"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.
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