“Ah!” said a lady, in a dirty pink house at Assiout, with an accent which betrayed a discovery and a resolution, “I will do it. I may be of use some way or another. The Khedive won’t dare—but still the times are desperate. As Donovan Pasha said, it isn’t easy holding down the safety-valve all the time, and when it flies off, there will be dark days for all of us.... An old friend—bad as he is! Yes, I will go.”
Within forty-eight hours of Donovan Pasha’s and Kingsley Bey’s arrival in Cairo the lady appeared there, and made inquiries of her friends. No one knew anything. She went to the Consulate, and was told that Kingsley Bey was still in prison, that the Consulate had not yet taken action.
She went to Donovan Pasha, and he appeared far more mysterious and troubled than he really was. Kingsley Bey was as cheerful as might be expected, he said, but the matter was grave. He was charged with the destruction of the desert-city, and maintaining an army of slaves in the Khedive’s dominions—a menace to the country.
“But it was with the Khedive’s connivance,” she said. “Who can prove that? It’s a difficult matter for England to handle, as you can see.”
This was very wily of Dicky Donovan, for he was endeavouring to create alarm and sympathy in the woman’s mind by exaggerating the charge. He knew that in a few days at most Kingsley Bey would be free. He had himself given Ismail a fright, and had even gone so far as to suggest inside knowledge of the plans of Europe concerning Egypt. But if he could deepen the roots of this comedy for Kingsley’s benefit—and for the lady’s—it was his duty so to do.
“Of course,” he made haste to add, “you cannot be expected to feel sympathy for him. In your eyes, he is a criminal. He had a long innings, and made a mint of money. We must do all we can, and, of course, we’ll save his life—ah, I’m sure you wouldn’t exact the fullest penalty on him!”
Dicky was more than wily; he was something wicked. The suggestion of danger to Kingsley’s life had made her wince, and he had added another little barbed arrow to keep the first company. The cause was a good one. Hurt now to heal afterwards—and Kingsley was an old friend, and a good fellow. Anyhow, this work was wasting her life, and she would be much better back in England, living a civilised life, riding in the Row, and slumming a little, in the East End, perhaps, and presiding at meetings for the amelioration of the unameliorated. He was rather old-fashioned in his views. He saw the faint trouble in her eyes and face, and he made up his mind that he would work while it was yet the day. He was about to speak, but she suddenly interposed a question.
“Is he comfortable? How does he take it?”
“Why, all right. You know the kind of thing: mud walls and floor—quite dry, of course—and a sleeping-mat, and a balass of water, and cakes of dourha, and plenty of time to think. After all, he’s used to primitive fare.”
Donovan Pasha was drawing an imaginary picture, and drawing it with effect. He almost believed it as his artist’s mind fashioned it. She believed it, and it tried her. Kingsley Bey was a criminal, of course, but he was an old friend; he had offended her deeply also, but that was no reason why he should be punished by any one save herself. Her regimen of punishments would not necessarily include mud walls and floor, and a sleeping-mat and a balass of water; and whatever it included it should not be administered by any hand save her own. She therefore resented, not quite unselfishly, this indignity and punishment the Khedive had commanded.