“I was not his kinswoman,” she answered calmly. “You came to ask a favour then of Claridge Pasha; your life-work to do under him. I remember your words: ‘I can aid thee in thy great task. Thou wouldst remake our Egypt, and my heart is with you. I would rescue, not destroy.... I would labour, but my master has taken away from me the anvil, the fire, and the hammer, and I sit without the door like an armless beggar.’ Those were your words, and Claridge Pasha listened and believed, and saved your life and gave you work; and now again you have power greater than all others in Egypt.” “Madame, I congratulate you on a useful memory. May it serve you as the hill-fountain the garden in the city! Those indeed were my words. I hear myself from your lips, and yet recognise myself, if that be not vanity. But, madame, why have you sought me? What is it you wish to know--to hear?” He looked at her innocently, as though he did not know her errand; as though beyond, in the desert, there was no tragedy approaching--or come. “Excellency, you are aware that I have come to ask for news of Claridge Pasha.” She leaned forward slightly, but, apart from her tightly interlaced fingers, it would not have been possible to know that she was under any strain. “You come to me instead of to the Effendina. May I ask why, madame? Your husband’s position--I did not know you were Lord Eglington’s wife--would entitle you to the highest consideration.” “I knew that Nahoum Pasha would have the whole knowledge, while the Effendina would have part only. Excellency, will you not tell me what news You have? Is Claridge Pasha alive?” “Madame, I do not know. He is in the desert. He was surrounded. For over a month there has been no word-none. He is in danger. His way by the river was blocked. He stayed too long. He might have escaped, but he would insist on saving the loyal natives, on remaining with them, since he could not bring them across the desert; and the river and the desert are silent. Nothing comes out of that furnace yonder. Nothing comes.” He bent his eyes upon her complacently. Her own dropped. She could not bear that he should see the misery in them. “You have come to try and save him, madame. What did you expect to do? Your Government did not strengthen my hands; your husband did nothing--nothing that could make it possible for me to act. There are many nations here, alas! Your husband does not take so great an interest in the fate of Claridge Pasha as yourself, madame.” She ignored the insult. She had determined to endure everything, if she might but induce this man to do the thing that could be done--if it was not too late. Before she could frame a reply, he said urbanely: “But that is not to be expected. There was that between Claridge Pasha and yourself which would induce you to do all you might do for him, to be anxious for his welfare. Gratitude is a rare thing--as rare as the flower of the century--aloe; but you have it, madame.”