"--that the finger of Sharif was on his pulse; but the end of all was in
the hands of God."

"Oh yes, exactly, the finger of Sharif on his pulse! The old story-the
return to the mother's milk, throwing back to all the Pharaohs. Well,
what then?" he added cheerfully, his smile breaking out again. "Where
has he gone, our Saadat?"

"To Ebn Ezra Bey at the Coptic Monastery by the Etl Tree, where your
prophet Christ slept when a child."

Lacey hummed to himself meditatively. "A sort of last powwow--Rome
before the fall. Everything wrong, eh? Kaid turned fanatic, Nahoum on
the tiles watching for the Saadat to fall, things trembling for want of
hard cash. That's it, isn't it, Mahommed?"

Mahommed nodded, but his look was now alert, and less sombre. He had
caught at something vital and confident in Lacey's tone. He drew nearer,
and listened closely.

"Well, now, my gentle gazelle, listen unto me," continued Lacey. He
suddenly leaned forward, and spoke in subdued but rapid tones. "Say,
Mahommed, once upon a time there was an American man, with a shock of red
hair, and a nature like a spring-lock. He went down to Mexico, with a
million or two of his own money got honestly by an undisputed will from
an undisputed father--you don't understand that, but it doesn't matter--
and with a few millions of other people's money, for to gamble in mines
and railways and banks and steamship companies--all to do with Mexico
what the Saadat has tried to do in Egypt with less money; but not for the