“And are you going after him really?” said Kavanagh.
“Or are you only chaffing? It seems a wild goose chase.”
“Yes, I am going,” said Harry; “and I think better of our chances than you seem to do. In the first place, I have picked up a smattering of Arabic, and that is a help; and then I have friends who can give me recommendations to the Egyptian authorities in any town which is held for the Khedive on the Upper Nile, and I am pretty confident I can make them help me.”
“But suppose this fellow has not got the will, or has destroyed it, or has hidden it somewhere, and won’t tell?”
“That would be hard lines for you, Kavanagh, and I hope better things. But even in that case it would not follow that my journey would be useless to myself. I have got a crazy uncle, a brother of uncle Richard, who is heir-at-law if a will is not forthcoming. He has turned Mohammedan, and lives like an Arab, and I believe has considerable authority amongst them. He was in England the last Christmas we were at Harton, and I saw him in the holidays, and he gave me directions how to find him if ever I wanted, for he took a fancy to me, and wanted me to go and live as he does. With all his eccentricity, he has a strong love for his sister—that is my mother, you know—and if he could be told that his brother was dead, and that he had made a will in his sister’s favour which had been stolen, by which means he had become heir to the Irish property, I am convinced he would try to do something to set matters straight. Anyhow, it is worth trying.”
“Rather!” said Kavanagh. “And if the country is in insurrection, and barred against Egyptians and European travellers, your relative’s pass may enable you to get at Master Cream—Butter—what’s his name?”
“Daireh.”
“Ah, yes; I knew it had something to do with a dairy—to get at him, after all.”
“By Jove, what an enterprising chap you are, Forsyth!” cried Strachan. “You deserve to succeed, I am sure.”
“He does; and I heartily hope he will, for if he does not find the will, I shall have to forego all the comforts of life, at least, all I know of, for I daresay I shall find others. Now periwinkles may be a comfort, but what I shudder at is the idea of dirty linen. Not to have a clean shirt every day! It is quite too awful to think of. I am sure I wish you speedy and complete success, and that you may eat salt with the Arabs, and put some on Daireh’s tail. That is how the Nubians catch their prisoners, Strachan.”