He bent his eyes upon her complacently. Her own dropped. She could not
bear that he should see the misery in them.

"You have come to try and save him, madame. What did you expect to do?
Your Government did not strengthen my hands; your husband did nothing--
nothing that could make it possible for me to act. There are many
nations here, alas! Your husband does not take so great an interest in
the fate of Claridge Pasha as yourself, madame."

She ignored the insult. She had determined to endure everything, if she
might but induce this man to do the thing that could be done--if it was
not too late. Before she could frame a reply, he said urbanely:

"But that is not to be expected. There was that between Claridge Pasha
and yourself which would induce you to do all you might do for him, to be
anxious for his welfare. Gratitude is a rare thing--as rare as the
flower of the century--aloe; but you have it, madame."

There was no chance to misunderstand him. Foorgat Bey--he knew the
truth, and had known it all these years.

"Excellency," she said, "if through me, Claridge Pasha--"

"One moment, madame," he interrupted, and, opening a drawer, took out a
letter. "I think that what you would say may be found here, with much
else that you will care to know. It is the last news of Claridge Pasha--
a letter from him. I understand all you would say to me; but he who has
most at stake has said it, and, if he failed, do you think, madame, that
you could succeed?"