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Eight hundred thousand pounds!

In a week Dimsdale was at work again. In another month he was at Cairo, and the night after his arrival he attended a ball at the Khedive’s Palace. To Fielding Bey he poured out the wonder of his soul at the chance that had been given him at last. He seemed to think it was his own indomitable patience, the work that he had done, and his reports, which had at last shamed the Egyptian Government and the Caisse de la Dette into doing the right thing for the country and to him.

He was dumfounded when Fielding replied: “Not much, my Belisarius. As Imshi Pasha always was, so he will be to the end. It wasn’t Imshi Pasha, and it wasn’t English influence, and it wasn’t the Caisse de la Dette, each by its lonesome, or all together by initiative.”

“What was it–who was it, then?” inquired Dimsdale breathlessly. “Was it you?–I know you’ve worked for me. It wasn’t backsheesh anyhow. But Imshi Pasha didn’t turn honest and patriotic for nothing–I know that.”

Fielding, who had known him all his life, looked at him curiously for a moment, and then, in a far-away, sort of voice, made recitative:

“‘Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.'”

Dimsdale gasped. “Lucy Gray!” he said falteringly.

Fielding nodded. “You didn’t know, of course. She’s been here for six months–has more influence than the whole diplomatic corps. Twists old Imshi Pasha round her little finger. She has played your game handsomely–I’ve been in her confidence. Wordsworth was wrong when he wrote:

“‘No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor:
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door–‘

“For my wife’s been her comrade. And her mate–would you like to know her mate? She’s married, you know.”

Dimsdale’s face was pale. He was about to reply, when a lady came into view, leaning on the arm of an Agency Secretary. At first she did not see Dimsdale, then within a foot or two of him she suddenly stopped. The Secretary felt her hand twitch on his arm; then she clenched the fingers firmly on her fan.

“My dear Dimsdale,” Fielding said, “you must let me introduce you to Mrs. St. John.”

Dimsdale behaved very well, the lady perfectly. She held out both her hands to him.

“We are old, old friends, Mr. Dimsdale and I. I have kept the next dance for him,” she added, turning to Fielding, who smiled placidly and left with the Secretary.

For a moment there was silence, then she said quietly: “Let me congratulate you on all you have done. Everybody is talking about you. They say it is wonderful how you have made things come your way…. I am very, very glad.”

Dimsdale was stubborn and indignant and anything a man can be whose amour propre has had a shock.

“I know all,” he said bluntly. “I know what you’ve done for me.”

“Well, are you as sorry I did it as I am to know you know it?” she asked just a little faintly, for she had her own sort of heart, and it worked in its own sort of way.

“Why this sudden interest in my affairs? You laughed at me when I made up my mind to come to Egypt.”

“That was to your face. I sent you to Egypt.”

“You sent me?”

“I made old General Duncan talk to you. The inspiration was mine. I also wrote to Fielding Pasha–and at last he wrote to me to come.”

“You–why–“

“I know more about irrigation than any one in England,” she continued illogically. “I’ve studied it.

“I have all your reports. That’s why I could help you here. They saw I knew.”

Dimsdale shook a little. “I didn’t understand,” he said.

“You don’t know my husband, I think,” she added, rising slowly. “He is coming yonder with Imshi Pasha.”