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“Your argument is not sound in many ways,” she said at last, trying to feel her course. “We must be just before all. The whole of the fortune was not earned by slaves. Kingsley Bey’s ability and power were the original cause of its existence. Without him there would have been no fortune. Therefore, it would not be justice to give it, even indirectly, to the slaves for their cause.”

“It would be penalty–Kingsley Bey’s punishment,” said Dicky slyly.

“But I thought he was to be blotted out,” she said ironically, yet brightening, for it seemed to her that she was proving herself statesmanlike, and justifying her woman’s feelings as well.

“When he is blotted out, his fortune should go where it can remedy the evil of his life.”

“He may have been working for some good cause,” quietly put in Kingsley. “Should not that cause get the advantage of his ‘ability and power,’ as you have called it, even though he was mistaken, or perverted, or cruel? Shouldn’t an average be struck between the wrong his ‘ability and power’ did and the right that same ‘ability and power’ was intended to advance?”

She turned with admiration to Kingsley. “How well you argue–I remember you did years ago. I hate slavery and despise and hate slave-dealers and slave-keepers, but I would be just, too, even to Kingsley Bey. But what cause, save his own comfort and fortune, would he be likely to serve? Do you know him?” she added eagerly.

“Since I can remember,” answered Kingsley, looking through the field-glasses at a steamer coming up the river.

“Would you have thought that he would turn out as he has?” she asked simply. “You see, he appears to me so dark and baleful a figure that I cannot quite regard him as I regard you, for instance. I could not realise knowing such a man.”

“He had always a lot of audacity,” Kingsley replied slowly, “and he certainly was a schemer in his way, but that came from his helpless poverty.”

“Was he very poor?” she asked eagerly.

“Always. And he got his estates heavily encumbered. Then there were people–old ladies–to have annuities, and many to be provided for, and there was little chance in England for him. Good-temper and brawn weren’t enough.”

“Egypt’s the place for mother-wit,” broke in Dicky. “He had that anyhow. As to his unscrupulousness, of course that’s as you may look at it.”

“Was he always unscrupulous?” she asked. “I have thought him cruel and wicked nationally–un-English, shamefully culpable; but a man who is unscrupulous would do mean low things, and I should like to think that Kingsley is a villain with good points. I believe he has them, and I believe that deep down in him is something English and honourable after all–something to be reckoned with, worked on, developed. See, here is a letter I had from him two days ago”–she drew it from her pocket and handed it over to Dicky. “I cannot think him hopeless altogether… I freed the slaves who brought the letter, and sent them on to Cairo. Do you not feel it is hopeful?” she urged, as Dicky read the letter slowly, making sotto voce remarks meanwhile.

“Brigands and tyrants can be gallant–there are plenty of instances on record. What are six slaves to him?”

“He has a thousand to your one,” said Kingsley slowly, and as though not realising his words.

She started, sat up straight in her chair, and looked at him indignantly. “I have no slaves,” she said.

Kingsley Bey had been watching the Circassian girl Mata, in the garden for some time, and he had not been able to resist the temptation to make the suggestion that roused her now.

“I think the letter rather high-flown,” said Dicky, turning the point, and handing the open page to Kingsley. “It looks to me as though written with a purpose.”

“What a cryptic remark!” said Kingsley laughing, yet a little chagrined. “What you probably wish to convey is that it says one thing and means another.”