"It is as God wills; but as the tongue of man speaks, so is he--Bimbashi
Sowerby, my master--swallowed up these thirty-six hours in the tomb
prepared for him by Selamlik Pasha."

Dicky felt his eyelids twitch, and he almost gave a choking groan of
anxiety, for Selamlik Pasha would not spare the invader of his harem; an
English invader would be a delicate morsel for his pitiless soul. He
shuddered inwardly at the thought of what might have occurred, what might
occur still.

If Sowerby had been trapped and was already dead, the knowledge would
creep through the bazaars like a soft wind of the night, and all the Arab
world would rejoice that a cursed Inglesi, making the unpardonable breach
of their code, had been given to the crocodiles, been smothered, or
stabbed, or tortured to death with fire. And, if it were so, what could
be done? Could England make a case of it, avenge the life of this young
fool who had disgraced her in the eyes of the world, of the envious
French in Cairo, and of that population of the palaces who hated her
because Englishmen were the enemies of backsheesh, corruption, tyranny,
and slavery? And to what good the attempt? Exists the personal law of
the Oriental palace, and who may punish any there save by that personal
law? What outside law shall apply to anything that happens within those
mysterious walls? Who shall bear true witness, when the only judge is he
whose palace it is? Though twenty nations should unite to judge, where
might proof be found--inside the palace, where all men lie and bear false
witness?

If Sowerby was not dead, then resort to force? Go to Selamlik Pasha the
malignant, and demand the young officer? How easy for Selamlik Pasha to
deny all knowledge of his existence! Threaten Selamlik--and raise a