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Dicky laid his head back and laughed noiselessly. “My dear Renshaw, with all Europe worrying Ismail, with France in the butler’s pantry and England at the front door, do the bowab and the sarraf go out to take air on the housetops, and watch the sun set on the Pyramids and make a rainbow of the desert? I am the bowab and the sarraf, the man-of-all-work, the Jack-of-all-trades, the ‘confidential’ to the Oriental spendthrift. Am I a dog to bay the moon–have I the soul of a tourist from Liverpool or Poughkeepsie?”

The lanky Southerner gripped his arm. “There’s a hunting song of the South,” he said, “and the last line is, ‘The hound that never tires.’ You are that, Donovan Pasha–“

“I am ‘little Dicky Donovan,’ so they say,” interrupted the other.

“You are the weight that steadies things in this shaky Egypt. You are you, and you’ve brought me out here because there’s work of some kind to do, and because–“

“And because you’re an American, and we speak the same language.”

“And our Consulate is all right, if needed, whatever it is. You’ve played a square game in Egypt. You’re the only man in office who hasn’t got rich out of her, and–“

“I’m not in office.”

“You’re the power behind the throne, you’re–“

“I’m helpless–worse than helpless, Yankee. I’ve spent years of my life here. I’ve tried to be of some use, and play a good game for England; and keep a conscience too, but it’s been no real good. I’ve only staved off the crash. I’m helpless, now. That’s why I’m here.”

He leaned forward, and looked out of the minaret and down towards the great locked gates of the empty mosque.

Renshaw put his hand on Dicky’s shoulder. “It’s the man in white yonder you’re after?”

Dicky nodded. “It was no use as long as she lived. But she’s dead–her face was under that old Persian shawl–and I’m going to try it on.”

“Try what on?”

“Last night I heard she was sick. I heard at noon to-day that she was gone; and then I got you to come out and see the view!”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Make him come back.”

“From where?”

“From the native quarter and the bazaars. He was for years in Abdin Palace.”

“What do you want him for?”

“It’s a little gamble for Egypt. There’s no man in Egypt Ismail loves and fears so much–“

“Except little Dicky Donovan!”

“That’s all twaddle. There’s no man Ismail fears so much, because he’s the idol of the cafes and the bazaars. He’s the Egyptian in Egypt to-day. You talk about me? Why, I’m the foreigner, the Turk, the robber, the man that holds the lash over Egypt. I’d go like a wisp of straw if there was an uprising.”

“Will there be an uprising?” The Southerner’s fingers moved as though they were feeling a pistol.

“As sure as that pyramid stands. Everything depends on the kind of uprising. I want one kind. There may be another.”

“That’s what you are here for?”

“Exactly.”

“Who is he?”

“Wait.”

“What is his story?”

“She was.” He nodded towards the funeral procession.

“Who was she?”

“She was a slave.” Then, after a pause, “She was a genius too. She saw what was in him. She was waiting–but death couldn’t wait, so… Every thing depends. What she asked him to do, he’ll do.”

“But if she didn’t ask?”

“That’s it. She was sick only seventeen hours–sick unto death. If she didn’t ask, he may come my way.”

Again Dicky leaned out of the minaret, and looked down towards the gates of the mosque, where the old gatekeeper lounged half-asleep. The noise of the-procession had died away almost, had then revived, and from beyond the gates of the mosque could be heard the cry of the mourners: “Salem ala ahali!”

There came a knocking, and the old porter rose up, shuffled to the great gates, and opened. For a moment he barred the way, but when the bearers pointed to the figure in white he stepped aside and salaamed low.