It was just an ordinary flat-bottomed Nile abomination,
towed by a tiny, panting, puffing-billy, with twenty yards of good
Manilla. Twelve Arabs squatted round the sarcophagus. Seated on the
sarcophagus, under a double awning, was a burly-looking Englishman. He was smoking a pipe, and one look at his face told me exactly why
he had been entrusted with Sir Robert Ottley's priceless treasure. He
was, as plain as daylight, a gentleman if one ever lived, a brave man,
too, shrewd and self-reliant and as incorruptibly devoted to his duty
as a bull-dog with a thief's hand between his jaws. I wondered if I
would get the better of him. As a first step towards that desideratum,
I assured the French captain that I entertained too much regard for him
to put him to a lingering death should he disobey me. I had previously
locked the rest of the crew in the engine-house. Then we bore down
on the punt and I shouted for the tug to be stopped. This was done. As it lost way, we nosed up, going easy until we were alongside the
punt. Then I ordered half speed astern until we, too, were stationary. Some power of suction or attraction began immediately to draw the two
crafts together. The tug, however, continued to remain, say thirty
feet off. The Englishman ordered out rope fenders and asked me what
the blazes I was doing. I answered that I had come after him from Sir
Robert Ottley--which was in a sense perfectly true--and that he could
hardly expect me to shout out urgent private business before listeners,
which was also a reasonably veracious statement of the facts. The
Englishman--I never learned his name--observed, with some heat, that he
would not leave his charge for a second for any man living except Sir
Robert Ottley; and that if I had something to tell him I must go aboard
the punt. I said "Very well," and as the crafts touched I helped myself to the
punt with a rope. "Well, what is it?" he demanded, and he eyed me most suspiciously, one
hand in his breast. Doubtless he had there a revolver. Had he been
warned? And of me? It is a thing I have still my doubts about. But I
looked him frankly in the eyes and told him the truth to the very best
of my ability. "It has lately come to Sir Robert Ottley's knowledge," I began, "that
one of his guests--a man named Pinsent" (he started at the name) "has
conceived a bold design of relieving you of this very charge of yours,
which you are guarding with such praiseworthy solicitude." "Oh!" said the Englishman, "and how would he go about it?" The idea
appeared to tickle him. He laughed. "He would follow you and attack you," said I. The Englishman put his hands on his thighs and simply roared. "He would
have to swim after me," he chuckled. "There is not another launch save
these two between here and Ham!" "I am honestly glad to hear it," I replied, and, indeed, I was. "It's a mare's nest," declared the Englishman. "Oh!" said I. "This Pinsent is a desperate fellow and resourceful. Do
you know, he actually tried single-handed to seize that launch." "The _Swallow_!" cried the Englishman. "Impossible." "On the contrary!" I retorted. "He succeeded. He stands before you. My
name is Pinsent. Permit me!" He was a trifle slow-witted, I fancy. He still looked puzzled, when his
face emerged above the Nile water, after his dive. But I would not let
him return to the punt. Immediately I discovered that the Arabs were
only armed with knives. I had taken the trouble to throw overboard all
the firearms that I could find on the _Swallow_; so I just drove them
aboard the launch and ordered the Frenchman to sheer off and return to
Rakh. He was charmed at the permission. The Englishman fired at me twice from the water, but he had to keep
himself afloat, so he naturally missed. When he was well-nigh drowned
I hauled him up with a boat hook. It was easy to disarm him in that
condition. I had intended to put him on the tug, but I waited too long. The tug cut the tow rope before my eyes and without so much as by your
leave puffed after the _Swallow_. The Englishman and I were thus left
lonely on the punt; in middle stream. The current was fairly strong at
that point and making towards a long, low-lying sweep of reedy flats. I had no mind to land there, however, so after tying up the Englishman
neck and crop, I contrived to hoist a sail and steered for the opposite
bank. The Englishman and I had nothing to say to each other. No doubt he
recognised the futility of conversation in the circumstances; as for
me, I never felt less inclined to talk. About five o'clock we grounded
under the lee of a pretty little promontory. It was populated with
crocodiles. Nice companions--at a distance--crocodiles--musky-smelling
brutes. Chapter XI

Good-bye to the Nile


The Englishman was evidently something of a gourmet. I found foie gras,
camembert cheese, pressed sheep's tongues and bottled British ale in
his private locker. But he was as sullen as a sore-headed grizzly. He
sourly declined to eat even though I offered to free his hands, and he
strove to make my dinner unpleasant by volunteering pungent information
on the punishment provided by law for the crimes of piracy, robbery
under arms, burglary, assault and battery, and false imprisonment. Those, it seems, were the titular heads of some of my delinquencies. He felt sure that I would get ten years' hard labour, at least. I did
not argue the point with him. After dinner I examined the sarcophagus. The lid was fastened on with crosswise-running bands of hinged steel,
padlocked in the centre. But it was, strange to say, wedged at one
end with iron bolts about an inch ajar, as if on purpose to allow air
to pass into the coffin. After a little search I discovered a toolbox
in the shallow hold of the punt; and I attacked the bands with cold
chisels and a mallet. Ten minutes' work sufficed. I tossed the broken
bands aside and levered off the lid. My heart beat like a trip-hammer
as I looked into the coffin. I was prepared for a surprise. I received
one. My Arab gazed up at me. The mysterious Arab with the three broken
ribs, who had frightened Miss Ottley and tried to throttle me and
whom I had last seen lying--a corpse--in the cave temple at Rakh. Of
course, Sir Robert Ottley had declared the corpse in the temple to
be identical with that of Ptahmes, the four thousand years dead High
Priest of Amen-Ra. But that was ridiculous. I had only had time to make
a cursory examination of the dead Arab in the cave temple, it is true,
but I am a surgeon, and I had convinced myself that the fellow, so
far from being a mummy, had not been long dead. I had yet to discover
an essential error in my cave temple investigation. My very first
impression had been not death, but suspended animation. And I must have
been right. The later speedy diagnosis had, in sober truth, misled me. The man was not dead. It had been a case of suspended animation. The
Arab lying in the sarcophagus before me was alive. His broken ribs
were neatly set and bandaged.