“You think so. You really think so?”
“I do.”
He was successful. Mrs. Otterbourne wavered, faltered and re-entered her cabin.
Poirot’s nostrils twitched once or twice. Then he nodded and walked on to where Rosalie Otterbourne was sitting between Mrs. Allerton and Tim.
“Your mother wants you, Mademoiselle.”
She had been laughing quite happily. Now her face clouded over. She shot a quick suspicious look at him and hurried along the deck.
“I can’t make that child out,” said Mrs. Allerton. “She varies so. One day she’s friendly; the next day, she’s positively rude.”
“Thoroughly spoilt and bad-tempered,” said Tim.
Mrs. Allerton shook her head.
“No. I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s unhappy.”
Tim shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, well, I suppose we’ve all got our private troubles.” His voice sounded hard and curt.
A booming noise was heard.
“Lunch,” cried Mrs. Allerton delightedly.
“I’m starving.”
II
That evening, Poirot noticed that Mrs. Allerton was sitting talking to Miss Van Schuyler. As he passed, Mrs. Allerton closed one eye and opened it again. She was saying, “Of course at Calfries Castle—the dear Duke—”
Cornelia, released from her attendance, was out on the deck. She was listening to Dr. Bessner, who was instructing her somewhat ponderously in Egyptology as culled from the pages of Baedeker. Cornelia listened with rapt attention.
Leaning over the rail Tim Allerton was saying: “Anyhow, it’s a rotten world….”
Rosalie Otterbourne answered: “It’s unfair; some people have everything.”
Poirot sighed. He was glad that he was no longer young.
Ten
On the Monday morning various expressions of delight and appreciation were heard on the deck of the Karnak. The steamer was moored to the bank and a few hundred yards away, the morning sun just striking it, was a great temple carved out of the face of the rock. Four colossal figures, hewn out of the cliff, look out eternally over the Nile and face the rising sun.
Cornelia Robson said incoherently: “Oh, Monsieur Poirot, isn’t it wonderful? I mean they’re so big and peaceful—and looking at them makes one feel that one’s so small—and rather like an insect—and that nothing matters very much really, does it?”
Mr. Fanthorp, who was standing near by, murmured, “Very—er—impressive.”
“Grand, isn’t it?” said Simon Doyle, strolling up.
He went on confidentially to Poirot: “You know, I’m not much of a fellow for temples and sightseeing and all that, but a place like this sort of gets you, if you know what I mean. Those old Pharaohs must have been wonderful fellows.”
The other had drifted away. Simon lowered his voice.
“I’m no end glad we came on this trip. It’s—well, it’s cleared things up. Amazing why it should—but there it is. Linnet’s got her nerve back. She say’s it’s because shes actually faced the business at last.”
“I think that is very probable,” said Poirot.