pursues his wicked course."

She turned with a gesture of impatience, and in silence began to pour the
tea the servant had brought, with a message that Madame had a headache.
Kingsley Bey was about to speak--it was so unfair to listen, and she
would forgive this no more readily than she would forgive slavery. Dicky
intervened, however.

"He isn't so black as he's painted, personally. He's a rash, inflammable
sort of fellow, who has a way with the native--treats him well, too,
I believe. Very flamboyant, doomed to failure, so far as his merit is
concerned, but with an incredible luck. He gambled, and he lost a dozen
times; and then gambled again, and won. That's the truth, I fancy. No
real stuff in him whatever."

Their hostess put down her tea-cup, and looked at Dicky in blank
surprise. Not a muscle in his face moved. She looked at Kingsley. He
had difficulty in restraining himself, but by stooping to give her fox-
terrier a piece of cake, he was able to conceal his consternation.

"I cannot--cannot believe it," she said slowly. "The British Consul does
not speak of him like that."

"He is a cousin of the Consul," urged Dicky. "Cousin--what cousin? I
never heard--he never told me that."

"Oh, nobody tells anything in Egypt, unless he's kourbashed or thumb-
screwed. It's safer to tell nothing, you know."

"Cousin! I didn't know there were Kingsleys in that family. What reason