She went back to her hotel flaming with indignation against Ismail. It was very comforting to her to have this resource. The six slaves whom she had freed--the first-fruits of her labours: that they should be murdered! The others who had done no harm, who had been slaves by Ismail’s consent, that they should be now in danger of their lives through the same tyrant! That Kingsley Bey, who had been a slave-master with Ismail’s own approval and to his advantage, should now--she glowed with pained anger.... She would not wait till she had seen Kingsley Bey, or Donovan Pasha again; she herself would go to Ismail at once. So, she went to Ismail, and she was admitted, after long waiting in an anteroom. She would not have been admitted at all, if it had not been for Dicky, who, arriving just before her on the same mission, had seen her coming, and guessed her intention. He had then gone in to the Khedive with a new turn to his purposes, a new argument and a new suggestion, which widened the scope of the comedy now being played. He had had a struggle with Ismail, and his own place and influence had been in something like real danger, but he had not minded that. He had suggested that he might be of service to Egypt in London and Paris. That was very like a threat, but it was veiled by a look of genial innocence which Ismail admired greatly. He knew that Donovan Pasha could hasten the crisis coming on him. He did not believe that Donovan Pasha would, but that did not alter the astuteness and value of the move; and, besides, it was well to run no foolish risks and take no chances. Also, he believed in Donovan Pasha’s honesty. He despised him in a worldly kind of way, because he might have been rich and splendid, and he was poor and unassuming. He wanted Kingsley Bey’s fortune, or a great slice of it, but he wanted it without a struggle with Dicky Donovan, and with the British Consulate--for that would come, too, directly. It gave him no security to know that the French would be with him--he knew which country would win in the end. He was preying on Kingsley Bey’s humanity, and he hoped to make it well worth while. And all he thought and planned was well understood by Dicky. 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.”