There was

mystery here. The table, he noticed, was laid for two.

“Is he an actor, a priest of some strange religion, an enquiry

agent, or just—a crank?” was the thought that first occurred to him.

And the question suggested itself without amusement. The impression of

subterfuge and caution he conveyed left his observer unsatisfied.

The face was clean shaven, dark, and strong; thick hair, straight

yet bushy, was slightly unkempt; it was streaked with grey; and an

unexpected mobility when he smiled ran over the features that he seemed

to hold rigid by deliberate effort. The man was cut to no quite common

measure. Henriot jumped to an intuitive conclusion: “He’s not here for

pleasure or merely sight-seeing. Something serious has brought him to

Egypt.” For the face combined too ill-assorted qualities: an obstinate

tenacity that might even mean brutality, and was certainly repulsive,

yet, with it, an undecipherable dreaminess betrayed by lines of the

mouth, but above all in the very light blue eyes, so rarely raised.

Those eyes, he felt, had looked upon unusual things; “dreaminess” was

not an adequate description; “searching” conveyed it better. The true

source of the queer impression remained elusive. And hence, perhaps,

the incongruous marriage in the face—mobility laid upon a

matter-of-fact foundation underneath. The face showed conflict.

And Henriot, watching him, felt decidedly intrigued. “I’d like to

know that man, and all about him.” His name, he learned later, was

Richard Vance, from Birmingham; a business man. But it was not the

Birmingham he wished to know; it was the—other; cause of the elusive,

dreamy searching. Though facing one another at so short a distance,

their eyes, however, did not meet. And this, Henriot well knew, was a

sure sign that he himself was also under observation. Richard Vance,

from Birmingham, was equally taking careful note of Felix Henriot, from

London.

Thus, he could wait his time. They would come together later. An

opportunity would certainly present itself. The first links in a

curious chain had already caught; soon the chain would tighten, pull as

though by chance, and bring their lives into one and the same circle.

Wondering in particular for what kind of a companion the second cover

was laid, Henriot felt certain that their eventual coming together was

inevitable. He possessed this kind of divination from first

impressions, and not uncommonly it proved correct.

Following instinct, therefore, he took no steps towards

acquaintance, and for several days, owing to the fact that he dined

frequently with his hosts, he saw nothing more of Richard Vance, the

business man from Birmingham. Then, one night, coming home late from

his friend’s house, he had passed along the great corridor, and was

actually a step or so into his bedroom, when a drawling voice sounded

close behind him. It was an unpleasant sound. It was very near him

too——

“I beg your pardon, but have you, by any chance, such a thing as a

compass you could lend me?”

The voice was so close that he started. Vance stood within touching

distance of his body. He had stolen up like a ghostly Arab, must have

followed him, too, some little distance, for further down the passage

the light of an open door—he had passed it on his way—showed where he

came from.

“Eh? I beg your pardon? A—compass, did you say?” He felt

disconcerted for a moment. How short the man was, now that he saw him

standing. Broad and powerful too. Henriot looked down upon his thick

head of hair. The personality and voice repelled him. Possibly his

face, caught unawares, betrayed this.

“Forgive my startling you,” said the other apologetically, while the

softer expression danced in for a moment and disorganised the rigid set

of his face. “The soft carpet, you know. I’m afraid you didn’t hear my

tread.