"that's hercule poirot, the detective," said mrs allerton.

she and her son were sitting in brightly painted scarlet basket chairs outside the cataract hotel at

assuan. they were watching the retreating figures of two people - a short man dressed in a white

silk suit and a tall slim girl. tim allerton sat up in an unusually alert fashion.

"that funny little man?" he asked incredulously.

"that funny little man!"

"what on earth's he doing out here?" tim asked.

his mother laughed. "darling, you sound quite excited. why do men enjoy crime so much? i hate

detective stories and never read them. but i don't think monsieur poirot is here with any ulterior

motive. he's made a good deal of money and he's seeing life, i fancy."

"seems to have an eye for the best looking girl in the place."

mrs allerton tilted her head a little on one side as she considered the retreating backs of m. poirot

and his companion.

the girl by his side over-topped him by some three inches. she walked well, neither stiffly nor

slouchingly.

"i suppose she is quite good-looking," said mrs allerton.

she shot a little glance sideways at tim. somewhat to her amusement the fish rose at once.

"she's more than quite. pity she looks so bad-tempered and sulky."

"perhaps that's just expression, dear."

"unpleasant young devil, i think. but she's pretty enough."

the subject of these remarks was walking slowly by poirot's side. rosalie otterbourne was

twirling an unopened parasol, and her expression certainly bore out what tim had just said. she

looked both sulky and bad-tempered. her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown and the scarlet

line of her mouth was drawn downward.

they turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.

hercule poirot was prattling gently, his expression that of beatific good humour. he wore a white

silk suit, carefully pressed, and a panama hat and carried a highly ornamental fly whisk with a

sham amber handle.

"- it enchants me," he was saying. "the black rocks of elephantine, and the sun, and the little boats

on the river. yes, it is good to be alive." he paused and then added, "you do not find it so,

mademoiselle?"

rosalie otterbourne said shortly: "it's all right, i suppose. i think assuan's a gloomy sort of place.

the hotel's half empty, and everyone's about a hundred -"

she stopped - biting her lip.

hercule poirot's eyes twinkled.

"it is true, yes, i have one leg in the grave."

"i - i wasn't thinking of you," said the girl. "i'm sorry. that sounded rude."

"not at all. it is natural you should wish for companions of your own age. ah, well, there is one

young man, at least."

"the one who sits with his mother all the time? i like her - but i think he looks dreadful - so

conceited!"

poirot sniffed.

"and i - am i conceited?"

"oh, i don't think so."

she was obviously uninterested - but the fact did not seem to annoy poirot. he merely remarked

with placid satisfaction, "my best friend says that i am very conceited."

"oh, well," said rosalie vaguely, "i suppose you have something to be conceited about.

unfortunately crime doesn't interest me in the least."

poirot said solemnly, "i am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide."

just for a moment the sulky mask of her face was transformed as she shot him a swift questioning

glance. poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on: "madame, your mother, was not at lunch

today. she is not indisposed, i trust?"

"this place doesn't suit her," said rosalie briefly. "i shall be glad when we leave."

"we are fellow passengers, are we not? we both make the excursion up to wвdi halfa and the

second cataract?"

"yes."

they came out from the shade of the gardens onto a dusty stretch of road bordered by the river.

five watchful bead sellers, two vendors of postcards, three sellers of plaster scarabs, a couple of

donkey boys and some detached but hopeful infantile riff-raff closed in upon them. "you want

beads, sir? very good, sir. very cheap."

"lady, you want scarab? look - great queen - very lucky."

"you look, sir - real lapis. very good, very cheap..."

"you want ride donkey, sir? this very good donkey. this donkey whisky and soda, sir..."

"you want to go granite quarries, sir? this very good donkey. other donkey very bad, sir, that

donkey fall down..."

"you want postcard - very cheap - very nice..."

"look, lady... only ten piastres - very ivory..."

"this very good fly whisk - this - all amber."

"you go out in boat, sir? i got very good boat, sir."

"you ride back to hotel, lady? this first class donkey."

hercule poirot made vague gestures to rid himself of this human cluster of flies. rosalie stalked

through them like a sleep walker.

"it's best to pretend to be deaf and blind," she remarked.

the infantile riff-raff ran alongside murmuring plaintively: "bakshish? bakshish? hip hip hurrah -

very good, very nice..."

their gaily coloured rags trailed picturesquely, and the flies lay in clusters on their eyelids. they

were the most persistent. the others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next comer.

now poirot and rosalie only ran the gauntlet of the shops - suave, persuasive accents here...

"you visit my shop today, sir?"

"you want that ivory crocodile, sir?"

"you not been in my shop yet, sir? i show you very beautiful things."

they turned into the fifth shop and rosalie handed over several rolls of films - the object of the

walk.

then they came out again and walked toward the river's edge.

one of the nile steamers was just mooring. poirot and rosalie looked interestedly at the

passengers.

"quite a lot, aren't there?" commented rosalie.

she turned her head as tim allerton came up and joined them. he was a little out of breath as

though he had been walking fast.

they stood there for a moment or two and then tim spoke.

"an awful crowd as usual, i suppose," he remarked disparagingly, indicating the disembarking

passengers.

"they're usually quite terrible," agreed rosalie.

all three wore the air of superiority assumed by people who are already in a place when studying

new arrivals.

"hullo!" exclaimed tim, his voice suddenly excited. "i'm damned if that isn't linnet ridgeway."

if the information left poirot unmoved, it stirred rosalie's interest. she leaned forward and her

sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked:

"where? that one in white?"

"yes, there with the tall man. they're coming ashore now. he's the new husband, i suppose. can't

remember her name now."

"doyle," said rosalie. "simon doyle. it was in all the newspapers. she's simply rolling, isn't she?"

"only about the richest girl in england," replied tim cheerfully.

the three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore.

poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. he murmured, "she is

beautiful."

"some people have got everything," said rosalie bitterly.

there was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the

gangplank.

linnet doyle was looking as perfectly turned out as if she were stepping onto the centre of the

stage of a revue. she had something too of the assurance of a famous actress. she was used to

being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.

she was aware of the keen glances bent upon her - and at the same time almost unaware of them;

such tributes were part of her life.

she came ashore playing a rфle, even though she played it unconsciously. the rich beautiful

society bride on her honeymoon. she turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall man

by her side. he answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest hercule poirot. his eyes lit

up and he drew his brows together.

the couple passed close to him. he heard simon doyle say:

"we'll try and make time for it, darling. we can easily stay a week or two if you like it here."

his face was turned toward her, eager, adoring, a little humble.

poirot's eyes ran over him thoughtfully - the square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes,

the rather childlike simplicity of the smile.

"lucky devil," said tim after they had passed. "fancy finding an heiress who hasn't got adenoids

and flat feet!"

"they look frightfully happy," said rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. she added suddenly,

but so low that tim did not catch the words, "it isn't fair." poirot heard, however. he had been

frowning somewhat perplexedly but now he flashed a quick glance toward her.

tim said, "i must collect some stuff for my mother now."

he raised his hat and moved off. poirot and rosalie retraced their steps slowly in the direction of

the hotel, waving aside fresh proffers of donkeys. "so it is not fair, mademoiselle?" asked poirot

gently.

the girl flushed angrily.

"i don't know what you mean."

"i am repeating what you said just now under your breath. oh, yes, you did."

rosalie otterbourne shrugged her shoulders.

"it really seems a little too much for one person. money, good looks, marvellous figure and -"

she paused and poirot said:

"and love? eh? and love? but you do not know - she may have been married for her money!"

"didn't you see the way he looked at her?"

"oh, yes, mademoiselle. i saw all there was to see - indeed i saw something that you did not."

"what was that?"

poirot said slowly: "i saw, mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman's eyes. i saw a hand that

clutched a sunshade so tight that the knuckles were white..."

rosalie was staring at him.

"what do you mean?"

"i mean that all is not the gold that glitters. i mean that, though this lady is rich and beautiful and

beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. and i know something else."

"yes?"

"i know," said poirot, frowning, "that somewhere, at some time, i have heard that voice before -

the voice of monsieur doyle - and i wish i could remember where."

but rosalie was not listening. she had stopped dead. with the point of her sunshade she was

tracing patterns in the loose sand.

suddenly she broke out fiercely:

"i'm awful, i'm quite odious. i'm just a beast through and through. i'd like to tear the clothes off her

back and stamp on her lovely, arrogant, self-confident face. i'm just a jealous cat - but that's what i

feel like. she's so horribly successful and poised and assured."

hercule poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. he took her by the arm and gave her a

friendly little shake.

"tenez - you will feel better for having said that!"

"i just hate her! i've never hated anyone so much at first sight."

"magnificent!"

rosalie looked at him doubtfully. then her mouth twitched and she laughed.

"bien," said poirot, and laughed too.

they proceeded amicably back to the hotel.

"i must find mother," said rosalie, as they came into the cool, dim hall.

poirot passed out on the other side onto the terrace overlooking the nile. here were little tables set

for tea, but it was early still. he stood for a few moments looking at the river, then strolled down

through the gardens.

some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. he paused to watch them for a while, then went

on down the steep path. it was there, sitting on a bench overlooking the nile, that he came upon

the girl of chez ma tante. he recognized her at once. her face, as he had seen it that night, was

securely etched upon his memory. the expression on it now was very different. she was paler,

thinner, and there were lines that told of a great weariness and misery of spirit. he drew back a

little. she had not seen him, and he watched her for a while without her suspecting his presence.

her small foot tapped impatiently on the ground. her eyes, dark with a kind of smouldering fire,

had a queer kind of suffering dark triumph in them. she was looking out across the nile where the

white sail-boats glided up and down the river.

a face - and a voice. he remembered them both. this girl's face and the voice he had heard just

now, the voice of a newly made bridegroom...

and even as he stood there considering the unconscious girl, the next scene in the drama was

played.

voices sounded above. the girl on the seat started to her feet. linnet doyle and her husband came

down the path. linnet's voice was happy and confident. the look of strain and tenseness of muscle

had quite disappeared. linnet was happy.

the girl who was standing there took a step or two forward. the other two stopped dead.

"hullo, linnet," said jacqueline de bellefort. "so here you are! we never seem to stop running

into each other. hullo, simon, how are you?"

linnet doyle had shrunk back against the rock with a little cry. simon doyle's good-looking face

was suddenly convulsed with rage. he moved forward as though he would have liked to strike the

slim girlish figure.

with a quick bird-like turn of her head she signalled her realization of a stranger's presence. simon

turned his head and noticed poirot. he said awkwardly, "hullo, jacqueline; we didn't expect to see

you here."

the words were unconvincing in the extreme.

the girl flashed white teeth at them.

"quite a surprise?" she asked. then, with a little nod, she walked up the path. poirot moved

delicately in the opposite direction. as he went he heard linnet doyle say:

"simon - for god's sake! simon - what can we do?"