There was a slight pause, in which Dicky seated himself, lighted a cigarette, and summoned a servant, of whom he ordered coffee. They did not speak meantime, but Dicky sat calmly, almost drowsily, smoking, and Selamlik Pasha sat with greasy hands clasping and unclasping, his yellow eyes fixed on Dicky with malevolent scrutiny.
When the coffee was brought, the door had been shut, and Dicky had drawn the curtain across, Selamlik Pasha said: “What great affair brings us together here, saadat el basha?”
“The matter of the Englishman you hold a prisoner, Excellency.”
“It is painful, but he is dead,” said the Pasha, with a grimace of cruelty.
Dicky’s eyes twitched slightly, but he answered with coolness, thrusting his elbow into the cushions and smoking hard: “But, no, he is not dead. Selamlik Pasha has as great an instinct for a bargain as for revenge. Also Selamlik Pasha would torture before he kills. Is it not so?”
“What is your wish?”
“That the man be set free, Excellency.”
“He has trespassed. He has stolen his way into the harem. The infidel dog has defiled the house of my wives.”
“He will marry the woman, with your permission, Excellency. He loved her—so it would seem.”
“He shall die—the dog of an infidel!”