Oriental, he had, by his gifts,
his address and personal appearance, won the good-will of the Duchess of
Middlesex, and had had that success all too flattering to the soul of a
libertine. It had, however, been the means of his premature retirement
from England, for his chief at the Embassy had a preference for an
Oriental entourage. He was called Foorgat Bey.

Sitting at table, Nahoum alone of all present had caught David's
arrested look, and, glancing up, had seen the girl's face at the panel
of mooshrabieh, and had seen also over her shoulder the face of his
brother, Foorgat Bey. He had been even more astonished than David,
and far more disturbed. He knew his brother's abilities; he knew his
insinuating address--had he not influenced their father to give him
wealth while he was yet alive? He was aware also that his brother had
visited the Palace often of late. It would seem as though the Prince
Pasha was ready to make him, as well as David, a favourite. But the
face of the girl--it was an English face! Familiar with the Palace,
and bribing when it was necessary to bribe, Foorgat Bey had evidently
brought her to see the function, there where all women were forbidden.
He could little imagine Foorgat doing this from mere courtesy; he could
not imagine any woman, save one wholly sophisticated, or one entirely
innocent, trusting herself with him--and in such a place. The girl's
face, though not that of one in her teens, had seemed to him a very
flower of innocence.

But, as he stood telling his beads, abstractedly listening to the
scandal talked by Achmet and Higli, he was not thinking of his brother,
but of the two who had just left the chamber. He was speculating as
to which room they were likely to enter. They had not gone by the door
convenient to passage to Kaid's own apartments. He would give much to
hear the conversation between Kaid and the stranger; he was all too
conscious of its purport. As he stood thinking, Kaid returned. After
looking round the room for a moment, the Prince came slowly over to
Nahoum, and, stretching out a hand, stroked his beard.

"Oh, brother of all the wise, may thy sun never pass its noon!" said
Kaid, in a low, friendly voice.

Despite his will, a shudder passed through Nahoum Pasha's frame.
How often in Egypt this gesture and such words were the prelude to
assassination, from which there was no escape save by death itself. Into
Nahoum's mind there flashed the words of an Arab teache