No doubt, had the man not been of such great use to von Hildemaller, the latter would then and there have vented all his wrath and vexation on him; but if the German were angry he was still not so furious that he was altogether bereft of common sense and caution. Caution, indeed, was something which had helped the Teuton to be successful; it was his hard-headed common sense and cunning which had made of him such a plotter, and now that same common sense caused his anger to evaporate. In any case he became calm, and stood for a moment or so considering deeply.
"Listen, my friend!" he said at last, his tone completely changed. "You did well. You sat here, you tell me, and heard nothing. Then I will tell you what has happened. The two prisoners we sought are gone—escaped within a few minutes of my gaining the prison; they are nowhere to be found, and we must seek them. Tell me now, you who are clever in such matters, supposing you to be in their place, and to have shaken yourself free of the prison, whither would you turn? What quarter?"
The man answered him promptly, without a thought it seemed.
"Bagdad, Master."
"And nowhere else?"
"And nowhere else," the man repeated.
"Then in Bagdad you believe that we shall trace them?"
"I do, Master, and the sooner we can make our way there the better."
Early on the following morning, in fact, von Hildemaller could have been discovered in a shaky old country vehicle, drawn by a dilapidated pony, being rattled over an incredibly rough road close to that city. Perched on the driving-seat was the rascal whom he had encountered outside the prison on the previous evening. A picturesque rascal to be sure, for there was nothing about this man which denoted his calling. Very soon they entered the gates, and were swallowed up amidst the narrow, tortuous streets of the city, and finally gained the quarters habitually occupied by the German. Yet we have to recount the fact that, quietly as these two had entered Bagdad, unostentatiously as they had made their way through the streets, much as they had sought to escape observation, yet one at least had watched their coming. It was that tall, skinny, bony Jew, who sat, as ever, it seemed, cross-legged on his stall, perched like a bird of evil omen above those embroidered goods, the sale of which appeared to trouble him so little. His beady eyes marked the passing of that clattering vehicle and recognized, while they appeared to be looking at nothing, the picturesque rascal who drove it, and took in in a single fleeting glance the fat features of the German.
"So, that man—the one who tracked Douglas Pasha——" he muttered, appearing to address the words rather to the embroidered goods he had for disposal than to any particular person. "Coffee, boy!" he called, clapping his hands. "Coffee, that I may sip it and think."
Almost motionless, merely his eyelids blinking, while occasionally his long fingers played over the wares on his stall, the Jew waited for the coffee, and then, taking the cup with a deliberation peculiar to him, lifted it slowly to his lips and sipped it thoughtfully. It was at such times, too, that this curious old man, who had such a strong liking for Douglas Pasha, looked above the rim of the egg-shaped cup and cast his glance over the Bazaar. It masked his movements, as it were, and that cup disguised the fact, from any who might be looking, that he was interested in his immediate surroundings. Not that the man saw anything in particular, merely walls, merely long shadows cast by a brilliant sun, and stalls upon which other figures rested much as he did—motionless figures, men apparently indifferent to their success in business, for not an effort did they make to attract the attention of would-be purchasers and extract money from them.
"So!" he muttered again into the coffee-cup. "That man is back, and I have heard tales of a journey to another prison. Perhaps Esbul may give information; perhaps he followed. Who knows? We will wait till the evening."
And wait the old man did, placidly, with not the smallest show of impatience, till the shadows lengthened, till dusk fell over the Bazaar, and until other merchants were closing their places of business. Then, having seen his stall shut by the boy who did jobs small and large for him, the Jew tottered away from the place, dived into a narrow alley, and wriggled his way to a house at some distance. Entering this from a courtyard at the back, he rapped twice with his stick on the floor, and waited for an answer.
"What then?" a voice asked cautiously from the top of a flight of stairs, "Who is that?"
"A friend!" the Jew replied, and ascended promptly. Gaining a room at the top of the flight of stairs he sat down on a divan, and then turned to the man who stood before him.
"So they have come—that German and the ruffian," he said. "You saw them, Esbul?"
Esbul nodded.
"I saw them; they passed to their old quarters."
"And maybe you know from whence?" the Jew asked.
"Not so," Esbul told him. "They slipped from the city unbeknown to me, and were gone while I was sleeping. But—but—I have a feeling that they were bent on business which concerned my master, or which concerned those two who were captured with me at Nasiriyeh."
There was silence for some long while in that room, for the Jew was not given to much talking. Instead, he ate his humble evening meal slowly and thoughtfully, gazing at the opposite wall as if he could read there the mystery of Douglas Pasha's whereabouts, of the prison in fact where von Hildemaller had caused him to be sent. Let it be remembered, too, that though this Jew had means of learning much of what was happening, had learned, indeed, that Geoff and Phil had been incarcerated somewhere outside the city, yet he had no knowledge of the German's movements, did not dream, in fact, that von Hildemaller had so recently visited the place where they were held, and did not suspect his mission. But he guessed that the Teuton's exit from the city and return had something to do with Douglas Pasha, though it might not be directly. He hated this German—hated all Germans in fact—for, Armenian Jew though he was, Turkey was his country, and, as a wise man, he realized that Germany's interest in it was not disinterested. But the subject of Douglas Pasha touched him even more deeply, for he was devoted to the Englishman, had received much kindness from him, had, in days past, to thank him for an act which saved his life—a deed of bravery which might have cost Douglas Pasha his own quite easily. That was the secret of the Jew's attachment to this British officer, the secret of his solicitude for his safety, and part of the reason for his detestation of von Hildemaller. He turned after a while, solemnly and slowly, upon Esbul, who meantime had waited for him to speak, with too great a respect for the aged Jew to disturb him.
"My son," he said, and the beady old eyes flickered wisely at Esbul, "there has been a deep plot hatching in these parts, and the German has been weaving a web to cast about these British people. As I, a good Armenian Jew and subject of the Sultan—though he has sorely ill-treated us Armenians—as I hate this German, so he loathes all those British. He fears the influence of Douglas Pasha amongst the Turks; when there was no war he feared him, for even against their will our Turkish pashas could not help having a liking for the Briton, while for this Teuton they had nothing but contempt. Thus von Hildemaller was jealous of Douglas Pasha, feared his strength, and made plans to rid Bagdad and Mesopotamia of him. The chance came when war burst over the land, and the German seized it. Yet, surrounded by enemies as he was, Douglas Pasha evaded the danger for a while, evaded it till the hirelings of von Hildemaller tracked him down and cast their net about him. Then, but for those Turkish friends of our master, but for the news of Douglas Pasha's capture which I sent swiftly to them, the German would have killed him. Against the wishes of the Turks he could do no such thing, and therefore had to be content with his imprisonment. Now see what follows: the ward of Douglas Pasha is captured also, and with him a companion. The news comes to the ears of this scheming German. He can do no worse, for the time being at any rate, to Douglas Pasha himself, but he can hurt him through this young soldier—this young officer who is dear to him. Who knows? It may be that his journey outside the city was to secure the person of young Geoffrey Keith. Who knows? But it is likely."
"More than likely," Esbul told him respectfully.
"That we shall learn in time," the Jew answered. "I have ways of gathering news unknown to you—unknown to anyone, in fact. We shall learn. But you, Esbul, in the meantime you will set a watch upon these people, will disguise yourself and hover about the streets of the city, and perchance it may be that information will come to you sooner than to me, in which case you will be lucky."
Esbul, indeed, might consider himself an extremely well-favoured individual if it turned out that he was more successful in unearthing the secret doings of von Hildemaller than was Benshi, this aged Jew, this extraordinarily silent man who hovered the day long over his embroidered wares, and seemed to take no interest in things outside his narrow stall, and to possess no energy for doing so; for, indeed, Benshi was a deep, discreet, and clever individual—one to whom tales came in the most uncanny manner, to whom reports of doings outside the city of Bagdad were sent almost before they reached the Governor's palace. And yet the exact whereabouts of Douglas Pasha was hidden from him; while beyond the fact that Geoff and Philip had been imprisoned—a fact communicated by Esbul—he had no knowledge of them.
Donning a garb which was calculated to deceive easily any who might meet him, Esbul slipped out of the house that evening and plunged into the intricacies of the thoroughfares of the city. No need for him to seek for the quarters of von Hildemaller, for they were already known to him, and no need, therefore, to ask questions. But arrived at the house—one detached from its fellows, standing aloof and alone in a compound—there was little to encourage him to wait, nothing to prove that the German and the arch-scoundrel he employed were in residence. Not a light flickered from the windows, not a gleam came through a crack in the shutters; the place was clad in darkness, while not a sound came from it.
"But yet it may be that they are there, these crafty fellows," thought Esbul; "we'll see, we'll investigate the premises carefully."
To clamber over the containing wall was an easy matter, while the drop on the far side was nothing. With stealthy steps the Armenian passed round the house, squinting in through keyholes, staring at the shutters, seeking for something which might prove of interest. Yet, though he spent a good half-hour in the compound, not a sound reached his ears, and nothing rewarded his efforts.
Meanwhile, one may wonder what had happened to Geoff and Philip after their adventurous escape from the Governor's quarters of the prison.
"Where now, then?" asked Philip, darkness having fallen completely. "I say, Geoff, I'm sorry about that fall of yours and the fruit, for the supply I've brought is precious scanty; let's finish it now, and then consider matters."
It was, indeed, rather an unfortunate thing that the breaking of the rope and Geoff's fall upon the cushions—which they had had forethought enough to drop out of the Governor's window—had resulted in the pulping of the supply of fruit he was carrying on his person. Yet, if they were deprived of that, they had gained something immeasurably greater, for they had gained their liberty.
"And mean to keep it now," Geoff was whispering to himself, as they crouched beside the wall of the prison. "But what to do, where to go, and how to fare now that we are free?"
It was, indeed, rather a problem, and yet not so difficult after all; for, consider, Bagdad, they knew—they had learned from their jailer—was within a day's march of them, and Bagdad was just as much a magnet to these two young subalterns as it was to any Arab or any Turk in Mesopotamia—just as much a magnet, indeed, as it was to the British Expeditionary Force then fighting its way towards the city from Kut-el-Amara.
"Of course it's got to be done; we've got to get to Bagdad," Geoff exclaimed, when they had finished their small supply of fruit. "Next question is—in what direction?"
Philip scratched his head; it was, indeed, a problem which floored him.
"Which direction, eh?" he muttered. "Yes, that does want deciding, for I've no notion."
"But here's an idea—a good idea, too," said Geoff. "Naturally enough the prison must be on some road, else how would one get to it? How could we have been driven here?"
"Brilliant! Of course, naturally enough—on a road. We look for it."
"Quite so; we look for it, and then——"
"Then we march along it, eh?" Philip told him cheerfully.
"Which direction?" asked Geoff satirically. "Supposing it runs west and east, do we turn west or east? And if north and south, which way, please, Philip?"
It was Philip's turn again to cogitate, to scratch his head even harder, and to wonder. It made him quite irritable and angry when he discovered how hopeless the situation really was; and then, seizing upon a brilliant idea, he almost gave vent to a shout of triumph.
"Of course; easy as smoking; we just get on to the road and wait for folks to come along it."
"Brilliant!" Geoff scoffed at him. "People don't travel so often during the night in these parts, but at any rate it's the only solution of our difficulties. We'll get on to the road and see what happens."
What actually happened was that, after a while, voices were heard in the neighbourhood of the prison; for by then Geoff and his friend had passed round the place, had found the road, and had sat down beside it. They heard the rattle of wheels somewhere on the road, and the ring of horses' hoofs. Creeping nearer, they heard those voices more distinctly, and after a little while, getting nearer still, Geoff was convinced that it was von Hildemaller himself who was talking.
"Go easy," he told Philip; "keep as far away as we can and listen to them. Von Hildemaller's in a nasty temper, I expect, and is quitting the prison. There! He's mounting into some sort of Turkish vehicle, and he's about to drive off. What's that he's saying? To Bagdad?"
"To Bagdad!" exclaimed Philip in an excited and eager whisper. "That's where we're going."
"I hope so, certainly," agreed Geoff.
"Then why not accompany our dear friend Hildemaller?" asked Philip, starting forward.
"Accompany him!" exclaimed Geoff; "you're fooling."
"Never hung on the back of a trap before?" said Philip immediately. "I have. Come along; let's get this German fellow to give us a lift to our destination."
The young subaltern had never given expression to a more brilliant proposal. Geoff seized upon it on the instant, and the two, running swiftly across the road in their stockinged feet—for they still kept their boots tucked close to their bodies—were within a few feet of the rickety chaise in which the German was riding. As it drove off, clattering heavily over the rough road, they raced up behind it, and, unknown to the German, clung on behind and accompanied him towards Bagdad.
"Bagdad! See it in the distance; watch the rising sun glint on the roofs and minarets!"
It was in a cautious whisper that Geoff drew the attention of his chum to a point some long distance in advance of the spot over which the rickety chaise in which von Hildemaller was riding bore them. Very craftily he had thrust his head out beyond the side of the vehicle, and though all was still dusk about them, though the night had not altogether faded, yet, happening to be on a considerable elevation, and looking down into the distant basin of the Tigris, he had caught just that faint gleam of the city for which they were making. Balancing unevenly, uncomfortably, and with many a suppressed groan, on the axle and spring of the other side, Phil shot his head out like a jack-in-the-box after Geoff had spoken, and stared ahead hard until he too saw flashes from the roofs of Bagdad. Then he gave vent to quite a loud "Jingo!" and instantly ducked his head low behind the back of the chaise, for von Hildemaller moved. Up to that moment, during weary hours, he had sat in his seat almost without movement, and undoubtedly had lapsed into sleep, for his snores, like his breathing, shook the air about him. Now he woke up with a start, stared about him in a frightened manner, and then called to the driver:
"Stop! I heard something. Someone speaking, and close at hand."
Obediently the driver pulled up his tired pony, and, looking back, stared sleepily at his master.
"A voice? Someone speaking? You heard something, master?" he grumbled. "No, no, surely; for we have been on the road alone, and not a soul has been near us—not a soul. You have been asleep, Master."
And yet von Hildemaller, the ever-suspicious von Hildemaller, was not satisfied. He stood up stiffly and with difficulty, gripping the rail behind the driver's seat to steady himself, and causing the light chaise to rock on its springs. He stared to either side of him, trying to penetrate the dusk of early morning; he even peered over the back of the carriage, whereat Geoff and Phil ducked even lower, while the former, gripping the axle with those strong fingers of his, made ready to reach up and grapple with the German. But the Teuton's eyes were still heavy with sleep, and, failing to see those two who had clung like limpets to his chaise throughout the night, he turned, setting the vehicle rocking again, and stared out before him. A guttural exclamation escaped from those broad lips of his:
"Ach! but Bagdad at last. And there, some comfort, some ease, after a terrible experience. But wait, wait! I have been thinking, I have been dreaming. Yes, he who strikes von Hildemaller strikes one who never forgets, never forgives; and who will repay, however long the interval, however long the debt may be owing."
He sighed deeply, yawned till his jaws threatened to crack, and until he displayed a cavity even bigger than that which Geoff had compelled and into which Philip had thrust the gag with such delight. Then the German sank back into his seat again, and bade the driver, peremptorily, to drive onwards. Soon, too, heavy breathing just in front of them told the two young subalterns that von Hildemaller was sleeping again.
"Rather a near thing that, eh?" grinned Philip, his head now close to his chum's, and displaying just a little more common sense and caution. "What would we have done if he had spotted us that time when he looked round?"
It was Geoff's turn to smile, a meaning smile, while he stretched out one hand, balancing himself in that uncomfortable position which he had maintained throughout the night, and slowly doubled up the fingers of the other hand—fingers bursting with muscle and with tendons as strong and as elastic as steel—doubled them up slowly, in a manner which seemed to emphasize the power within them, whereat Philip sniffed and sniggered. In a moment, in fact, he realized how much Geoff had longed for another tussle with the German, how he would have almost welcomed discovery at that moment.
"I know," he whispered. "I know what you'd have done, and the beggar deserves it. You'd have taken him by the neck, you'd have remembered Douglas Pasha, and you'd have squeezed the life out of his body."
Of a sudden he gripped the powerful hand held out before him, gripped it and shook it with energy, while he stared hard at his chum.
"Why not?" he asked. "Good idea! Why not? Why not squeeze the life out of him now that we've got him, that is, almost squeeze it out of him. There's nothing to fear, we ain't surrounded by a prison, and we'd soon clear that driver off, or, for the matter of that, force him to do our bidding. Why not grab this brutal German and squeeze him till his eyes bulge out of his head, till he's choking, till he'll be glad to give away that secret of his, till he'll beg and beg and whine to us that he'll release Douglas Pasha? Why not?"
He could feel Geoff's powerful hand suddenly compressed under his grip, could feel the fingers clench even tighter, while Geoff himself dropped from the axle to the road, as if the words had stung him to energy. It was what he had done, and Philip too, many a time throughout the night; on many an occasion, when meeting some long rise, they had been glad, in fact, to drop from the somewhat uncomfortable perches they had found, and to trudge along behind the carriage. Unbeknown to the German, unsuspected by the driver, yet doubtless to the knowledge of the animal which dragged it, they had even helped to propel the carriage up some of the risings, accelerating its progress to such an extent that the sleepy driver was amazed at the powers displayed by the animal he drove, and at length was so struck by its prowess that he wakened sufficiently to think the matter over and to weigh its value.
"Allah, but this is a strange thing!" he had said to himself more than once, at first very sleepily, and then with a little more spirit. "Allah, but the beast is possessed! For see, ever before when we have made this journey and have come to these hills I have had to use the whip with vigour, even I have had to dismount and walk beside the carriage. It is wonderful; for see how thin the beast is and old, and now he pulls like a giant, like a thoroughbred, like an Arab."
It entirely defeated him; the phenomenon was one he could not understand however much he puzzled; and puzzling and wondering made him even more sleepy. Thus the long hours of darkness had passed, if not comfortably for Geoff and his chum, yet cheerfully enough. Above all, their thoughts were filled with the engrossing subject of their liberty. They felt like birds entrapped who had broken from a cage after weeks and weeks of imprisonment. They were filled with a feeling of wonderful exhilaration, while the knowledge that, though free, they were in the midst of an enemy country, with enemies all about them, added rather a zest to the whole business.
And now Philip had made a proposition—a proposition of such importance and so momentous in its results—if the plan were carried out, that Geoff had felt compelled to leap to his feet and run along behind the carriage. It was perhaps five minutes later when he plumped himself down on the axle again, trailing his stockinged feet along the dusty surface of the road, while he stared out into the rising dusk behind them.
"Eh?" asked Philip, returning eagerly to the subject, knowing well from his experience of his chum that no decision was to be expected until sufficient time had elapsed for our hero to consider the proposition. Perhaps it was that Geoff was possessed of a certain sort of canny instinct, perhaps even it was those journeys with Douglas Pasha, those travels amongst Arabs and other peoples, which had taught him caution, which had in a certain measure taught him to smother his thoughts, and to hide his feelings from other people. Inscrutable his face never was, nor ever would be, for it shone with healthy, youthful frankness; but the eyes were thoughtful eyes, eyes which told those who looked into them that the owner was possessed of some degree of caution, while, as we have said, Philip, his best and most intimate chum, knew that Geoff was one not to be hurried.
"Eh?" he asked again impulsively. "You'd strangle the beast easily. I could with the fingers of one hand. Wait a moment. If we slip out here and hang on to these back springs we can pull up that old horse in a moment; then we tip the show over, and throw our German friend into the gutter. How's that? I'd love to see him roll."
And so would Geoff, very much indeed, and yet what would be the object?
"Let's just think the matter out, and chat it over quietly," he told the impulsive Phil, restraining him with a grip of his strong fingers. "Supposing we'd settled with the scoundrel—now I'd just love to."
"And I'd dote on it," Phil chimed in readily.
"We both would," said Geoff soberly; "and as to our being able to do so, pooh! there's no doubt about it. Single-handed I think we could easily handle both those beggars, so that we can put that question aside and take it for granted that we are easily the victors, but—and here comes the rub—supposing we've cornered the driver, and have squeezed this German's neck till his eyes are bulging, and until, in fact, he's whining and begging for his life, and ready to do anything for us—supposing we've got to that stage, eh?"
"Yes, supposing we have," Phil grinned, for the very mention of squeezing von Hildemaller till his eyes bulged reminded him of that scene in the cell, when Geoff had gripped the German across the mouth, while Philip stood in front of him. Those cunning eyes had bulged with a vengeance then, had bulged horribly, had bulged in a manner which showed the Teuton's terror. Oh yes, it would be pleasant enough to witness such a thing again, knowing well how much they owed to this treacherous German; but then—"Let's suppose he's collared then," agreed Phil at length. "Now then?"
"Well, he's collared, he's shouting for mercy, he's perspiring and blowing worse than ever," said Geoff. "He's ready to take us right off to this prison, and ready to hand over his captive. But where are we? We have got the German and his driver, and we have got this carriage and the sorry animal that pulls it, but please remember we are still in what remains of our khaki. We are obviously aliens and enemies, the first passer-by would recognize us and give an alarm, a crowd would collect in no time, even far out in the desert, and long before we could get to the place where my guardian is imprisoned we should be captured—possibly shot—at any rate foiled altogether."
It was with difficulty that Phil suppressed a whistle—a whistle of astonishment, of amazement, and of pride in his comrade. He had always known Geoff to be a strangely long-headed, logical sort of fellow, but now, hearing him talk so quietly and on such an occasion, he could not help but admire him.
"Spoken like a lawyer," he said at last, and quite seriously, "a fellow can see that there's nothing but solid reason behind what you're saying. We could, as you tell me, easily do for this German and make him howl—how I'd jolly well like to hear him—but where's the advantage gained, as you say? Lost altogether by premature action. Only, if we don't take advantage of the fellow now that he is, as you may say, in our power, what are we to do? for it's getting lighter every minute, and in a little while any passers-by there may be—and people will be beginning to move once daylight comes—will stop us, and will give the very warning of which you have spoken."
No doubt the problem was a knotty one, and one requiring a great deal of consideration. That Geoff and Philip could remain much longer on their unsteady and uncomfortable perches was out of the question, and yet, where were they to go? which way were they to turn? and, above all, where could they get refreshment? The sight of a collection of palms to the right of the road, and almost abreast of them, seemed to decide Geoff of a sudden, for he turned to Phil on the instant.
"Let's drop off here," he said; "those palms up there may give us some sort of shelter, and possibly we may discover food also. Later on we'll go on into Bagdad, and there I shall be able to find at least one friend who will give us assistance."
Dropping from the carriage at once, they stood in the centre of the road in a cloud of whirling dust, listening to the carriage as it rattled onward towards the city; and, as the dust subsided and allowed them to see farther, they caught once more those gleams of light from the roofs of Bagdad—flashes which seemed to signal them onward. For the rest, the country-side all about them was still half-hidden in mist, above which the tops of that grove of palm-trees which had attracted Geoff's attention could be seen. Turning towards them without a word, they scrambled their way uphill, till presently they had left the hard gravelly surface over which they had been travelling and entered upon an area clad in green, over which grass and bushes grew profusely; and, after a little while, found themselves in a thick grove of trees, which, if they promised nothing else, promised shelter once the sun had risen. There, standing beneath the palms, they waited until the morning mist had been dispersed by the rays of the rising sun, and until they could see far and wide over that portion of Mesopotamia, and even as far as the city of Bagdad. Then they turned, and, striding on amongst the palms, were soon far within them, and in little danger of being discovered by travellers on the high road.
"Hold on a moment," said Phil of a sudden; "I can smell something." He sniffed the air like a dog, turning in all directions.
"It's over here, behind us, deeper in the palms; there's a fire burning, I'm sure; and, Jingo! I'm positive there's meat cooking."
The aroma came to their nostrils more strongly as the minutes passed, and attracted them like a magnet. Slowly and cautiously they crept between the palms, until they gained the edge of a clearing in the midst of which stood a somewhat curious dwelling. It was neither tent nor house nor cottage, but a combination of all three, a domicile constructed partly of mud walls, partly of palm-leaves, and here and there finished off, as it were, with stretches of camel-hair material. In front of it a wood fire smouldered, while a thin wisp of smoke rose above it and was blown into the trees. A rough, iron tripod stood over it, and from it depended an iron pot, in which, doubtless, meat was stewing. The aroma made Philip's mouth water, and made Geoff quite irritable and impatient.
"Looks like the habitation of some nomad shepherd," he told Philip; "wonder who it can be, and how many there are in the family? In ordinary times I'd have gone straight up to the house and asked for food and shelter, but a fellow can't do that now, and it's more than likely that whoever owns the place carries arms with him always."
They stood under the shade of those palm-trees for perhaps half an hour, watching the hut, watching the smouldering fire, and sniffing enviously at the steam which blew over towards them. If they had never known before what it was to be really hungry, they knew it well that bright morning when so close to food, so eagerly desirous of it, and so far, it seemed, from the likelihood of being able to secure it. It made them almost desperate at last, till they were ready to risk anything; but then, again, common sense—that fund of caution possessed by both of them—held them back, kept them out of sight, and restrained their impatience. A man came out of the hut at last—a tall, bronzed Arab, over whose shoulders was slung an ancient rifle, and in whose hand was borne a long stick which he used to support himself whilst walking. Calling over his shoulder and whistling for a dog, which came bounding out of the hut, he set off along a path which led through the trees within some twenty yards of our heroes, so close, in fact, that it was a wonder that the dog did not discover them; and when he was gone, and they could no longer hear his steps, a woman emerged from the hut—an Arab like her lord and master. Throwing logs on the fire, and replenishing the contents of the iron pot with something she carried in a basket, she closed the door of the somewhat dilapidated house, and took the same path as the man.
"Better see where she goes," said Geoff. "We'll slink through the trees and make quite sure that they are both out of sight. Shouldn't wonder if he's a simple shepherd, and has gone to visit his flock somewhere about in this oasis; and it's more than likely that she has gone into Bagdad to buy things for the household. Sounds curious, doesn't it? But you've got to remember that people here are very much the same in many ways as people back in old England. Commodities of every kind don't grow in houses; they have to be bought. And stores and shops don't exist in the country, so Turkish and Arab women, like the folks at home, have to go off on shopping expeditions."
Whatever it was that had taken the woman off, it proved, indeed, to be a godsend to these two wandering and hungry subalterns, for the woman disappeared finally down the road leading towards Bagdad, while careful investigation proved that the man had gone off to the left, where he could be seen trudging over the grass-covered land quite a mile distant. As for the hut, it looked lonely enough when they went back, and uninhabited, though the fire still smouldered in front, and that delightful aroma still reached their nostrils.
"Well, do we stop here in the shade of the trees, and just satisfy ourselves with a sniff of that stew cooking in the pot we're looking at?" exclaimed Philip in somewhat injured, if not impatient, tones, as he looked out into the sunlit arena in which the dilapidated hut was situated. "Um!" he sighed; "it's mutton, or—or—or perhaps goat."
He snuffed at the air and projected his head beyond a leafy stem, his eyes attracted far more by the fire and the cooking-pot above it than by the hut, and his thoughts occupied with a possible chance of a meal rather than with the possibility of the hut harbouring further inhabitants. But the cautious Geoff, even then—his mouth watering at the appetizing odour of the cooking food, and his hunger made twofold by it—even then was not to be led into a position which might be harmful to them. Cautious by nature—as we have inferred already—possessed, that is to say, of a certain amount of discretion, which stood him and his subaltern chum in good stead on many an occasion, he was yet not altogether deficient in that dash and go which are so common in our subalterns, which, indeed, make all of them such a valuable asset to the British army.
"You hang on here," he told his chum. "I'll skirmish round a little and see what's doing. Perhaps there's someone else in the hut, and if so we should look silly, shouldn't we, if we tackled the food and had a fellow firing into us with a blunderbuss when least expected?"
Rapid strides took him along the edge of the palm-trees, the grass rustling at his feet as he trudged through it, and in a little while he was behind the hut, to find it rather less prepossessing in rear than it was in front, dilapidated, broken, and presenting many a ragged opening. Squinting through more than one of these, Geoff could see the interior quite plainly, for the sunlight was streaming in through the open door on the farther side. Then he boldly went round one end and entered, to find, as he had expected, that the place was entirely empty. Turning about, he and Philip met above the fire, their noses thrust over the cooking-pot, sniffing hungrily.
"Jingo! Mutton, I'll swear!"
"Goat'll taste just as good, just the same, no doubt," Geoff laughed heartily. "Hook it off, Phil, while I go and look for some sort of plates," he cried, "and let's be slippy, or else the owners will be coming back to dispute our right to make use of their property."
Hook it off Philip did, with a swish, and conveyed the steaming pot close to the door of the hut, into which Geoff had meanwhile plunged and luckily found a few articles of crockery. Not that the owners of the hut were possessed of a very elaborate suite of furniture, or a very complete equipment of other things usually found in houses in Europe and elsewhere; but the needs of your nomad shepherd in Asiatic Turkey are simple enough—humble enough if you will—and this man and his wife were no exceptions whatever. A couple of plates there were to be found, both scrupulously clean, so that in a matter of two minutes those two escaping subalterns might have been found, seated in the sunlight, careless of their surroundings, making use of their fingers as forks, and eating rapidly and heartily.
"Of course one's sorry to go and eat another fellow's dinner," grinned Philip in the midst of the meal, as though the thought had only just then struck him; "but, don't you know, dear boy, a fellow must eat, mustn't he?"
"Looks like it," grunted Geoff, helping himself a second time; "and mighty good this stuff is too. Let's get finished with it."
It took very little time indeed for these two hungry mortals to empty the steaming pot, whereat Geoff poured some water into it from an earthen vessel which stood outside the hut, and once more slung it over the fire. A deep draught from the same vessel refreshed them both wonderfully, when they were again able to look about them and take some interest in their immediate surroundings.
"'Pon my word, I was so hungry that I couldn't bother about caution any longer," said Geoff, "but now that that's been put all right I'm going to get moving—to do all that is possible so that we shall not again be captured."
"Hear, hear!" came from Philip.
"Then you get off into the trees again and watch for that shepherd returning. I'm going to look round the hut to see if I can discover something which will help us. For look at the two of us; we ain't exactly the sort of people who could march into Bagdad and escape notice now, are we?" asked Geoff, standing in front of Philip.
"Speaking for yourself, I presume?" came the merry answer. "Well, now, to be quite frank, you know, with you, and with every wish to avoid the suspicion of being personal, or rude, or what-not, don't you know, my dear Geoff, one couldn't describe your appearance as exactly attractive, hardly prepossessing; in fact, let's say, a trifle dishevelled, distinctly ragged, and frightfully dirty."
Philip wound up with a hearty roar of laughter which bent him double, and then stood up before his friend for examination, an examination which Geoff made with twinkling eyes and smiles which showed his amusement.
"Dirty has it first with you," he told Philip. "'Pon my word, after that drive last night at the back of the chaise, in clouds of dust all the time, you look rather more like a dust-heap than anything else. My word, wasn't I thirsty! That draught of water was a perfect godsend. But, to go back to what I was saying, we ain't, either of us, exactly the sort of people who could walk into Bagdad in broad daylight and escape the attention of the people. Now, are we? Not likely! They'd spot us at once; these ragged remnants of khaki uniform would tell against us promptly."
"It's a facer," said Phil; "we've either got to get a change of raiment or we shall have to sneak into Bagdad during the darkness."
"When we would probably knock up against sentries at the gates and be promptly captured," said Geoff. "You go and keep a bright look-out whilst I rummage round this place."
Humble though the occupants of that cottage may have been, and, indeed, undoubtedly were, the interior of the place was, like the crockery borrowed from it, kept scrupulously clean, and, wending his way from the main apartment into another, which did service as a sleeping-room, Geoff found it much the same—clean and tidy, with nothing distasteful about it. But, like the other contents of the place, which were few and far between, the store of clothing there was even scantier.
"Sort of shepherd's cloak and hat to match, with sandals for the feet," said Geoff, as he examined the articles hanging on a wooden peg. "They'd do for Philip; he'd look fine in 'em. What's this? Just the ordinary togs worn by a Turkish peasant—perhaps the very things our friend who owns the hut wears when he goes into Bagdad. Well, as Philip says, it's rather rough to deprive him of them; but then, what else is there to do? And are we to put his feelings and his losses before our own safety?"
Without more ado he brought the garments out of the house into the open, and whistled loudly to Philip. Then, for fear lest the owner of the place should return from a different direction and discover them, he crossed the open space, where the fire was still smouldering, and plunged into the trees beyond, where, later on, Philip, returning from the point he had reached, and from which he had been able to view the road beyond and the path taken by the shepherd, joined him.
"Put on those," Geoff told him, "and stick your boots into your belt. We'll sit down here and wait till the afternoon is passed, and then take the road for the city. Slip on the cloak and the hat over your ordinary clothes; I'll do the same with these things. They're scanty enough, so that we shan't be too warmly clad, and therefore there is no necessity to discard our own rags, and perhaps run the risk of having our tracks discovered by the shepherd or his dog coming across them."
Taking the opportunity of their enforced stay in the grove of palm-trees, and of the shade which it afforded them, they slept alternately, thus making up for their lost rest during the preceding night; and it was while Geoff was on watch, and Philip lay full length and sleeping heavily, that our hero saw the shepherd return by the same route that had taken him away and enter his cottage. Minutes passed, and though he came out and stretched himself in the sun, evidently awaiting his midday meal and the return of his wife, not once did he suspect that anyone had been there in the interval. Indeed, there was nothing to rouse his suspicions, for all was as he had left it, and the two subalterns had been careful enough to clean the plates they had used and return them to their respective positions. The dog, too, much to Geoff's delight, curled himself up at his master's feet, though at first he had sniffed round, and had shown some traces of curiosity, if not of momentary excitement.
As for the woman, there was not a sign of her as yet, though when the day had dragged on a little, and the afternoon had nearly waned, Geoff saw her coming along the road from Bagdad, and watched her as she turned off towards the grove of trees and finally entered the sunlit arena in which the hut was situated. It was as good as a play then, though he felt rather sorry for it, to watch the woman's amazement when she took the steaming pot from the fire, and, having brought two basins from the cottage and placed them upon a ledge just outside, poured some water into them from it. He watched as the dame dropped the pot and lifted her hands in amazement; and smiled grimly, too, as the man got languidly to his feet, not as yet understanding the situation, and then finally, when he realized that his midday meal was not forthcoming, clenched his fists and muttered, and showed his anger. Then bewilderment took possession of the two of them, and, having asked questions the one of the other, they stared at the pot as it lay on the sandy ground as if it were a thing possessed, and even edged away from it.
"But it's a strange thing this thing that has happened," the man muttered between his teeth. "By Allah, no such thing have I known in the course of all my journeyings! You say, wife, that you placed some flesh of a sheep within the pot?"
"Say it?" the woman replied in a shrill, angry, and rather frightened tone, glaring at her lord and master. "But, as Allah hears me, you yourself saw me add flesh to the pot ere you went, and after you had gone I added more. What then is this? Ah! A thief, eh?"
That idea had not occurred to either of them before; but now it seized upon their imagination instantly, and roused them to a pitch of anger and excitement.
"A thief! Yes, of course. Why did we not think of that before? Here, dog, find him."
Geoff bent down and shook the sleeping Philip heartily.
"Come along at once," he told him; "let us slip out into the open and run for the road. It will be dusk almost by the time we reach it, and if that dog doesn't trace us we ought to be able to get clear away. I ought to explain that the man and his wife returned while you were asleep, and now, having decided that probably someone has been there at the cottage in their absence, they are sending the dog to search round."
The yelps of the animal could be heard at that moment, as the two slid through the trees and out into the open. Then they took to their heels, and, following a hollow down which water no doubt poured in the rainy season, and which protected them from observation, they gained the high road within a little while—that rough high road, covered inches thick in sandy dust, along which the ruffianly von Hildemaller had passed in the hours of darkness.
"We'll walk along steadily, taking notice of no one," said Geoff. "If we pass people, and they address us, leave it to me to answer, and I'll find some excuse for you. In any case, if I have to stop for a moment, you walk on, for there's nothing else that you can do, and to stop might prove dangerous."
That evening, after dusk had fallen, and just before the gates of the city were closed, two rough shepherds from the desert passed into the city of Bagdad unnoticed, unchallenged, without raising the smallest suspicion. Passing along the main street which leads to the Bazaar, they turned off sharply into a narrow alley, which led them to an even narrower street, over which the rows of houses on either side met almost completely.
"And now?" whispered Philip. "Where to? Here's Bagdad all right, and a fellow begins to feel a little more free. But what's our next move? Besides, there's a meal to be considered."
"And a bed," Geoff told him. "This way. You'll find that we are not entirely without friends in this city. Follow straight up this street and turn off when I turn into another alley."
Proceeding along that other dark and somewhat noisome alley, Geoff suddenly ran into an obstacle—an obstacle which rebounded and which proved to be a man, who was not less startled than himself.
"Pardon!" the man cried, and would have hurried on.
"One moment; your name?" asked Geoff, using the Armenian tongue. "Your name, my friend, for there is something in your voice that reminds me of one I have known."
There was silence perhaps for a whole minute, while Philip slid up behind Geoff, ready to support him, and anticipating trouble. Then suddenly there came a glad cry of surprise from the individual who had cannoned into Geoff, and a hand gripped his arm firmly.
"My master, you are Keith Pasha. Yes?" asked the voice—the voice was Esbul's.
"I am," Geoff told him promptly in tones of relief, for indeed this was a most happy meeting.
"Then come, my master. I have a place of safety for you; there is one who will greet you warmly and find food, and space, and raiment for you. Come, my master, for I also have something which will delight your heart. Listen, Master! I have news of Douglas Pasha."
"What luck! What splendid luck!" whispered Philip, as the trio—himself, Geoff, and Esbul—stumbled along the dark archways and across the rough courtyards of the city of Bagdad on their way to those hospitable quarters which the Armenian had mentioned; for Geoff had hurriedly told him who the man was against whom he had stumbled in the darkness, and had intimated to his chum that they were on their way to some haven.
"Spl—en—did!" emphasized Philip, muttering the word over and over again; "food, raiment, and a place in which to sleep safely. Well, it will be good to lie down and sleep soundly for one night, feeling that one isn't caged in like a bird, and isn't in immediate danger of arrest and further imprisonment."
"And better still to know that there is something before us," Geoff answered him as they reached a low doorway leading out of the courtyard, "better, far better, Philip, to hear that Esbul has news of my guardian—news of Douglas Pasha—news so valuable that he won't impart it to me out here, but is waiting until we get into this house and under shelter."
A sharp rap on the door was answered after a while by a gruff request to enter, and presently the three were stumbling up the flight of steps down which Esbul had gone when he left Benshi the Jew—that mysterious, silent, and thoughtful friend of Douglas Pasha. In a trice it seemed they were in the room he occupied, to find the Jew seated on a divan, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, the same listless unfathomable expression about his haggard face. And yet that face could show animation when he wished, could show friendship and welcome.
"Be seated," he told the two subalterns. "Be seated, Keith Pasha, ward of that one who has been my friend for many years, of Douglas Pasha. So, Esbul, it came about that in passing on your way from the house where you were watching you hit upon these two, hit upon them by mere chance, by pure accident!"
"But how—how did you learn that then?" asked Geoff impulsively; for it was but a few minutes ago only that that unexpected meeting had taken place, and how could the Jew have gained tidings of it? Had he guessed it? Had he merely divined it because of their coming together? Or had this mysterious man obtained news of the event in the same mysterious manner in which other and more valuable information came to him?
"Be seated, my master," Benshi said, ignoring the question for the moment. "Let Esbul place food before you; and to-morrow he will lead you to that place where Douglas Pasha is imprisoned. Is it not so, Esbul? You who have watched over the German, were you not on your way hither to give me tidings of this von Hildemaller and of his movements on the morrow?"
A glance at the young Armenian proved indeed that that must be the case, though how Benshi had learned of that also was beyond him. Amazement was written on every feature; he gasped with astonishment, and then smiled at our hero.
"It is even so," he told him. "Men come and go, but Benshi sits here or in the Bazaar, seeing nothing it would seem, hearing no news, merely existing the day through, and yet—and yet, news reaches him."
"Aye! Reaches me, my friend, in a manner that I will not explain; news sometimes small and petty, sometimes of great doings, of great events. Listen now, whilst Esbul brings food before you. My master, you desire news of your friends, of your expedition which has come to Mesopotamia, which fought its way to Basra and Kurnah, and from thence advanced up the Tigris to Amara? You desire tidings of those friends whom you accompanied to Nasiriyeh, and of those others who struck to the north-east and seized Ahwaz? Then, I will tell you.
"Amara fell to them as easily as a ripe orange falls to the hands of the plucker. Then came an advance up the river to Kut-el-Amara, while Turks waited the coming of the British and the Indians in full force, in positions prepared most carefully for them under the leading of Germans—men of the same cunning and skill as this von Hildemaller. Yet they were defeated."
"Defeated!" exclaimed Geoff; "you mean that the Expeditionary Force has captured Kut, really?"
"They stormed those positions; they outflanked the Turks," the Jew told him, his listless eyes wandering for one moment from the wall opposite to our hero's face and to Philip's, and then back to the old position. "They captured the town of Kut-el-Amara and pursued the fleeing Turks. And then, my masters, they followed——"
"Followed towards Bagdad?" asked Geoff, rising to his feet in his eagerness. "Followed in this direction? Then they are near already?"
Benshi waved him back to his seat with a listless movement of one hand, and went on with his story.
"Nay," he said, and sighed as if he were sorry that it was not so. "Nay, my master, the force of which we are speaking advanced in small numbers up the River Tigris towards Bagdad, till indeed but within a few leagues of it, till they reached the old tomb of the Caliph at Ctesiphon, where once more the Turks were awaiting them in prepared positions, where, indeed, they had amassed large numbers of soldiers—so much so that they outnumbered the British by at least three to one. There was a battle then in which the Turks suffered heavily and the British also, a battle which disclosed to your friends the strength of the enemy before them, and which made a retirement imperative. That was days ago—days ago; and now they are back, those British and Indian soldiers, back in Kut-el-Amara, having carried out an orderly and skilful retreat. Back in Kut, where my information tells me that they are surrounded."
He left Philip and Geoff with their mouths wide open with amazement at what they heard, their faces showing first delight at the prowess of their comrades, and then disappointment at their enforced retreat, and a greater disappointment that they too were not beside them to take their share in the fighting.
Yet Benshi did not tell all there was to be told about Asiatic Turkey, all that had to do with the British and other forces. We have intimated already in the course of this narrative how a force employed in one quarter of the world, if sufficiently powerful, may well affect the fortunes of other troops engaged in a different area altogether. We told of how the coming of Turkey into this world-conflict in partnership with Germany and Austria affected the fortunes of Russia on her European front, because of the need to hold her Caucasian frontier, and there is no need to enter into details of the fighting which took place in those mountains, almost in perpetual snow, where Turks and Russians faced one another. It will suffice if we say that, well-armed, well-equipped, and officered by Germans in numerous instances, the army corps which Turkey sent to the Caucasus at the commencement of hostilities, that is to say, during the first winter of this widespread warfare, suffered many a reverse at the hands of the Tsar's gallant soldiers. They failed to advance, failed to invade southern Russia, and indeed had their work cut out to prevent the Muscovite armies from invading Asiatic Turkey, and from pouring down into the land south of the Caucasus range—land itself some six thousand or more feet in elevation.
Indeed, the country south-west of the Caucasus range is broken up by innumerable ranges of hills and mountains, and presents large numbers of upland plateaus. It is the country in which the unfortunate race of Armenians were fostered, where they have dwelt for centuries, and on one of those upland plateaus, perched in a situation of natural strength, and defended by forts and gun emplacements, cunningly designed by German engineers, lies the city and fortress of Erzerum, the main base of those Turkish armies operating against the Russians—a fortress deemed impregnable, and one upon which the Turks and their German masters had placed the utmost importance. As that British force was fighting its way back to Kut-el-Amara, and was besieged in that little township on the River Tigris, the Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia, he who had led the Tsar's armies into Galicia a year previously, was mustering his forces and preparing his arrangements for a dash into Armenia—a dash made in the height of winter, through snow-drifts ten or more feet in depth, and in an atmosphere well below freezing. Such was the impetus of that dash, so good and careful were the preparations for it, and so great the courage and the élan of the armies of the Caucasus that, in spite of Turkish resistance, in spite of batteries cunningly placed, in spite of every obstacle, human and natural, the Russians poured down upon the fortress of Erzerum, and to the amazement of all—of the Turks and of the Germans, not less than of the others, captured it, its guns, and a goodly part of its garrison. Then, flooding over this upland plateau, carving their way westward and south-east, they rapidly forced their way in the direction of Trebizond—that port on the Black Sea by which Turkey had reinforced and revictualled her Caucasian army. To the south-east, Russian troops, in smaller numbers, pushed along the frontier of Persia, striking towards Mesopotamia, until patrols of horse and companies of foot were within measurable distance of Bagdad. Yet they were not near enough to seize the city, not in sufficient force at present to advance across the desert, not able, in fact, to lend assistance to the British force beleaguered in Kut-el-Amara, and to that other force, since organized, and sent up the River Tigris to relieve it—a force of British and Indians again, which, willing enough and eager to relieve their comrades, had, for weary weeks now, been held up by rains and floods in the country.
A narrative of the incidents of the Mesopotamian operations may be truthfully said to be one of brilliant actions, of most gallant fighting on the part of our soldiers, and of a display of soldierly virtues which equalled, if it did not surpass, those fine qualities shown by British troops in days gone by. This desert warfare was so different from that which had now fallen upon the armies battling in Flanders against the Germans. There, in the absence of forts constructed of masonry as formerly, there was nevertheless a species of fort running from Switzerland north to Verdun, and running in a north-westerly direction to the Belgian coast. A fort consisting of muddy trenches, delved deep in the soil, sheltering hosts of soldiers, and strengthened and supported in thousands of places by earthworks, by machine-gun redoubts, and supported in rear by an array of guns on either side, the number of which had never been seen before, had never even been nearly equalled in any warfare. But the desert of Mesopotamia gave opportunity for other fighting. Troops, both British and Turkish, were not sufficiently numerous to man a line running right across the country, and thus there was an opportunity to manœuvre, the chance of outflanking an enemy, and every now and again an opening for a charge, often enough brilliantly executed, by the British.
Yet the main line of advance must, because of that desert, of that arid country, follow the winding channel of the Tigris River, on which the troops were dependent for their water-supply. And that river itself was bounded in numerous places by marsh land, which often enough obstructed the march of troops, and which, in the neighbourhood of Kut, produced positions similar, on a very small scale—to those in Flanders and in France; that is to say, just as the sea bounds that line to the north in France, so marsh land in the neighbourhood of the Tigris River obstructed the advance of the British force marching to the relief of the beleaguered garrison at Kut-el-Amara. They could not easily get round those marshes, for the need of water held them to the river, and advancing along its banks they came upon a part where those marshes, coming close together, left but comparatively narrow space through which they could make progress, a space deeply trenched by the Turks, and fortified in similar manner to those trenches in France, held by a numerous and well-armed enemy, flanked by redoubts, and supported by machine-guns and artillery. A position, indeed, of formidable strength, more particularly as to outflank it was impossible, and a frontal attack must be undertaken. Add to these difficulties atrocious weather—rains which poured upon the British force, which drenched the men to the skin, bitterly cold rains, which, stopping at last, left the troops stewing in a watery atmosphere under a blazing sun, wading knee-deep in a muddy marsh which covered the country.
Having thus outlined to some small degree the enormous difficulties of the Mesopotamian force and its gallant conduct so far, we can now return to Geoff and Philip, and ascertain their fortunes after that momentous meeting with Esbul, the Armenian.
In the feeble rays cast by the guttering candle suspended above the old Jew's head there stood, on that memorable evening when Geoff and his chum reached the city of Bagdad, no more eager individuals, none more intensely interested in the tale of the prowess of the British forces, than they.
"And so our men have been quite close to this city, have fought their way nearly to Bagdad?" said Geoff, his face glowing with enthusiasm.
"That is so, Excellency," Benshi admitted, his lips hardly moving, his withered frame bent as he squatted, his eyes still wandering over the opposite wall as if seeking for something there; "a gallant force indeed, who struck boldly, and who struck heavily, against the troops of the Sultan. If their own losses were heavy, those of the Turks were treble perhaps; while the fact that they were forced to retire is not to be wondered at, does not take from them honour or credit; for those troops, handled by German officers, were three, even four, to one of your people, while the need for water, the lack of it, in fact, made a retreat—seeing that Bagdad could not be reached—a matter of urgency. But now, Excellency, you have heard of your people. They are back in Kut-el-Amara this many a day, besieged there, surrounded, they tell me, holding the enemy at bay, yet too weak to cut a road through them. Maybe you will join them there, maybe no; and meanwhile you are in this city, in Bagdad, wherein not so long ago I had speech with Douglas Pasha. Listen, then, to the tale Esbul has to tell us. Speak on!" he commanded, turning to the Armenian.
At once all eyes were cast upon the youthful figure of Esbul, now squatting on the floor, his face almost as impassive, almost as inscrutable, as that of Benshi, yet his fingers working, his lips compressed, and sometimes twitching—indications of the excitement under which he was labouring.
"Then hear, Master," he began, "hear my tale. This von Hildemaller, this huge German with the pleasant countenance——"
"Ah!"
Benshi gave vent to a grunt, a grunt which might have expressed disgust, appreciation, pleasure, anything, in fact, for his features did not relax, they displayed no sign of his feelings.
"With the pleasant countenance, my master; he who has deceived so many of us, who carries on the surface smiles which fascinate, which hide the crafty, cunning, cruel mind behind it. Early in the morning he came to this city, passing by silent ways to his quarters, endeavouring to evade notice. Yet Benshi saw him, while I have since been to those quarters, have clambered about them, have listened, and now know something of his movements."
"Ah!" it was Geoff's turn to give vent to a grunt of anticipation. "His movements! Yes," he said eagerly, "they are?"
"Indefinite!" Esbul replied. "Indefinite at present, my master; but so definite, so promising, that it may well be that you will think fit to take note of them. He is preparing for a journey outside the city. To-morrow, as the dusk comes, a conveyance will await him on the road beyond the gates west of Bagdad, and men also—but three of them—I gathered."
"Hold! Three men you said," Philip blurted out. "Turks, Armenians, or what? All cut-throats, I guess, in any case."
For a moment Esbul looked puzzled, for though he could speak English with some fluency the term "cut-throats" was a little foreign to him. But Geoff hurriedly explained, whereat the Armenian nodded his head emphatically.
"Murderers, yes!" he said. "One of them the same who drove him into this city, the one who was to have carried out the murder of Douglas Pasha."
"And they assemble, where?" asked Geoff, while the two subalterns exchanged swift glances, as though indeed the same thought had occurred to both of them.
"As I have said, my master, they assemble with this carriage outside the western gate of the city, where the German joins them as dusk is falling."
"And then?" asked Geoff.
"And then, who knows, my master?" said Esbul. "Those who follow the German and his escort may learn, for though I have striven to gather news of their destination I have failed completely. But this I know, it has to do with Douglas Pasha."
As a matter of fact, the crafty Esbul had been even more successful than he had anticipated, than he could have hoped, considering the difficulties of the situation. Having clambered over the walls of the compound which surrounded the quarters in which the German usually lived, and to which he had returned after that visit to the prison in which Geoff and Philip had been incarcerated, Esbul, as we have learned already, had found not a light, not an illuminated chink, not a sound, nothing to guide him as to whether von Hildemaller were there or not, or whether he had merely come back to go out again promptly. Yet Esbul was a knowing fellow, and gifted with an abundance of patience. Passing round the house, he reached a point where a wall enclosed a small yard within it, and, clambering on this, was able to reach the roof—a flat affair, on which the owner could rest and sleep, if need be, in the hot weather. Still, there was no sign of the German, not a sound to betray his presence. Esbul crept about the place, peeped over the parapet, laid his ear on the roof, and yet was baffled. Then, by a lucky chance, he went to the only chimney of which the place boasted, and, peering down it, saw a light far below, and heard voices. More than that, he found soon enough, or rather guessed, that this chimney was merely a ventilator for some chamber in which people were talking, in which von Hildemaller, without doubt, was seated. More startling still was the discovery that sounds were accentuated by the chimney, were gathered together as it were, and were delivered to his ear louder, perhaps, than when uttered by those far below him. In that way, then, by a mere stroke of luck, by a fortunate chance, more fortunate perhaps than his accidental meeting with Geoff and Philip that night, the Armenian had unearthed the secrets of the German.
There was silence in the tiny room beneath the guttering candle for some few minutes, while two busy brains were hard at work piecing up the information given them, concocting plans, and seeking for measures to outwit von Hildemaller. Two busy brains, we have said, though no doubt Esbul's wits were sharpened. As for Benshi, he still sat on his divan, his eyes wandering over the opposite wall, his face—long, thin, ascetic, and angular—with not an expression on it. He might have been a wooden figure for all they knew, a silent, thoughtless figure. And yet the old man had already given indications of possessing unusual wisdom and acumen—of possessing, indeed, uncanny powers of looking into the future. It was he, in fact, who first broke that silence, and who, in the most amazing manner, seemed to have divined the very thoughts of Geoff and Philip.
He actually gave vent to a feeble chuckle, looked up suddenly at the spluttering candle, and then across at the two disguised subalterns. Indeed, he treated them to quite a long inspection—something strangely rare in the case of the Jew—an inspection which took in every feature, their dusty, dishevelled appearance, their borrowed clothes, and the transformation they had made with them.
"It is well, it is well, my masters!" he said at last, and his voice was positively cheerful. "It is well, this scheme of yours, this plan that you have been formulating. Listen, Esbul! To-morrow evening, as the dusk falls, a conveyance will be waiting outside the western gate of this city for the German known as von Hildemaller. This German hound will stride through the streets of the city, will push his way past the sentries, will browbeat any who may dare to stand before him, and will plump himself in this conveyance. Then he will be driven off, driven to a destination which I do not know, which I have sought for months past, driven, you tell us—and I can easily believe it—to the prison which holds my old friend Douglas Pasha. And then, my masters, let us take closer heed of the three who accompany this ruffian—of the one who drives the conveyance, and of those other two who, mounted on animals, ride beside it. Let me whisper a secret to you, a secret undreamt by the German, unsuspected by him, a secret which must be kept relentlessly from this German. That man who drives the vehicle is not the rascal ready to cut a throat for but a small reward, eager to slay even his best friend so that he may claim the gold of the German; no, my masters, it is Esbul, this Armenian youth who owes almost as much to Douglas Pasha as I do."
Geoff glanced swiftly across at the Armenian, and noticed, with something akin to amazement, that Esbul showed no sign of astonishment at the words he had heard, seemed, indeed, to have known the part he was to take even before Benshi had spoken, seemed to know it, in fact, just as well as he, Geoff, knew it, and doubtless as well as Philip also. The thing was positively uncanny, yet so simple, so calmly put before him, that he could hardly wonder—though when he pondered later it made him exclaim, as he realized how successful the Jew had been at divining his own thoughts and feelings.
"It is so, Benshi. I shall be on that conveyance," said Esbul, when a few moments had passed; "and beside me will be those two mounted men escorting the German."
"And they, Esbul, can you guess who they will be?" asked Philip, Geoff in the meanwhile having hurriedly interpreted Benshi's words to him.
"I can, my master. The one will be Keith Pasha, the other yourself. The thing must be done swiftly and quietly, done now, for here is an opportunity to outwit the German, the only opportunity, perhaps, which will come our way."
That such a plan might easily undermine any which the German had made, and outwit him and utterly fog him, seemed possible enough, though there were other matters to be considered. Supposing Geoff and his friends were able to take the place of those three men, as seemed already to have been decided, there would be the journey with the German in their company to some destination unknown; then what then? Would there follow a meeting with Douglas Pasha? Or could it be that Esbul had been mistaken, and von Hildemaller about to journey on some other business altogether? Yet it was a chance worth taking, an opportunity in a thousand, one which demanded instant action.
Long into the night they sat in that room, with Benshi motionless before them, interjecting a word now and again, giving them advice, foretelling movements in the most uncanny and inscrutable manner. Then, wearied with their discussion, tired out after their long journey, Geoff and his friend lay down to sleep, and doubtless the Jew and Esbul retired also, though the two young subalterns were ignorant of the fact, for hardly had their heads touched the flooring when they were fast asleep and snoring.
The following day, however, found them alert and brisk and eager to be moving. Having eaten their full, and donned the clothing which Esbul brought for them—for a visit to the Bazaar had easily procured suitable raiment—the three young men passed out into the open street and wandered slowly in the direction of the house occupied by von Hildemaller. Stationing themselves at different points of vantage, they waited with what patience they could summon, and watched carefully for signs of the German and his followers. And when some hours had passed, and their patience was almost exhausted—when, indeed, in the case of Philip, that excellent young fellow was positively stamping with vexation—Geoff sent along a whistle—the signal agreed upon—and was observed a moment later to be following three men, who had appeared, it seemed, from nowhere, in the street, and were wending their way along it. In the wake of Geoff came another figure, slimmer than he—the figure of Esbul, dressed as a Bazaar porter, carrying a box on his head, slowly making his way over the cobbles, and behind him Philip fell in promptly, looking just as much a ruffian as Esbul, and as if he were following with a view of assisting him with his burden. In that order, showing no haste, keeping a considerable distance between themselves and the men who had issued from the German's house, Geoff and his comrade made their way through the heart of Bagdad, down cobbled, ragged streets, through narrow alleys, across courtyards littered with garbage, and so on till they approached the outskirts of the city, those walls which had been erected to keep out the barbarians.
It was at that point that the three men in advance halted and looked craftily about them; then they suddenly dived through an open archway and disappeared from view, leaving Geoff and his friends a little staggered.
"Come along," he cried, for Esbul and Philip had by now drawn quite close to him. "After them as quick as you can, or we may lose them. Keep close together, and carry the matter through as we promised."