Yes, the detective had been right—of course.
Isaacson read the letter again, and this time slowly. The handwriting was large, clear, and determined, but here and there it seemed to waver, a word turned down. He fancied he detected signs of—
He read the postscript four times. If the handwriting had ever wavered, it had recovered itself in the postscript. As he gazed at it, he felt as if he were looking at a proclamation.
He heard a sound, almost as if a soft-footed animal were padding towards him.
"My gentlemans, the Noobian peoples waitin' for what you say to the nice lady."
Isaacson got up and looked over the rail.
Below lay a white felucca containing two sailors, splendidly handsome black men, who were squatting on their haunches and smoking cigarettes. In the stern of the boat, behind a comfortable seat with a back, was Hamza, praying. As Isaacson looked down, the sailors saluted. But Hamza did not see him. Hamza bowed down his forehead to the wood, raised himself up, holding his hands to his legs, and prostrated himself again. For a moment Isaacson watched him, absorbed.
"Hamza very good donkey-boy, always prayin'."
It was Hassan's eternal voice. Isaacson jerked himself up from the rail.
"Ask if the lady expected an answer," he said. "They don't speak English, I suppose?"