At high noon upon a morning towards the end of January, Jim happened to saunter across the hot sand to the terrace of the temple where MonimÉ was painting, and there found her engaged in conversation with a benevolent, grey-bearded clergyman and a stout, beaming woman who appeared to be his wife, both of whom wore blue spectacles, carried large white umbrellas lined with green, and wore pith helmets adorned with green veiling—appurtenances which stamped them as tourists. Jim himself was somewhat disreputably dressed, having a slouch hat pulled over his eyes, a canvas shirt open at the neck, a pair of well-worn flannel trousers held up by an old leather belt, and red native slippers upon his bare feet, and he therefore hesitated to approach.

MonimÉ, however, beckoned to him to come to her, and, when he had done so, introduced him to her new friends, whose acquaintance, it was explained, she had made an hour previously. The clergyman, it appeared, whose name was Jones, was a man of some wealth who was now touring these upper reaches of the Nile on a small private steamer, in search of the good health of which his work in the underworld of London had deprived him; and MonimÉ, in taking the trouble to show him and his wife around the temple, perhaps had a woman’s eye to business, for a painter, after all, has wares for sale, and is dependent on the conversion of all colours into plain gold.

Be this as it may, she now invited them to luncheon upon the dahabiyeh, and Jim, not to be churlish, was obliged to support the suggestion with every mark of assent.

The meal was served under the awnings, and when coffee had been drunk MonimÉ took Mrs. Jones down to the saloon, while the two men were left to smoke on deck. Jim was in a communicative mood, and for some time entertained his guest with narrations of his adventures in many lands, being careful, however, to draw a veil over the years he had spent in England. The clergyman responded, at length, with tales of his life in the slums, expressing the opinion that, owing to the failure of the Church to adapt itself to the exigencies of the present day, callousness in regard to crime was on the increase.

“Here’s an instance of what I mean,” he said. “I was walking late one night along a well-known London street when I was accosted by a young woman who, in spite of my cloth and my age, made certain suggestions to me. I was so astounded that I stopped and spoke to her, and presently she confessed to me that this was the first time she had ever done such a thing, but that she was engaged to be married to a penniless man, and somehow money had to be obtained. Now there’s callousness for you! Can you imagine such a proceeding?”

“Yes, that’s pretty low down,” Jim answered. “What did you do?”

The clergyman smiled. “Ah, that is another story,” he said. “To test her I told her to come to my house the next day and to bring her fiancÉ with her; and to my surprise they turned up. Well, to cut the story short, I agreed to set them up in business, and I gave them quite a large sum of money for the purpose, hardly expecting, however, that it would prove anything but a dead loss. You may imagine my gratification, therefore, when I began to receive regular quarterly repayments, each accompanied by a gracious little letter of thanks stating that things were prospering splendidly. At last the whole debt was paid off, and the woman came to see me, smartly dressed, and in the best of spirits. I congratulated her on her honesty, and told her that her action had strengthened my belief in the basic goodness of human nature.”

“‘Well, you see,’ she said, ‘we felt we ought to pay our debt to you, as we had made in the business ten times the original sum you gave us.’

“‘And what is the business?’ I asked.

“‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we are running a brothel.’”

Jim leant back in his chair and laughed. “That’s an instance of the evils of indiscriminate charity,” he said.

“It is a sign of the times,” his guest replied, seriously. “Look at the callous crimes of which we read in the newspapers. Take, for instance, the Eversfield case.”

Jim’s heart seemed to stop beating. “I haven’t been reading the papers lately,” he stammered. “I haven’t heard....” His voice failed him.

“Oh, it’s a shocking case,” said Mr. Jones, but to Jim his words were as though they came from a great distance or were heard above the noise of a tempest. “A young woman, the lady of the manor, was found murdered in her own woods, and at first the police thought that the crime had been committed by a certain Jane Potts who was jealous of her. But she proved her innocence, and then the mother of the murdered woman, a Mrs. Darling, admitted that her daughter’s husband, who had been supposed to be dead, was actually alive, and had visited his wife on the day of the crime. It seems that he had wanted to rid himself of her by divorce, but something happened which induced him to kill her instead.”

Jim’s brain was seething. “But if he was guilty, why did he go to see Mrs. Darling afterwards?” he asked.

“Oh, then you have read about the case,” said his guest, glancing at him quickly.

Jim struggled inwardly to be calm and to rectify his mistake. “Yes,” he answered, “I remember it now.”

Mr. Jones bent forward in his chair and tapped his host’s knee. “Mark my words,” he declared, “that man is an out-and-out villain. He had deserted his wife, and had let it be thought that he was dead; and then, I suppose because he was short of money, he came home, and murdered her when she refused to give him any. My theory is that he believed he had been seen by somebody, and therefore determined to brazen it out by calling on his mother-in-law. He is evidently of the callous kind.”

Jim had the feeling that he himself, his ego, had become detached from his brain’s consciousness. Distantly, he could hear every word that was being said, yet at the same time his mind was in confusion, in pandemonium. He looked down from afar off at his body, and wondered whether the trembling of his hand was noticeable. He could listen to himself speaking, and desperately he struggled to control his words.

“What d’you think will happen?” he asked, passing his fingers to and fro across his lips. The sudden dryness of his mouth had produced a sort of click in his words which he endeavoured thus to mitigate.

“Oh, they’ll catch him in time,” Mr. Jones replied, “though Mrs. Darling’s reprehensible conduct in keeping the facts to herself for so long has helped him to get clear away. His description is in all the papers—dark hair and eyes; clean-shaven; sallow complexion; athletic build; five foot ten in height....”

Jim smiled in a sickly manner. “That might describe me,” he said, and laughed.

“Yes,” Mr. Jones responded, “I’m afraid it’s not much to go on; but they’ll get him, believe me. I expect they’ll publish a photograph soon.”

Jim drew his breath between his teeth, and again his heart seemed to be arrested in its beating. He wanted to rise from his chair and to run from the dahabiyeh. It seemed to him that his agitation must be wholly apparent to his guest: a man’s entire life could not be shattered and fall to pieces in such utter ruin with no outward sign of the devastation.

He was about to make a move of some sort to end the ordeal when MonimÉ appeared upon the steps leading up from the saloon, and invited Mr. Jones to come down to see some of her paintings. He rose at once to comply; and thereupon Jim lurched from his chair, and, holding on to the table before him, looked wildly towards the slopes of golden sand which could be seen between the vari-coloured hangings.

MonimÉ came over to him as the clergyman disappeared down the stairs. “Hullo, Jim,” she said, “you look ill, dear. Is anything the matter?”

He tried to laugh. “No,” he answered sharply. “Why should you think so? I’m all right—only rather bored by your talkative friend.”

She put her arm about him and kissed him: then, suddenly standing back from him, she looked anxiously into his face. “You are ill,” she said. “Your forehead is burning hot. You’ve been out in the sun without your hat. Oh, Jim, you are so careless!”

For a moment his knees gave way under him, and he swayed visibly as he stood. “I’m all right, I tell you,” he gasped. “Go and show them your pictures.”

MonimÉ’s consternation was not able to be concealed. “Oh, my darling,” she cried, “you’re feverish! You must go and lie down. I’ll get rid of these people presently: I’ll tell them you are not well....”

Jim interrupted her. “No, no!—don’t say anything. I assure you it’s nothing. I’ll be all right in a few minutes. I’ll just sit here quietly.”

He pushed her from him, and obliged her, presently, to leave him; but no sooner was she gone than he hastened to the zir, or large porous earthenware vessel, which stood at the end of the deck and in which the “drinks” were kept cool, and, selecting a bottle of whisky, poured a stiff dose into a tumbler, swallowing the draught in two or three hasty gulps. Thus fortified, he paced to and fro, staring before him with unseeing eyes, until MonimÉ and their guests returned.

His anxiety not to appear ill at ease in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Jones led him to talk rapidly upon a variety of disconnected subjects; but his relief was great when, with umbrellas raised and blue spectacles adjusted, they took their departure and walked away over the hot sand towards their own vessel. Thereupon he hastened to assure MonimÉ that his indisposition had passed; and soon he had the satisfaction of observing that her anxieties were allayed. But when she had gone back to her painting at the temple, he left the dahabiyeh, and, scrambling up the sand-drift like one demented, went running over the vacant, sun-scorched plateau at the summit of the cliffs, flinging himself at length upon the ground, where no eyes save those of the circling vultures might see his abject misery, and no ears might hear his groans.

In the days which followed he so far mastered his emotions as to give his wife no great cause for worry; but from time to time he could see in her troubled face her consciousness that all was not well. On such occasions the extremity of human wretchedness seemed to be reached, and the weight upon his heart and mind was almost intolerable.

It was not personal fear of the scaffold that spread this horror along every nerve and through every vein of his body: it was the thought that he would not be able to avoid involving MonimÉ and their son in the catastrophe, and that not only would he disgrace them, but would alienate them from him completely. He realized now the enormity of his offence in holding back from MonimÉ the truth about his former marriage and in shutting her out from his confidences.

What would she do when she learnt the facts? Could she possibly understand and forgive? Would the pain that he was to bring upon her turn her love into hatred and contempt? Would she, the passionate mother, forgive the wrong he had done to their son in placing this stigma upon him?

Thoughts such as these drove him to the brink of madness; and the need of secrecy and of facing the situation by himself produced an unbearable sense of loneliness in his mind. He recalled the verse in the Book of Genesis which reads: “The Lord God said, ‘It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.’” If only he could tell her now, pour out his heart to her, and see in her tender eyes the overwhelming sweetness of her understanding.... But he dared not: he must fight this battle alone.

Gradually there developed in his brain the thought of suicide. Were he now to destroy himself in some manner which would suggest an accident, it would be Jim Easton who would be laid in the grave, without a stain upon his public memory; and the lost James Tundering-West, the supposed murderer, would not be connected in any way with MonimÉ or Ian. Without question this was the only solution of the problem; this was the only honourable course to follow, and follow it he must.

He found In this resolution a means of steadying his mind and of regaining to some extent his equilibrium. There was a fortnight yet before their return to the lower reaches of the Nile would bring matters towards their final phase. MonimÉ wished to go to Europe as soon as her work was finished, in order to be with Ian again; and it would not be necessary for Jim to put an end to himself, therefore, until he came within reach of the arm of the law. Here at Abu Simbel he could easily avoid seeing any of his fellow men who might visit the temple from the tourist steamers; and, fortunately, his friend the police officer at ShallÂl who had helped him to embark on the dahabiyeh, knew him these many years as Mr. Easton, presumably a resident in Egypt, and would vouch for him if occasion arose. Very possibly he might reach Cairo or even the homeward-bound liner without detection. Then, an accidental fall at midnight from the deck into the sea—and his obligation would be honourably fulfilled.

Yes, that was it: that was his obligation. For the first time in his life he understood thoroughly and wholly the meaning of the word. “It is my duty,” he muttered over and over again. “It is my duty at all costs to prevent any scandal which would hurt MonimÉ or Ian.” He had so often asked himself the meaning of that strange term “duty,” and now he knew. Love had taught him.

Fortunately, MonimÉ was very hard at work on the completion of her paintings, and he was therefore able to go away alone into the desert for hours at a time, under the pretence of writing his verses, and thus obtain a respite from the strain of appearing cheerful and normal. The great untenanted spaces soothed the clamour of his brain; and, wandering there alone over the golden sand or the shelving rocks, in the blazing sunlight, between the vacancy of earth and the void of heaven, there passed into his mind a kind of calmness which remained with him when MonimÉ was again at his side.

But the nights were made fearful to him lest in his sleep he should reveal his secret. He would lie awake hour after hour in the darkness, while MonimÉ slept peacefully, her head upon his encircling arm, her black hair tumbled about his shoulder, her breast against his breast, and he would not dare to shut his eyes. Sometimes, his weariness overcoming his will, he would drop into oblivion, only to waken again with a start which caused her to turn or to mutter in her slumbers. Once he woke up thus, knowing that he had just uttered the words “Not guilty,” and in an agony of fear he waited, propped on his elbow, to ascertain whether she had heard him or not. She was asleep, however, and with beating pulse he fell back at length upon the pillows, the cold sweat upon his face.

During these days, which he recognized as his last upon earth, he allowed himself to drown his sorrow in the full flood of his love; and, like the waves of the sea, he overwhelmed MonimÉ in the tide of his adoration, sweeping her along with him so that there were times when the breath of life seemed to fail them, and the silent rapture of their hearts had near kinship with the quiescence of death. There were times when it was as though he were eager to die upon her lips, and so to pass in ecstasy into the hollow acreage of heaven. There were times when by the might of his passion he seemed to lift her, clasped in his arms, into the regions beyond the planets, there to revolve in the exaltation of dream, round and round the universe, until the sound of the last trump should hurl their inseparable souls headlong into the abyss of time and space.

But between these spells of enchantment there were periods of deep and horrible gloom in which he cursed himself for his mistakes, and railed against man and God.

“How I hate myself!” he muttered. “Life is like a prison cell where you and your deadly enemy are locked in together.”

Standing at the summit of the cliffs above the temple, he would shake his fists at the blue depths of the sky, or, with bronzed arms folded, would stare down at the rippling waters of the Nile, and kick the pebbles over the precipice. Occasionally, too, he turned for comfort to his guitar; and at the river’s brink, or in the shade of an acacia tree, he would sit twanging the strings and singing some outlandish song, his head bent over the instrument and his dark hair falling over his face.

As the day of their departure drew near these periods of gloom increased in frequency, and he was often aware that the troubled eyes of his wife were fixed upon him, while, more than once, she questioned him in regard to his health. His mirror revealed to him the haggard appearance of his face, and in order to prevent this becoming too apparent he was obliged to manoeuvre his position so that, when MonimÉ was facing him, his back should be to the light.

At length the dreaded hour arrived. Upon the glaring face of the waters the little puffing steam-tug, which had been ordered by them for this date, came into sight, bearing down upon them as they sat at breakfast on deck; and soon it was heading northwards again, towing their dahabiyeh in its wake towards the First Cataract which marks the frontier of Egypt proper. For the greater part of the two days’ journey Jim sat listlessly watching the banks of the river as they glided by; but when at last ShallÂl, their destination, was reached he pulled himself together to meet the last crisis, and, by the exertion of the power of his will, managed to appear as a normal being.

They made no halt upon their way; but, after sleeping for the last time upon their dahabiyeh, moored near the railway station, they transferred themselves and their baggage to the morning train, and arrived at Luxor as the sun went down.

When they entered the large hotel where they were to spend the night Jim hid his face as best he could from the little groups of tourists gathered about the hall, and, telling MonimÉ that his head ached, hastened up the stairs to the room which had been assigned to them.

But as he was about to enter, his destiny descended upon him. A door further along the passage opened, and a moment later, to his horror, the fat, well-remembered figure of Mrs. Darling faced him in the bright illumination of the electric light. He saw her start, he saw her eyes open wide in surprise, and, with a gasp, he dashed forward into his room, and slammed the door behind him.

MonimÉ had preceded him, and her back was turned as he staggered forward and fell into an armchair, his face as white as the whitewashed walls. She was busying herself with the baggage, and did not look in his direction for some moments. When at length she glanced at him he had nearly recovered from the first force of the shock, and she saw only a tired man mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.