Twelve

ICornelia Robson stood inside the temple of Abu Simbel. It was the evening of the following day—a hot still evening. The Karnak was anchored once more at Abu Simbel to permit a second visitto be made to the temple, this time by artificial light. The difference this made was considerable,and Cornelia commented wonderingly on the fact to Mr. Ferguson, who was standing¹ by her side.

“Why, you see it ever so much better now!” she exclaimed. “All those enemies having theirheads cut off by the King—they just stand right out. That’s a cute kind of castle there that I nevernoticed before. I wish Dr. Bessner was here, he’d tell me what it was.”

“How you can stand that old fool beats me,” said Ferguson gloomily.

“Why, he’s just one of the kindest men I’ve ever met.”

“Pompous old bore.”

“I don’t think you ought to speak that way.”

The young man gripped her suddenly by the arm. They were just emerging from the temple intothe moonlight.

“Why do you stick being bored by fat old men—and bullied² and snubbed by a vicious oldharridan?”

“Why, Mr. Ferguson!”

“Haven’t you got any spirit? Don’t you know you’re just as good as she is?”

“But I’m not!” Cornelia spoke³ with honest conviction.

“You’re not as rich; that’s all you mean.”

“No, it isn’t. Cousin Marie’s very cultured, and—”

“Cultured!” The young man let go of her arm as suddenly as he had taken it. “That word makesme sick.”

Cornelia looked at him in alarm.

“She doesn’t like you talking to me, does she?” asked the young man.

Cornelia blushed and looked embarrassed.

“Why? Because she thinks I’m not her social equal! Pah! Doesn’t that make you see red?”

Cornelia faltered⁴ out: “I wish you wouldn’t get so mad about things.”

“Don’t you realize—and you an American—that everyone is born free and equal?”

“They’re not,” said Cornelia with calm certainty.

“My good girl, it’s part of your constitution!”

“Cousin Marie says politicians aren’t gentlemen,” said Cornelia. “And of course people aren’tequal. It doesn’t make sense. I know I’m kind of homely-looking, and I used to feel mortifiedabout it sometimes, but I’ve got over that. I’d like to have been born elegant and beautiful likeMrs. Doyle, but I wasn’t, so I guess it’s no use worrying.”

“Mrs. Doyle!” exclaimed Ferguson with deep contempt. “She’s the sort of woman who ought tobe shot as an example.”

Cornelia looked at him anxiously.

“I believe it’s your digestion,” she said kindly⁵. “I’ve got a special kind of pepsin that CousinMarie tried once. Would you like to try it?”

Mr. Ferguson said: “You’re impossible!”

He turned and strode away. Cornelia went on towards the boat. Just as she was crossing thegangway he caught her up once more.

“You’re the nicest person on the boat,” he said. “And mind you remember it.”

Blushing with pleasure Cornelia repaired to the observation saloon. Miss Van Schuyler wasconversing with Dr. Bessner—an agreeable conversation dealing⁶ with certain royal patients of his.

Cornelia said guiltily: “I do hope I haven’t been a long time, Cousin Marie.”

Glancing at her watch, the old lady snapped: “You haven’t exactly hurried, my dear. And whathave you done with my velvet⁷ stole?”

Cornelia looked round.

“Shall I see if it’s in the cabin, Cousin Marie?”

“Of course it isn’t! I had it just after dinner in here, and I haven’t moved out of the place. It wason that chair.”

Cornelia made a desultory⁸ search.

“I can’t see it anywhere, Cousin Marie.”

“Nonsense!” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Look about.” It was an order such as one might give to adog, and in her doglike fashion Cornelia obeyed. The quiet Mr. Fanthorp, who was sitting at atable near by, rose and assisted her. But the stole could not be found.

The day had been such an unusually hot and sultry one that most people had retired⁹ early aftergoing ashore¹⁰ to view the temple. The Doyles were playing bridge with Pennington and Race at atable in a corner. The only other occupant of the saloon was Hercule Poirot, who was yawning hishead off at a small table near the door.

Miss Van Schuyler, making a Royal Progress bedward, with Cornelia and Miss Bowers¹¹ inattendance, paused by his chair. He sprang politely to his feet, stifling¹² a yawn of gargantuandimensions.

Miss Van Schuyler said: “I have only just realized who you are, Monsieur Poirot. I may tell youthat I have heard of you from my old friend Rufus Van Aldin. You must tell me about your casessometime.”

Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little through their sleepiness, bowed in an exaggerated manner.

With a kindly but condescending¹³ nod, Miss Van Schuyler passed on.

Poirot yawned once more. He felt heavy and stupid with sleep and could hardly keep his eyesopen. He glanced over at the bridge players, absorbed in their game, then at young Fanthorp, whowas deep in a book. Apart from them the saloon was empty.

He passed through the swing door out on to the deck. Jacqueline de Bellefort, comingprecipitately along the deck, almost collided with him.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle.”

She said: “You look sleepy, Monsieur Poirot.”

He admitted it frankly¹⁴:

“Mais oui—I am consumed with sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It has been a day veryclose and oppressive.”

“Yes.” She seemed to brood over it. “It’s been the sort of day when things—snap! Break! Whenone can’t go on….”

Her voice was low and charged with passion. She looked not at him, but towards the sandyshore. Her hands were clenched¹⁵, rigid….

Suddenly the tension relaxed. She said: “Good night, Monsieur Poirot.”

“Good night, Mademoiselle.”

Her eyes met his, just for a swift moment. Thinking it over the next day, he came to theconclusion that there had been appeal in that glance. He was to remember it afterwards.

Then he passed on to his cabin and she went towards the saloon.

 

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