“Isn't it sad, Mr Bellairs,” she said, “we sail to-morrow. I love Luxor. I can't bear to leave it.”
Bellairs suddenly turned and hurried away. He could no longer trust himself. There was blood before his eyes.
It was dawn. The Nile was smooth as a river of oil. Light mists rolled upwards gently, discovering the rosy flanks of the Libyan mountains to the sun. The sky began to glimmer with a dancing golden heat. On the brown bank where the boats lie in the shadow a man stood alone. His hands were tightly clenched. His lips worked silently. His eyes were fixed in a stare. And away in the distance up river, a tiny trail of smoke floated towards Luxor. It came from a steam tug that drew a following dahabeeyah.
The Queen Hatasoo was on her voyage to Assouan.