ghts. She wants a couple of full days in Cairo. Then there
are the two night journeys."

"I'll tell you before she comes back."

Isaacson turned round, and strolled away into the darkness of the
garden.

When he was alone there, he tacitly reproached himself for his vehemence
of spirit, for the heat of his temper. Yet surely they were leading him
in the right path. These words of Nigel had awakened him to the very
simple fact that this association must come to an end, and almost
immediately. He had been, he supposed now, drifting on from day to day,
postponing any decision. Mrs. Armine was stronger than he. From her,
through Nigel, had come to him this access of determination, drawn
really from her decision. As he knew this, he was able secretly to
admire for a moment this woman whom he actively hated. Her work in the
dark would send him now to work in the light.

It was inevitable. While he had believed that very possibly her
departure to Cairo was a flight from her husband, Isaacson had had a
reason for his hesitation. If Bella Donna vanished, why torture Nigel
further? Let him lose her, without knowing all that he had lost. But if
she were really coming back, and if he, Isaacson, must go--and his
departure in any case must shortly be inevitable--then, cost what it
might, the truth must be told.

As he paced the garden, he was trying to brace himself to the most
difficult, the most dreadful duty life had so far imposed upon him.

When he went back to the terrace, Nigel was no longer there. He had gone
up to bed.

The next day passed without a word between the two men on the subject of
the previous night. They talked on indifferent topics. But the cloud of
mutual reserve once more enveloped them, and intercourse was uneasy.

Another day dawned.

Mrs. Armine had now been away for two nights, and, if she held to her
announced plan, should leave Cairo on her return to Luxor on the evening
of the following day. No letter had been received from her. The question
in Isaacson's mind was, would she come back? If he spoke and she never
returned, he would have stabbed his friend to the heart for no reason.
But if she did return and he had not spoken?

He was the prey of doubt, of contending instincts. He did not know what
to do. But deep down within him was there not a voice that, like the
ground swell of the ocean, murmured ever one thing, unwearied,
persistent?

Sometimes he was aware of this voice and strove not