She turned abruptly away.
Poirot, staring after her, felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Your girl friend seems a trifle upset, Monsieur Poirot."
Poirot turned.
He stared in surprise, seeing an old acquaintance.
"Colonel Race."
The tall bronzed man smiled.
"Bit of a surprise, eh?"
Hercule Poirot had come across Colonel Race a year previously in London.
They had been fellow guests at a very strange dinner party - a dinner party that had ended in death for that strange man, their host.
Poirot knew that Race was a man of unadvertised goings and comings.
He was usually to be found in one of the outposts of Empire where trouble was brewing.
"So you are here at Wвdi Halfa," he remarked thoughtfully.
"I am here on this boat."
"You mean?"
"That I am making the return journey with you to Shellвl."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.
"That is very interesting.
Shall we, perhaps, have a little drink?"
They went into the observation saloon, now quite empty.
Poirot ordered a whisky for the Colonel and a double orangeade full of sugar for himself.
"So you make the return journey with us," said Poirot as he sipped. "You would go faster, would you not, on the Government steamer, which travels by night as well as day?"
Colonel Race's face creased appreciatively.
"You're right on the spot as usual, Monsieur Poirot," he said pleasantly.
"It is, then, the passengers?"
"One of the passengers."
"Now which one, I wonder?" Hercule Poirot asked of the ornate ceiling.
"Unfortunately I don't know myself," said Race ruefully.
Poirot looked interested.
Race said: "There's no need to be mysterious to you. We've had a good deal of trouble out here - one way and another.
It isn't the people who ostensibly lead the rioters that we're after.
It's the men who very cleverly put the match to the gunpowder.
There were three of them.
One's dead. One's in prison.
I want the third man - a man with five or six cold-blooded murders to his credit.
He's one of the cleverest paid agitators that ever existed... He's on this boat.
I know that from a passage in a letter that passed through our hands. Decoded it said:
'X will be on the Karnak trip February seventh to thirteenth.'
It didn't say under what name X would be passing."
"Have you any description of him?"
"No.
American, Irish and French descent. Bit of a mongrel.
That doesn't help us much.
Have you got any ideas?"
"An idea - it is all very well," said Poirot meditatively.
Such was the understanding between them that Race pressed him no further.
He knew that Hercule Poirot did not ever speak unless he was sure.
Poirot rubbed his nose and said unhappily,
"There passes itself something on this boat that causes me much inquietude."
Race looked at him inquiringly.