ere parts of the
old Byzantine Theatre. At the end of the garden is a shanty called the
Garden-house of Suliman the Red. It has been in its time a
dancing-hall and a gambling hell and God knows what else. It's not a
place for respectable people, but the ends of the earth converge there
and no questions are asked. That's the best spot I can think of for a
meeting-place.'

The kettle was simmering by the fire, the night was raw, and it seemed
the hour for whisky-punch. I made a brew for Sandy and myself and
boiled some milk for Blenkiron.

'What about language?' I asked. 'You're all right, Sandy?'

'I know German fairly well; and I can pass anywhere as a Turk. The
first will do for eavesdropping and the second for ordinary business.'

'And you?' I asked Blenkiron.

'I was left out at Pentecost,' he said. 'I regret to confess I have no
gift of tongues. But the part I have chosen for myself don't require
the polyglot. Never forget I'm plain John S. Blenkiron, a citizen of
the great American Republic.'

'You haven't told us your own line, Dick,' Sandy said.

'I am going to the Bosporus through Germany, and, not being a neutral,
it won't be a very cushioned journey.'

Sandy looked grave.

'That sounds pretty desperate. Is your German good enough?'

'Pretty fair; quite good enough to pass as a native. But officially I
shall not understand one word. I shall be a Boer from Western Cape
Colony: one of Maritz's old lot who after a bit of trouble has got
through Angola and reached Europe. I shall talk Dutch and nothing
else. And, my hat! I shall be pretty bitter about the British. There's
a powerful lot of good swear-words in the taal. I shall know all about
Africa, and be panting to get another whack at the _verdommt rooinek_.
With luck they may send me to the Uganda show or to Egypt, and I shall
take care to go by Constantinople. If I'm to deal with the Mohammedan
natives they're bound to show me what hand they hold. At least, that's
the way I look at it.'

We filled our glasses--two of punch and one of milk--and drank to our
next merry meeting. Then Sandy began to laugh, and I joined in. The
sense of hopeless folly again descended on me. The best plans we could
make were like a few buckets of water to ease the drought of the Sahara
or the old lady who would have stopped the Atlantic with a broom. I
thought with sympathy of little Saint Teresa.

CHAPTER THREE

Peter Pienaar

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