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 

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