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At last she had made a direct appeal to Kingsley Bey. She sent an embassy to him–Dicky prevented her from going herself; he said he would have her deported straightway, if she attempted it. She was not in such deadly earnest that she did not know he would keep his word, and that the Consulate could not help her would have no time to do so. So, she confined herself to an elaborate letter, written in admirable English and inspired by most noble sentiments. The beauty that was in her face was in her letter in even a greater degree. It was very adroit, too, very ably argued, and the moral appeal was delicate and touching, put with an eloquence at once direct and arresting. The invocation with which the letter ended was, as Kingsley Bey afterwards put it, “a pitch of poetry and humanity never reached except by a Wagner opera.”

Kingsley Bey’s response to the appeal was a letter to the lady, brought by a sarraf, a mamour and six slaves, beautifully mounted and armed, saying that he had been deeply moved by her appeal, and as a proof of the effect of her letter, she might free the six slaves of his embassy. This she straightway did joyfully, and when they said they wished to go to Cairo, she saw them and their horses off on the boat with gladness, and she shook them each by the hand and prayed Heaven in their language to give them long plumes of life and happiness. Arrived at Cairo these freemen of Assiout did as they had been ordered by Kingsley–found Donovan Pasha, delivered a certain letter to him, and then proceeded, also as they had been ordered, to a certain place 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?”