“Foulik Pasha sits by his door, and the room is by the doorway where the sarrafs keep the accounts for the palaces your Highness builds. Also, abides near, the Greek, who toils upon the usury paid by your Highness to Europe.”
Ismail smiled. The allusions were subtle and piercing. There was a short pause. Each was waiting. Dicky changed the attack. “It is a pity we should be in danger of riot at this moment, Highness.”
“If riots come, they come. It is the will of God, Excellency. But in our hand lies order. We will quiet the storm, if a storm fall.”
“There will be wreck somewhere.”
“So be it. There will be salvage.”
“Nothing worth a riot, Highness.”
The Khedive eyed Dicky with a sudden malice and a desire to slay—to slay even Donovan Pasha. He did not speak, and Dicky continued negligently: “Prevention is better than cure.”
The Khedive understood perfectly. He knew that Dicky had circumvented him, and had warned the Bank.
Still the Khedive did not speak. Dicky went on. “Kingsley Bey deposited ten thousand pounds—no more. But the gold is not there; only Kingsley Bey’s credit.”
“His slaves shall die to-morrow morning.”