yourself. He, like you, had lived in Paris; and that is why this thing
happened. You had your own women slaves from Kordofan, from Circassia,
from Syria, from your own land. It was not enough: you must have an
English girl in your harem. You knew you could not buy her, you knew
that none would come to you for love, neither the drab nor the lady.
None would lay her hand in that of a leprous dog like yourself. So you
lied, your friend lied for you--sons of dogs of liars all of you, beasts
begotten of beasts! You must have a governess for your children,
forsooth! And the girl was told she would come to a palace. She came
to a stable, and to shame and murder."

Dicky paused.

The fat, greasy hands of the Mudir fumbled towards the water-glass. It
was empty, but he raised it to his lips and drained the air.

Dicky's eyes fastened him like arrows. "The girl died an hour ago," he
continued. "I was with her when she died. You must pay the price, Abbas
Bey." He paused.

There was a moment's silence, and then a voice, dry like that of one who
comes out of chloroform, said: "What is the price?"

The little touch of cruelty in Dicky's nature, working with a sense of
justice and an ever-ingenious mind, gave a pleasant quietness to the
inveterate hate that possessed him. He thought of another woman--of her
who was to die to-morrow.

"There was another woman," said Dicky: "one of your own people. She was
given a mind and a soul. You deserted her in your harem--what was there