“His Majesty the Sultan demands a share in the profits,” old Mohammed remarked. “He has been allotted an eighth share—similar to myself.”
“I could have arranged a quarter share for you and an eighth for His Majesty,” said the crafty Englishman quickly. “But I suppose it is unfortunately too late, now that you have given the concession into another quarter.”
Mohammed ben Mussa remained silent, slowly stroking his long beard with his brown claw-like hand.
The Englishman’s offer was extremely tempting. He was reflecting.
At last he said very slowly:
“Perhaps if seventy-five thousand francs were offered me and the shares you suggest, I might find some way out,” and he smiled craftily.
“Well,” said Porter with affected hesitation, “I’m inclined to think that my friends would pay that sum—and at once if they received an unassailable concession. I mean a concession given to Mr Rex Rutherford under your hand and seal as Minister which would cancel the previous one.” Porter knew well the one power in Oriental countries was that of backsheesh, and wrote down the name Rex Rutherford.
“I will consider it,” said the old man. “There is no hurry till to-morrow. I may find it necessary to telegraph to Fez. I—I have to think it over, M’sieur Porter.”
“Of course. Then I will come here to-morrow—shall we say at eleven? And you will afterwards lunch with me at Voisin’s—eh?”
“It is agreed,” said the representative of the Moorish Sultan, and then, after another cigarette, Porter rose and left, walking back to the Place Vendôme to tell Freda the result of his morning’s negotiations.