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Over their coffee they both talked from long distances towards the point of attack and struggle, Ismail carelessly throwing in glowing descriptions of the palaces he was building. Dicky never failed to show illusive interest, and both knew that they were not deceiving the other, and both came nearer to the issue by devious processes, as though these processes were inevitable. At last Dicky suddenly changed his manner and came straight to the naked crisis.

“Highness, I have an invitation for Kingsley Bey to dine at the British Consulate to-night. You can spare his presence?”

“My table is not despicable. Is he not comfortable here?”

“Is a mud floor, with bread and water and a sleeping-mat, comfortable?”

“He is lodged like a friend.”

“He is lodged like a slave–in a cell.”

“They were not my orders.”

“Effendina, the orders were mine.”

“Excellency!”

“Because there were no orders and Foulik Pasha was sleepless with anxiety lest the prisoner should escape, fearing your Highness’s anger, I gave orders and trusted your Highness to approve.”

Ismail saw a mystery in the words, and knew that it was all to be part of Dicky’s argument in the end. “So be it, Excellency,” he said, “thou hast breathed the air of knowledge, thine actions shine. In what quarter of the palace rests he? And Foulik Pasha?”

“Foulik Pasha sits by his door, and the room is by the doorway where the sarrafs keep the accounts for the palaces your Highness builds. Also, abides near, the Greek, who toils upon the usury paid by your Highness to Europe.”

Ismail smiled. The allusions were subtle and piercing. There was a short pause. Each was waiting. Dicky changed the attack. “It is a pity we should be in danger of riot at this moment, Highness.”

“If riots come, they come. It is the will of God, Excellency. But in our hand lies order. We will quiet the storm, if a storm fall.”

“There will be wreck somewhere.”

“So be it. There will be salvage.”

“Nothing worth a riot, Highness.”

The Khedive eyed Dicky with a sudden malice and a desire to slay–to slay even Donovan Pasha. He did not speak, and Dicky continued negligently: “Prevention is better than cure.”

The Khedive understood perfectly. He knew that Dicky had circumvented him, and had warned the Bank.

Still the Khedive did not speak. Dicky went on. “Kingsley Bey deposited ten thousand pounds–no more. But the gold is not there; only Kingsley Bey’s credit.”

“His slaves shall die to-morrow morning.”

“Not so, Highness.”

The Khedive’s fingers twisted round the chair-arm savagely.

“Who will prevent it?”

“Your Highness will. Your Highness could not permit it–the time is far past. Suppose Kingsley Bey gave you his whole fortune, would it save one palace or pay one tithe of your responsibilities? Would it lengthen the chain of safety?”

“I am safe.”

“No, Highness. In peril–here with your own people, in Europe with the nations. Money will not save you.”

“What then?”

“Prestige. Power–the Soudan. Establish yourself in the Soudan with a real army. Let your name be carried to the Abyssinian mountains as the voice of the eagle.”

“Who will carry it?” He laughed disdainfully, with a bitter, hopeless kind of pride. “Who will carry it?”

“Gordon-again.”

The Khedive started from his chair, and his sullen eye lighted to laughter. He paced excitedly to and fro for a minute, and then broke out:

“Thou hast said it! Gordon–Gordon–if he would but come again!–But it shall be so, by the beard of God’s prophet, it shall. Thou hast said the thing that has lain in my heart. Have I had honour in the Soudan since his feet were withdrawn? Where is honour and tribute and gold since his hand ruled–alone without an army? It is so–Inshallah! but it is so. He shall come again, and the people’s eyes will turn to Khartoum and Darfdr and Kordofan, and the greedy nations will wait. Ah, my friend, but the true inspiration is thine! I will send for Gordon to night–even to-night. Thou shalt go–no, no, not so. Who can tell–I might look for thy return in vain! But who–who, to carry my word to Gordon?”