Domiloff’s face was black.
“White! The Englishman! Bah! You will not tell me that your master fears the English any more. Their day is over. They have no longer a place amongst the Powers.”
Hassen smiled.
“You exaggerate,” he said. “England is the only country in Europe at least who could bring our master’s palace about his ears in twenty-four hours, and make beautiful Constantinople a heap of blackened ruins. No, no, Domiloff. My master is wishful to serve you. We are here—so far we have done all the work—it is for your aid now we ask. That is only fair. You do not seem to understand the real reason for haste. I know that at any moment the protest which White has already presented may be followed by an ultimatum.”
“And your master would regard it?”
“I am very sure that he would,” Hassen answered, promptly. “It is not worth while attempting to deceive you. If England is really no longer a country worthy of consideration, fight her yourself. I am very sure that we shall not. And you must remember this, Domiloff, the agitation throughout England in favour of Theos is fed day by day with letters from this very city. The writer must be with you all the time. Yet you permit him to continue—you with your unscrupulousness and your secret agents. England’s intervention, if she does intervene, is entirely your fault.”
“Damn that fellow,” Domiloff muttered through his teeth.
“You know who it is!” Hassen exclaimed.
“Yes!”
“And you permit him to continue? You have made no effort to close his mouth?”