“It closes at one,” I said.
The moon, now some four days past the full, was but newly risen, but star-light is very real in Egypt, and presently we could just make out the pale pointed sail of a felucca going slowly close-hauled to windward.
“That will be Welfare,” said Edmund.
“Isn’t he too soon?”
“He’s all right. He’ll go up to windward till he sees the lights go out, then take the sail off her and drift down here. I arranged to switch the light on and off a bit to show him where we are.”
All the windows on our side of the hotel were dark, as the building fortunately faced on to the side street. The company at the café was thinning, and the guests who remained were calling for their final drinks.
“It’s about time to get to work,” Edmund said, “but I’m going to have a whisky and soda brought up. It will look more natural to Van Ermengen if he has any suspicions; besides, I want it.”
“No, there is nothing else to-night,” he said to the Arab who brought up the tray, and then he started methodically to take one of the bedsteads to pieces.
He took the two long pieces that formed the sides of the bed and lashed the ends of them together, crossing each other. From this cross he slung the block he had been experimenting with, and rove an end of the long rope through it.
I held the rods for him as he worked, greatly admiring the sailor-like precision and neatness, the economy of rope and of knots, with which the implement was completed. He put out the light and brought the whole arrangement to the window, and in a few seconds he had all the essentials of a jib-crane projecting over the balcony and firmly lashed to it.