"Having chosen a good man, why can't they leave him alone?" thought the Consul-General.
And then, his personal feelings getting the better of his patriotism, he almost wished that the charlatan element in Ishmael Ameer might develop speedily; that he might draw off the allegiance of the native soldiers in the Soudan and break out, like the Mahdi, into open rebellion. That would bring the Secretary of State to his senses, make him realise a real danger, and see in the everlasting "affair of El Azhar" if not light, then lightning.
The door of the breakfast-room opened and Ibrahim entered.
"Well, what is it?" demanded the Consul-General with a frown.
Ibrahim answered in some confusion that a small boy was in the hall, asking to see the English lord. He said he brought an urgent message, but would not tell what it was or where it came from. Had been there three times before, slept last night on the ground outside the gate, and could not be driven away—would his lordship see the lad?
"What is his race? Egyptian?"
"Nubian, my lord."
"Ever seen the boy before?"
"No ... yes ... that is to say ... well, now that your lordship mentions it, I think ... yes I think he came here once with Miss Hel ... I mean General Graves's daughter."
"Bring him up immediately," said the Consul-General.