They moved away. Dick went back to his pulley, surveyed the deck over the fore yard, and deferred his descent until "Franz" and "Maud" were at the other end of the vessel. Since they came on board they had been "Baron von Kerber" and "Mrs. Haxton" in the presence of others. What desperate game were they playing that demanded these small deceits--what hazard of fortune was it that gave rise to the woman's Cassandra-like forebodings? Von Kerber had been candid enough in the statement he put forward voluntarily at Marseilles. Any one could guess the uncertainties of a quest depending on a document two thousand years old, while its dangers were manifest. Mr. Fenshawe and Irene must be cognizant of the open risks, and it was idle to suppose that they did not appreciate the unobtrusive way in which the yacht was being hurried to her destination. Why, then, should von Kerber and Mrs. Haxton share some secret understanding, the outcome of which was doubtful, and, above all else, why should they fear the influence that a young and unknown man might exercise on the crew? "Egypt is the land of riddles," mused Dick, as he gazed at the russet and purple hills which spring up so suddenly to guard the strange sea thrust by nature into the bosom of a fiery land. "My best course is to adopt the attitude of the Sphinx. I shall keep my eyes open and say nothing." He forgot, however, that the chief characteristic of the Sphinx is an enduring patience, and he chafed at the colorless monotony of the next few days. The _Aphrodite_ crept under sail five hundred miles to the south, until the wind died of sheer exhaustion. Then the engines took their turn, and the yacht exchanged the steady roll of a topsail schooner for the quivering uneasiness of a steam-driven ship. But sail or steam, the pace was slow, and the passage of the Red Sea left its record on the smart little vessel in the shape of blistered paint, gaping seams, and planks from which the sweated pitch was no sooner holy-stoned than it oozed forth again to smear their purity. Though stout awnings defied the direct fury of the sun they could not shut out its glare and furnace heat. And the human barometer showed the stress of life. Stump was a caldron in himself, Tagg a bewhiskered malediction in damp linen. The temper of the crew, stifling in crowded quarters, suggested--that they were suffering from a plague of boils. As a mere pastime, there was an occasional fight in the forecastle. Unhappily for the disputants, Stump had a ready ear for these frays, and he would rush in to settle them with a vigor that left the pugilists prostrate. Then he would recover his caustic humor for half an hour, and regale Royson with yarns of things wot happened when the Bed Sea was reelly hot. This weather was on'y warm. Why, once when he was aboard the _Ocean Queen_, her bunker gev' out six hours north o' Perim, but he whipped the awnin's off, an' the sun kep' up a head o' steam in the boilers until she ran into port.