‘What do you here?’ asked the old woman, in broken English. ‘Are you from the ship?’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar, not knowing what else to say, or what excuse to give for his conduct.
The old woman’s eyes gleamed, and her wrinkled, parchment-like skin seemed to crumple up and almost crack. Her mouth expanded in what she no doubt meant for a smile, but Edgar thought it a diabolical grin, and Muriel Wylde shrank back.
‘Money—gold!’ said the woman hoarsely, her skinny hands extended like a couple of claws. ‘Gold, and you shall hear your fortune. The oldest Egyptian in Ismailia can speak truth.’
Edgar felt relieved; had the old woman guessed they were fugitives she might not have been so friendly. He looked at his companion, and said:
‘We shall be glad to hear our fortunes from you, mother. That is what we came for,’ and he took a sovereign out of his pocket.
The old Egyptian’s eyes fastened upon it, and her hand was stretched out.
‘Give me your hand,’ she said to Miss Wylde.
The girl put out her open hand reluctantly, and the Egyptian gazed at it so attentively that she appeared to have forgotten the coin.
‘You have been in trouble, and he has saved you,’ croaked the woman.