“Oh,” repeated Boyle, mechanically, staring at him with round eyes, “everybody knows that.”

“I dare say there was a touch of it in his jealousy and ferocious vengeance,” went on Fisher.  “But, for all that, the crime would ruin us among the Arabs, all the more because it was something like a crime against hospitality.  It’s been hateful for you and it’s pretty horrid for me.  But there are some things that damned well can’t be done, and while I’m alive that’s one of them.”

“What do you mean?” asked Boyle, glancing at him curiously.  “Why should you, of all people, be so passionate about it?”

Horne Fisher looked at the young man with a baffling expression.

“I suppose,” he said, “it’s because I’m a Little Englander.”

“I can never make out what you mean by that sort of thing,” answered Boyle, doubtfully.

“Do you think England is so little as all that?” said Fisher, with a warmth in his cold voice, “that it can’t hold a man across a few thousand miles.  You lectured me with a lot of ideal patriotism, my young friend; but it’s practical patriotism now for you and me, and with no lies to help it.  You talked as if everything always went right with us all over the world, in a triumphant crescendo culminating in Hastings.  I tell you everything has gone wrong with us here, except Hastings.  He was the one name we had left to conjure with, and that mustn’t go as well, no, by God!  It’s bad enough that a gang of infernal Jews should plant us here, where there’s no earthly English interest to serve, and all hell beating up against us, simply because Nosey Zimmern has lent money to half the Cabinet.  It’s bad enough that an old pawnbroker from Bagdad should make us fight his battles; we can’t fight with our right hand cut off.  Our one score was Hastings and his victory, which was really somebody else’s victory.  Tom Travers has to suffer, and so have you.”

Then, after a moment’s silence, he pointed toward the bottomless well and said, in a quieter tone: 

“I told you that I didn’t believe in the philosophy of the Tower of Aladdin.  I don’t believe in the Empire growing until it reaches the sky; I don’t believe in the Union Jack going up and up eternally like the Tower.  But if you think I am going to let the Union Jack go down and down eternally, like the bottomless well, down into the blackness of the bottomless pit, down in defeat and derision, amid the jeers of the very Jews who have sucked us dry—­no I won’t, and that’s flat; not if the Chancellor were blackmailed by twenty millionaires with their gutter rags, not if the Prime Minister married twenty Yankee Jewesses, not if Woodville and Carstairs had shares in twenty swindling mines.  If the thing is really tottering, God help it, it mustn’t be we who tip it over.”

Boyle was regarding him with a bewilderment that was almost fear, and had even a touch of distaste.

“Somehow,” he said, “there seems to be something rather horrid about the things you know.”