the morning sun just striking it, was a great temple carved out of the face of the rock. Four colossal figures, hewn out of the cliff, look out eternally over the Nile and face the rising sun.

Cornelia Robson said incoherently:

‘Oh, Monsieur Poirot, isn’t it wonderful? I mean they’re so big and peaceful – and looking at them makes one feel that one’s so small – and rather like an insect – and that nothing matters very much really, does it?’

Mr Fanthorp, who was standing near by, murmured,

‘Very – er – impressive.’

‘Grand, isn’t it?’ said Simon Doyle, strolling up. He went on confidentially to Poirot: ‘You know, I’m not much of a fellow for temples and sightseeing and all that, but a place like this sort of gets you, if you know what I mean. Those old Pharaohs must have been wonderful fellows.’

The other had drifted away. Simon lowered his voice.

‘I’m no end glad we came on this trip. It’s – well, it’s cleared things up. Amazing why it should – but there it is. Linnet’s got her nerve back. She says it’s because she’s actually faced the business at last.’

‘I think that is very probable,’ said Poirot.

‘She says that when she actually saw Jackie on the boat she felt terrible – and then, suddenly, it didn’t matter any more. We’re both agreed that we won’t try to dodge her any more. We’ll just meet her on her own ground and show her that this ridiculous stunt of hers doesn’t worry us a bit. It’s just damned bad form – that’s all. She thought she’d got us badly rattled – but now, well, we just aren’t rattled any more. That ought to show her.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.

‘So that’s splendid, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes, yes.’

Linnet came along the deck. She was dressed in a soft shade of apricot linen. She was smiling. She greeted Poirot with no particular enthusiasm, just gave him a cool nod and then drew her husband away.

Poirot realized with a momentary flicker of amusement that he had not made himself popular by his critical attitude. Linnet was used to unqualified admiration of all she was or did. Hercule Poirot had sinned noticeably against this creed.

Mrs Allerton, joining him, murmured:

‘What a difference in that girl! She looked worried and not very happy at Aswan. Today she looks so happy that one might almost be afraid she was fey.’

Before Poirot could respond as he meant, the party was called to order. The official dragoman took charge and the party was led ashore to visit Abu Simbel.

Poirot himself fell into step with Andrew Pennington.

‘It is your first visit to Egypt – yes?’ he asked.

‘Why, no, I was here in 1923. That is to say, I was in Cairo. I’ve never been this trip up the Nile before.’

‘You came over on the Carmanic, I believe – at least so Madame Doyle was telling me.’

Pennington shot a shrewd glance in his direction.

‘Why, yes, that is so,’ he admitted.

‘I wondered if you had happened to come across some friends of mine who were aboard – the Rushington Smiths.’

‘I can’t recall anyone of that name. The boat was full and we had bad weather. A lot of passengers hardly appeared, and in any case the voyage is so short one doesn’t get to know who is on board and who isn’t.’

‘Yes, that is very true. What a pleasant surprise your running into Madame Doyle and her husband. You had no idea they were married?’

‘No. Mrs Doyle had written me, but the letter was forwarded on and I only received it some days after our unexpected meeting in Cairo.’

‘You have known her for many years, I understand?’

‘Why, I should say I have, Monsieur Poirot. I’ve known Linnet Ridgeway since she was just a cute little thing so high-’ He made an illustrating gesture. ‘Her father and I were lifelong friends. A very remarkable man, Melhuish Ridgeway – and a very successful one.’