this till I give you leave to speak," she commanded. "I must tell her
ladyship."

Soolsby drew himself up a little, nettled at her tone. "It is your
grace's place to tell her ladyship," he responded; "but I've taken ten
years' savings to come to Egypt, and not to do any one harm, but good,
if so be I might."

The Duchess relented at once. She got to her feet as quickly as she
could, and held out her hand to him. "You are a good man, and a friend
worth having, I know, and I shall like you to be my friend, Mr. Soolsby,"
she said impulsively.

He took her hand and shook it awkwardly, his lips working. "Your grace,
I understand. I've got naught to live for except my friends. Money's
naught, naught's naught, if there isn't a friend to feel a crunch at his
heart when summat bad happens to you. I'd take my affydavy that there's
no better friend in the world than your grace."

She smiled at him. "And so we are friends, aren't we? And I am to tell
her ladyship, and you are to say 'naught.'

"But to the Egyptian, to him, your grace, it is my place to speak--to
Claridge Pasha, when he comes." The Duchess looked at him quizzically.
"How does Lord Eglington's death concern Claridge Pasha?" she asked
rather anxiously. Had there been gossip about Hylda? Had the public got
a hint of the true story of her flight, in spite of all Windlehurst had
done? Was Hylda's name smirched, now, when all would be set right? Had
everything come too late, as it were?