ised life, riding in the Row, and
slumming a little, in the East End, perhaps, and presiding at meetings
for the amelioration of the unameliorated. He was rather old-fashioned
in his views. He saw the faint trouble in her eyes and face, and he made
up his mind that he would work while it was yet the day. He was about to
speak, but she suddenly interposed a question.

"Is he comfortable? How does he take it?"

"Why, all right. You know the kind of thing: mud walls and floor--quite
dry, of course--and a sleeping-mat, and a balass of water, and cakes of
dourha, and plenty of time to think. After all, he's used to primitive
fare."

Donovan Pasha was drawing an imaginary picture, and drawing it with
effect. He almost believed it as his artist's mind fashioned it. She
believed it, and it tried her. Kingsley Bey was a criminal, of course,
but he was an old friend; he had offended her deeply also, but that was
no reason why he should be punished by any one save herself. Her regimen
of punishments would not necessarily include mud walls and floor, and a
sleeping-mat and a balass of water; and whatever it included it should
not be administered by any hand save her own. She therefore resented,
not quite unselfishly, this indignity and punishment the Khedive had
commanded.

"When is he to be tried?"

"Well, that is hardly the way to put it. When he can squeeze the Khedive
into a corner he'll be free, but it takes time. We have to go carefully,
for it isn't the slave-master alone, it's those twenty slaves of his,
including the six you freed. Their heads are worth a good deal to the
Khedive, he thinks."

She was dumfounded. "I don't understand," she said helplessly.

"Well, the Khedive put your six and fourteen others in prison for
treason or something--it doesn't matter much here what it is. His game
is to squeeze Kingsley's gold orange dry, if he can."

A light broke over her face. "Ah, now I see," she said, and her face
flushed deeply with anger and indignation. "And you--Donovan Pasha, you
who are supposed to have influence with the Khedive, who are supposed
to be an English influence over him, you can speak of this quietly,
patiently, as a matter possible to your understanding. This barbarous,
hideous black mail! This cruel, dreadful tyranny! You, an Englishman,
remain in the service of the man who is guilty of such a crime!" Her
breath came hard.

"Well, it seems the wisest thing to do as yet. You have lived a long