There were only three men at the gate of the Agency, and two of them were the native porters of the house, but the third was a lean and lank Soudanese, who carried by a cord about his neck a small round lantern whereof the light was turned against his breast. A cold glitter in the black man’s eyes was like the gleam of a dagger to Hafiz, but Gordon paid no heed to it. He saluted the porters, saying he had come to see Ibrahim, the Consul-General’s servant, and then, without waiting for permission, he walked through. Hafiz followed him into the garden, where the moonlight lay over the silent trees and made blotches of shadow on the path. "Stay here," he said, and leaving Hafiz in the darkness he stepped up to the door. Ibrahim himself opened it, and the moment he had done so, Gordon entered the outer hall. "Tell Fatimah I come from her son and wish to see her at once," he said. Ibrahim looked searchingly at the stranger, and a shade of doubt and anger crossed his face. "I can’t do that, my man," he answered. "Why can’t you?" asked Gordon. "I won’t," said Ibrahim. There was a little lodge at the right of the hall, where visitors to the Consul-General wrote their names in a book. Into this lodge Gordon drew Ibrahim by the arm and whispered a few hasty words in his ear. The man’s lips whitened and quivered, and he began to stutter and stammer in his fright. "Are you, then ... can it be ... is it really——" "Hush! Yes. Ibrahim," said Gordon, "I wish to see my mother." Ibrahim began to wring his hands. It was impossible. Yes, impossible. Quite impossible. Her ladyship was ill. "Ill?" "She went up to the Citadel yesterday, sir, and came home utterly exhausted." "Do you mean that my mother is very ill—dangerously ill, Ibrahim?" "I don’t know, sir. I can’t say, sir. I fear she is, sir." "Then all the more I wish to see her," said Gordon. But again Ibrahim wrung his hands. The doctor had been there four times that day and ordered absolute rest and quiet. Only Fatimah was permitted to enter the patient’s room—except the Consul-General, and he went up to it every hour. "It would be a shock to her, sir. It might kill her, sir. _Wallahi_! I beg of you not to attempt it, sir." Ibrahim was right, plainly right, but never until that moment had Gordon known the full bitterness of the cup he had to drink from. Because his mother was ill, dangerously ill, dying perhaps, therefore he must not see her—he of all others! He was going far, and might never see her again. Was another blank wall to be built about his life? It was monstrous, it was impossible, it should not be!