"There were, in fact, the makings of a revolution, which you successfully turned to your own ends?" Creagh suggested, smiling. "To England’s eventually, I hope. Mind you, the scheme was Farquharson’s. He began by sending a man to communicate with the British Consul at Benuni. Benuni is a port on the western coast of Persia. A British political resident lives there under the protection of a few gunboats. Sailors are always ready for a fight, as you know; it’s a pleasant variation from the day’s work. The Shiite revolution was timed to take place on Thursday night at ten o’clock. The palace was to be rushed and the Sheikh taken off to await the Shah’s decision concerning which especial form of lingering death his end was intended to take. The Shah’s claimant was, of course, to be immediately installed in place of the deposed ruler." "And then——?" "By ten o’clock on that same Thursday night the muzzles of two British gunboats were pointing at the mouth of Zut harbour, ready to protect my interests." There was a twinkle in Calvert’s eyes, but his voice was preternaturally solemn. "Farquharson had been forced to represent, of course, that my person was in peril. You can count on the British Navy’s disinclination to inquire unreasonably into the precise cause of these little affairs. I fear that the Commanders of those gunboats, young lieutenants both, gathered from the wording of Farquharson’s appeal that my actual purchase of the island had taken place a few hours before it actually had; in his hurry he omitted to mention the exact time of the transaction." Creagh chuckled. "It was the death-blow of the plot. Half the population made for the shore, to see what the gunboats meant, and what Power they represented. And simultaneously, in the courtyard of the palace, Aba and his chiefs proclaimed that in view of the fact that the British had discovered a plot against his life, he had placed himself under their protection. Only a question or two was asked. The gunboats answered them." "But I don’t see——"