When Benifett Bindane found himself writing “February 1st” upon his letters, he suddenly became the victim of a violent fit of energy. Time was passing, and not much progress had been made with his great scheme for the floating of the Egyptian Oases Development Company. By nature he was indolent, and he had thoroughly enjoyed his three months basking in the Egyptian sun. It was always a great pleasure to him to sit in the warmest corner of a veranda, to glance at the Financial News, and then to stare in front of him with an empty countenance and a mind full of wonderful commercial schemes.

He had the habit of thinking in millions; and his brain, in many ways so deficient, was capable of visualizing an extraordinarily prolonged repetition of the figure “o” at the end of any sum in pounds sterling.

He had quickly made himself master of all the available information in regard to the territory in question, but there were a great many points on which he desired enlightenment before he made his projected grand tour through the Oases at the end of this month. He wished to go there fully primed, so that he should not fail to take note of all those matters on which personal observation might prove to be of value; but now the calendar had awakened him to the fact of the days’ rapid passage, and he was obliged to make a serious effort to put some stiffening into the loose fabric of his bones and brain.

In the secret council-chamber of his mind he had decided that Daniel Lane was the one man really essential to the project, and it was his main object now to enlist his services. He wondered what was the lowest high salary that would tempt him; and he thought out many very fantastic schemes for getting him away from the Residency. Lady Muriel was the real obstacle; for Kate had kept him informed as to the progress of her friend’s love affair, and he realized that as matters now stood there would be the utmost difficulty in persuading Daniel to abandon his present post. Steps, however, in the desired direction ought to be taken; and at any rate there would be no harm in ascertaining the possibilities of the matter.

He therefore telephoned to Lord Blair asking for an immediate interview; and as the clock struck noon he was being ushered into the Great Man’s presence.

Lord Blair received him in a very businesslike manner. A large map of the Oases was spread upon the writing-table, entirely covering the chronic litter of papers heaped thereon, and, indeed, covering the greater part of his lordship himself as he sat in his desk-chair; while upon a side-table there were numerous chorographic memoranda, and a variety of type-written reports made upon the subject the last few years.

Lord Blair opened the proceedings by describing to his visitor the arrangements which had already been made for the forthcoming tour.

“The camels and camping-equipment are bespoken,” he said; “perhaps you would like to see the list of articles to be supplied.”

He lifted the map, and dived his head under it in search of the document, while Benifett Bindane stared vacantly at the folds of the large sheet which rose and fell, like pantomime waves, as Lord Blair moved about under it.

At length the long type-written inventory was found, and for some minutes Mr. Bindane stared at it with dull, watery eyes. He might have been thought to have gone off into a trance; and Lord Blair had begun to fidget when at last the list was handed back.

“Please add ‘one tea-tray’ and ‘one toasting-fork,’” said Mr. Bindane. “That’s all that is omitted, I think.”

Lord Blair was profoundly impressed; but his rising enthusiasm was somewhat damped when presently his visitor broached the subject which was uppermost in his mind.

“There are certain points about which I wish to be informed,” said Mr. Bindane, “before I go out to the Oases.” He drew a piece of paper from his pocketbook. “Here they are. Do you think it would be possible for Mr. Lane to give me his help?”

“Mr. Lane?” queried Lord Blair. “Why?”

“Because I think Mr. Lane’s advice is essential to the scheme,” replied Mr. Bindane.

Lord Blair spread out his hands. “Oh, but I don’t think he can be spared just now,” he protested.

“I thought I understood you to tell me,” said the other, “that the political situation was extremely quiet just at present. I was hoping you might let Mr. Lane turn his attention now to the Oases.”

“My dear sir,” Lord Blair replied, leaning back in his chair, “the quiet times that we are having, that we are enjoying, are very largely due to Daniel Lane. His influence with the natives is extraordinary, quite phenomenal.”

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Bindane replied, his face devoid of expression. “That is why I want him for the scheme.”

Lord Blair leaned forward. “I don’t quite follow. Do I understand you to mean that you want him to be associated definitely with the enterprise?”

Benifett Bindane’s mouth fell open more loosely than usual, and for a second or two he stared vacantly before him. “Yes,” he answered, at length. “I want him to be our General Manager.”

Lord Blair started. “Tut, tut!” he ejaculated, “By the time the company is floated I expect Daniel Lane will have made himself altogether indispensable to his Majesty’s Government here at the Residency.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “I was counting on his support,” said Mr. Bindane, presently. “Without it I don’t know whether I would be inclined to find the necessary capital.”

Lord Blair instantly accepted the challenge. “Then the project will have to be shelved,” he replied, sharply: and when he spoke sharply there was no doubt about his being the “Great Man.”

Benifett Bindane, however, appeared to be entirely unmoved. “I don’t think Mr. Lane is as happy now as he was when he lived in the desert,” he mused.

Lord Blair rose to his feet. “Please regard his services as unavailable, quite unavailable, for this project,” he said deliberately, “except in an occasional advisory capacity.”

Mr. Bindane had also risen, and now the two stood facing one another. Outwardly the trim, eager little man and the tall, lifeless figure before him might have appeared to the eye to be friendly enough; but a reader of hearts would have detected in them two opposing forces arrayed for battle, the one having in mind the extension of the prestige of England, the other the increase of his private fortune.

Meanwhile, in the library, another of life’s little plays was being enacted.

Lord Barthampton had come to the Residency to invite Lady Muriel to a picnic on the following day, and she had just disappointed him by saying that she was already engaged. He had arrived with such a flourish, spanking up to the door in his high dogcart, his little “tiger” leaping to the cob’s head as he pulled up, and the morning sunshine sparkling on the harness and the varnished woodwork; and now, after waiting a very long time in the rather severe library, Lady Muriel had come in and had told him that every moment of her time was booked up apparently for weeks to come.

“I never seem to get the chance to say half a dozen words to you,” he grunted, feeling thoroughly put out. “You women are all so mad about having a good time that you can’t spare a moment for us lonely fellows.”

Muriel was quite concerned at his depression, and asked him whether he would have a glass of port or a whiskey-and-soda.

“No, I will not,” he said, with a gloomy laugh. “I’m on the water-waggon for your sake, and you don’t even say you’re glad.”

“O, but I am,” she answered. “I’m awfully glad. I think you’ve shown true British grit. You’re one of the old Bulldog Breed, and, when once you’ve set your jaw, nothing can get the better of you.”

Somehow she could not help pulling this man’s leg; and she spoke to him in this strain the more readily in that he evidently appreciated the language of what she called the Submerged Male.

“God knows it’s been a struggle,” he said: and, turning away from her, he stared out of the window.

“How did you get into all those bad habits?” she asked, looking at him with interest.

“Oh, India, I suppose,” he replied, with a shrug. “When one’s east of Suez, and the memsahibs have all gone home....”

She stopped him with a gesture. There were limits to the game of leg-pulling; and if he were going to become Anglo-Indian in his phrases, the jest would be intolerable.

“I’m so sorry I can’t come to your picnic,” she said, checking the drift of the conversation. “I’d come if I possibly could, but I’ve got to attend a meeting.”

“A meeting?” he asked, in astonishment. “That sounds a funny thing for you to be doing.”

“I’m honorary President of a fund for helping poor European children in Egypt,” she explained. “It’s a very worthy object, I believe.”

He seized his opportunity. “Yes, we’ve all got to help the unfortunate, hav’n’t we?” he said. “I do all too little myself—just a yearly donation.”

Muriel was impressed, and questioned him.

“Yes,” he told her, “I always try to give between £500 and £1,000 a year to the poor.”

“I call that very fine of you,” she declared, warming to him immediately.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he answered. “I’m blessed with abundance, you know; and I like to practise what I preach. I’m not like some fellows I could mention—full of high principles in public, and full of sins in secret.”

“Who are you thinking of, specially?” she asked, noticing the marked inflection in his words.

He hesitated. “Well, Cousin Daniel, for example.”

“Oh, Daniel’s all right,” she replied.

“I don’t know so much about that,” he laughed. “There are some things you couldn’t understand, little woman. But ... well, there are some pretty tough female devils in the Cairo underworld; and Master Daniel has been seen more than once in low cafÉs and places with a girl who’s known as the ‘worst woman in Egypt’—the famous Lizette: but I don’t suppose you’ve heard of her.”

The words were like a knife in Muriel’s heart. So people were right, then, about Daniel’s disreputable character.

“Oh, that’s all past,” she replied, hardly knowing what she said.

“No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Only the day before yesterday one of my brother-officers saw him with her. And I saw him myself dining with her not so long ago—in fact I tried to separate them. I admit it was only for the honour of our family that I interfered. He was drunk, I think, and wanted to fight me.”

Muriel stared at him with round, frightened eyes; but Lord Barthampton had shot his arrow, and now desired only to make his escape.

“I must be going,” he said, nervously. “I oughtn’t to have told you that: it slipped out.”

He could see plainly enough that she was grievously wounded; and his conscience certainly smote him, though it smote with a gentle forgiving hand.

She turned away from him with tears in her eyes; and he, feeling decidedly awkward, bade her “good-bye,” and hastened out of the room.

In the hall he came upon Benifett Bindane, who was also making towards the front door. The two malefactors greeted one another; and Mr. Bindane being, as Kate had said, “very fond of lords,” attached himself to the younger man with evident pleasure.

“That’s a smart turn-out,” he remarked, as they came out of the house into the glare of the sunshine.

“Give you a lift?” asked Lord Barthampton. “Anywhere you like.”

“Thanks,” the other replied. “I’m going to the Turf Club.”

“Right-o!” said his friend. “In you get. Hold her head, damn you, you little black monkey!” he shouted to the diminutive groom. “Now then!—imshee riglak!”—which he believed to be Arabic.

They drove off at a rattling pace, presently scattering the native traffic in the open square outside the Kars-el-Nil barracks, and nearly unseating a venerable sheikh from his slow-moving donkey.

“Why don’t you get out of the way!” shouted Lord Barthampton, turning a red face to the mild brown wrinkles of the clinging rider. “Lord! these niggers make me impatient.”

“Yes,” said his companion, who always disliked a show of temper, “I notice that it’s only the English resident officials who have learned to be patient with them.”

Arrived at the Turf Club, Lord Barthampton accepted Mr. Bindane’s invitation to refresh himself with dry ginger-ale; for, during the drive, a good idea (with him something of a rarity) had come into his head. He had suddenly recollected that Kate Bindane was Lady Muriel’s bosom friend; and it had occurred to him that if he could obtain the sympathy of the husband, the wife might plead his cause. It would be better not to say very much: he would adopt the manner which, he felt sure, was natural to him, namely that of the stern, silent Englishman.

He therefore lowered his brows as he entered the club, and looked with frowning melancholy upon the groups of laughing and chattering young men about him.

“God, what a noise!” he muttered as he sank into a seat.

Mr. Bindane stared vacantly around, and waving a flapper-like hand to a passing waiter, ordered the ginger-ale as though he were totally indifferent as to whether he ever got it or not.

“I’m feeling a bit blue today,” said Lord Barthampton, leaning back gloomily in his chair.

“What’s the matter?” asked his friend.

“I’m in love,” was the short reply.

Mr. Bindane was mildly interested. “Who with?” he asked.

“Lady Muriel,” the other replied, between his clenched teeth. He was anxious to convey an impression of sorrow sternly controlled.

“A very charming young lady,” said Mr. Bindane, “and my wife’s best friend.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m telling you,” replied Lord Barthampton, looking knowingly at him. “I’ve been wondering if you could get her to put in a word for me.”

“I’ll see,” said Benifett Bindane.

“Thanks awfully,” answered his companion.

That was all. There was no more said upon the subject; but Charles Barthampton felt that the brief and pointed conversation had been very British and straightforward. There had been no mincing of matters; what he had said had been short and soldierly, as man to man.

When he was once more alone, Mr. Bindane lay for awhile loosely in the deep red-leather chair. His open mouth, his vacant eyes, the perpetual pallor of his face, and his crumpled attitude of collapse, might have led an observer to suppose that he had passed quietly away. He was, however, merely absorbed in a series of interesting thoughts. He was thinking that a possible engagement between Lady Muriel and Lord Barthampton would probably have the effect of sending Daniel Lane back to the desert in despair. He was thinking what a great deal of tact would be needed in buying up the land of the Oases from the natives, as he intended ultimately to do. He was thinking how very tactful Daniel Lane was said to be; and how wasted, commercially, he seemed to be at the Residency.