in the city, even to
Ismail's stables, to await their master's coming.

This letter was now in Dicky's hand, and his mirth was caused by the
statement that Kingsley Bey had declared that he was coming to marry My
Lady--she really was "My Lady," the Lady May Harley; that he was coming
by a different route from "his niggers," and would be there the same
day. Dicky would find him at ten o'clock at the Khedivial Club.

My Lady hated slavery--and unconsciously she kept a slave; she regarded
Kingsley Bey as an enemy to civilisation and to Egypt, she detested him
as strongly as an idealistic nature could and should--and he had set out
to marry her, the woman who had bitterly arraigned him at the bar of her
judgment. All this play was in Dicky's hands for himself to enjoy, in
a perfect dress rehearsal ere ever one of the Cairene public or the
English world could pay for admission and take their seats. Dicky had
in more senses than one got his money's worth out of Kingsley Bey. He
wished he might let the Khedive into the secret at once, for he had an
opinion of Ismail's sense of humour; had he not said that very day
in the presence of the French Consul, "Shut the window, quick! If
the consul sneezes, France will demand compensation!" But Dicky was
satisfied that things should be as they were. He looked at the clock--it
was five minutes to ten. He rose from the table, and went to the
smoking-room. In vain it was sought to draw him into the friendly
circles of gossiping idlers and officials. He took a chair at the very
end of the room and opposite the door, and waited, watching.

Precisely at ten the door opened and a tall, thin, loose-knit figure
entered. He glanced quickly round, saw Dicky, and swung down the room,
nodding to men who sprang to their feet to greet him. Some of the
Egyptians looked darkly at him, but he smiled all round, caught at one
or two hands thrust out to him, said: "Business--business first!" in a
deep bass voice, and, hastening on, seized both of Dicky's hands in his,
then his shoulders, and almost roared: "Well, what do you think of it?
Isn't it all right? Am I, or am I not, Dicky Pasha?"

"You very much are," answered Dicky, thrust a cigar at him, and set him
down in the deepest chair he could find. He sprawled wide, and lighted
his cigar, then lay back and looked down his long nose at his friend.

"I mean it, too," he said after a minute, and reached for a glass of
water the waiter brought. "No, tha