"The manner of her death will please the Mudir. It must please him."
"What death does this vulture among women choose to die?" said the
Sheikh-el-beled.
Her answer could scarcely be heard in the roar and the riot surrounding the hut.
A half-hour later Dicky entered the room where the Mudir sat on his divan drinking his coffee. The great man looked up in angry astonishment—for Dicky had come unannounced-and his fat hands twitched on his breast, where they had been folded. His sallow face turned a little green. Dicky made no salutation.
"Dog of an infidel!" said the Mudir under his breath.
Dicky heard, but did no more than fasten his eyes upon the Mudir for a moment.
"Your business?" asked the Mudir.
"The business of the Khedive," answered Dicky, and his riding-whip tapped his leggings. "I have come about the English girl." As he said this, he lighted a cigarette slowly, looking, as it were casually, into the Mudir's eyes.
The Mudir's hand ran out like a snake towards a bell on the cushions, but
Dicky shot forward and caught the wrist in his slim, steel-like fingers.
There was a hard glitter in his eyes as he looked down into the eyes of
the master of a hundred slaves, the ruler of a province.
"I have a command of the Khedive to bring you to Cairo, and to kill you if you resist," said Dicky. "Sit still—you had better sit still," he added, in a soothing voice behind which was a deadly authority.