wasn’t married when she wrote this letter, but she’s married now. Morning of the fourth. That’s today.’
Rockford dropped into a chair.
‘Whew! No warning! Nothing? Who’s the man?’
Pennington referred again to the letter.
‘Doyle. Simon Doyle.’
‘What sort of a fellow is he? Ever heard of him?’
‘No. She doesn’t say much…’ He scanned the lines of clear, upright hand writing. ‘Got an idea there’s something hole-and-corner about this business…That doesn’t matter. The whole point is, she’s married.’
The eyes of the two men met. Rockford nodded.
‘This needs a bit of thinking out,’ he said quietly.
‘What are we going to do about it?’
‘I’m asking you.’
The two men sat silent. Then Rockford asked, ‘Got any plan?’
Pennington said slowly: ‘The Normandie sails today. One of us could just make it.’
‘You’re crazy! What’s the big idea?’
Pennington began: ‘Those British lawyers–’ and stopped.
‘What about ’em. Surely you’re not going over to tackle ’em? You’re mad!’
‘I’m not suggesting that you–or I–should go to England.’
‘What’s the big idea, then?’
Pennington smoothed out the letter on the table.
‘Linnet’s going to Egypt for her honeymoon. Expects to be there a month or more…’
‘Egypt–eh?’
Rockford considered. Then he looked up and met the other’s glance.
‘Egypt,’ he said; ‘that’s your idea!’
‘Yes–a chance meeting. Over on a trip. Linnet and her husband–honeymoon atmosphere. It might be done.’
Rockford said doubtfully: ‘She’s sharp, Linnet is…but–’
Pennington went on softly: ‘I think there might be ways of–managing it.’
Again their eyes met. Rockford nodded.
‘All right, big boy.’
Pennington looked at the clock.
‘We’ll have to hustle–whichever of us is going.’
‘You go,’ said Rockford promptly. ‘You always made a hit with Linnet. “Uncle Andrew.” That’s the ticket!’
Pennington’s face had hardened. He said: ‘I hope I can pull it off.’
‘You’ve got to pull it off,’ his partner said. ‘The situation’s critical…’
XI
William Carmichael said to the thin, weedy youth who opened the door inquiringly: ‘Send Mr Jim to me, please.’
Jim Fanthorp entered the room and looked inquiringly at his uncle. The older man looked up with a nod and a grunt.
‘Humph, there you are.’
‘You asked for me?’
‘Just cast an eye over this.’
The young man sat down and drew the sheaf of papers towards him. The elder man watched him.
‘Well?’
The answer came promptly. ‘Looks fishy to me, sir.’
Again the senior partner of Carmichael, Grant & Carmichael uttered his characteristic grunt.
Jim Fanthorp re-read the letter which had just arrived by air mail from Egypt:
…It seems wicked to be writing business letters on such a day. We have spent a week at Mena House and made an expedition to the Fayum. The day after tomorrow we are going up the Nile to Luxor and Assuan by steamer, and perhaps on to Khartoum. When we went into Cook’s this morning to see about our tickets who do you think was the first person I saw?–my American trustee, Andrew Pennington. I think you met him two years ago when he was over. I had no idea he was in Egypt and he had no idea that I was! Nor that I was married! My letter, telling him of my marriage, must just have missed him. He is actually going up the Nile on the same trip that we are. Isn’t it a coincidence? Thank you so much for all you have done in this busy time. I–
As the young man was about to turn the page, Mr Carmichael took the letter from him.
‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘The rest doesn’t matter. Well, what do you think?’
His nephew considered for a moment–then he said:
‘Well–I think–not a coincidence…’
The other nodded approval.
‘Like a trip to Egypt?’ he barked out.
‘You think that’s advisable?’
‘I think there’s no time to lose.’
‘But, why me?’
‘Use your brains, boy; use your brains. Linnet Ridgeway has never met you; no more has Pennington. If you go by air you may get there in time.’
‘I–I don’t like it.’
‘Perhaps not–but you’ve got to do it.’
‘It’s–necessary?’
‘In my opinion,’ said Mr Carmichael, ‘it’s absolutely vital.’
XII
Mrs Otterbourne, readjusting the turban of local material that she wore draped round her head, said fretfully:
‘I really don’t see why we shouldn’t go on to Egypt. I’m sick and tired of Jerusalem.’
As her daughter made no reply, she said, ‘You might at least answer when you’re spoken to.’
Rosalie Otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. Below it was printed:
Mrs Simon Doyle, who before her marriage was the well-known society beauty, Miss Linnet Ridgeway. Mr and Mrs Doyle are spending their holiday in Egypt.
Rosalie said, ‘You’d like to move on to Egypt, Mother?’
‘Yes,
