He held out his strong, nervous hand, so browned by the sun that it needed little staining for the part he had played—and was to play no more. As if mechanically, Monny Gilder laid her hand in it. They looked into each other's eyes, which were almost on a level, so tall was she. Then Antoun Effendi turned abruptly away, forgetting apparently that he had not taken leave of Brigit or me.
"Let's go upstairs at once, dear, and see our rooms," Biddy said quickly.
An instant later, I stood alone on the veranda. But I knew well enough where to find Captain Anthony Fenton when I wanted him, although the death knell of Antoun was sounding. I was not in the least melancholy, and despite the tense emotion of that short scene, I had never felt less sentimental in my life. My whole being concentrated itself in a desire to visit the post-office, and to bash Sir Marcus Lark's head.
When Anthony came up for his farewell I had been asking Brigit and Monny if they expected letters at the Poste Restante. Both said no, but advised by me, they gave me their cards, armed with which I could ask for letters and obtain them if there were any. "It's very unlikely any one will address me there," Biddy had assured me. "The only letter I'm hoping for will come to the hotel."
I was not jealous: because I was sure the said letter was from Esmé O'Brien, now for weal or woe Mrs. Halloran. The letter I hoped for would be from a very different person, though if it materialized it would certainly mention the runaway bride. And if such a letter came to Khartum, the place to look for it, I thought, would be the Poste Restante. The writer not being a personal friend of Mrs. O'Brien, and presumably not knowing Khartum, could not be certain at which hotel she would stop.
I was hurrying away, a few minutes later, to prove once and for all whether I were a budding Sherlock Holmes or merely an imaginative fool, when a servant came out from the hotel and handed me a telegram.
"Lark!" I read the signature at the end with a snort of rage. "I wonder he has the cheek to—" But by that time I was getting at the meat of the message. "What the dev—by Jove! Here's a complication!" I heard myself mutter a running accompaniment to Marcus Lark's words—
This is what he had to say on two sheets of paper:
LORD ERNEST BORROW, Grand Hotel, Khartum:
In train leaving Assuan met man from Meröe told me work begun at our place strange news don't understand but sure you two haven't gone ahead of bargain must be foul play or else mistake but thought matter too serious go on north left train returned Assuan caught government steamer for Halfa just arrived too late for train de luxe but will proceed by ordinary train to camp better meet me there soon as possible leaving boat people take care of themselves. Wire Kabushîa Lark.