The Captain cried out, "Good luck!" Five minutes later I turned and waved my hand to him. He was still standing by the tent flap gazing after me. I thought to myself, "He is as honest as he is good to look upon. He will make May Ottley a gallant husband." I am a reasonably bad Christian, and quite as selfish as many worse, but somehow or another the reflection brought no aftermath of bitterness. The handsome, happy-hearted boy--he was little else for all his three and thirty years--had crept into my heart, and I felt somehow the chamber he occupied was next door to that wherein May Ottley's visage was enshrined. But I had work to do; so I turned the key on both. The sun was so hideously hot that I was forced to hasten slowly. But I reached the Nile under two hours, and found, as I expected, Sir Robert Ottley's steam launch moored to the bank. Her smoking funnel had been the beacon of my march. She was in charge of an old French pilot, a Turkish engineer, and four Levantines, piratical-looking stokers, mongrels all. I stalked aboard with an air of paramount authority. The Frenchman came forward, bowing. He wore a sort of uniform. "Steam up, Captain?" I asked. "Since morning, monsieur!" he replied. "Then kindly push off at once. I must overtake the punt that started last night without delay." His mouth opened. "But monsieur," he protested, "I----" "You waste time," I interrupted. He rubbed his hands nervously together. "But monsieur is unknown to me. I have my written orders from Sare Roberrrrt. Doubtless monsieur has authority. But monsieur vill perrceive----"