"I told Mrs. Armine that either I took charge of your case or that I communicated with the police authorities. Then, and only then, she gave way. She let me come on board to nurse you back to life."
"How could you have known?" Nigel exclaimed, with intensely bitter defiance, when at last a pause came. "Even if it had been true, how could you have known?"
"I did not know. I suspected. To save you, I drew a bow at a venture, and I hit the mark. Your illness has been caused by the administration, through a long period of time, of minute doses of some preparation of lead--almost impalpable doubtless, perhaps not to be distinguished from the sand that is blown from the desert. And Mrs. Armine either herself gave or caused it to be given to you."
"Liar! Liar!"
"Did she ever herself give you food? Did she ever prepare your coffee?"
Nigel started up in his chair with a furious spasm of energy.
"Go! Go!" he uttered, in a sort of broken shout or cry. His face was yellowish white. His mouth was working.
"By God! I'll put you out!"
Grasping the arms of his chair, he stood up and he advanced upon Isaacson.
"I'll go. But I'll leave you that!"
And Isaacson drew from his pocket the letter Mrs. Armine had sent by the felucca, and laid it on the coffee-table.
Then he turned quickly, and went away through the dark garden.
Before he was out of sight of the house, he looked back. Nigel had sunk upon his chair in a collapsed attitude.
From the western bank of the Nile came the shrill, attenuated sound of the pipes, the deep throbbing of the daraboukkeh, the nasal chant of the Nubians.
And the lights of the Loulia were like a line of fiery eyes staring across the Nile.