small cargo
of canned goods down to a certain island and transferring it to an
Austrian submarine, was a trifle. One could do that every day, right
under the noses and beards of a dozen French naval officers. This was a
much bigger affair. It involved the sale, at huge profit, of one of his
little steamers which he had purchased for a song from the French early
in the war, but it also involved the safe conduct of the vessel into an
enemy port. His friends in Anatolia might compensate him ultimately for
the destruction of his ship by an Allied warship and the crew could look
out for themselves; but if the captain lost her by grounding, it would
be a disaster of the first magnitude. All this passed through the nimble
mind of Mr. Dainopoulos while Mr. Spokesly waited for further light on
the nature of the service required. He saw the difficulty and, knowing
the English character, he took his measure accordingly. He smiled.

"You come to my house and have some supper?" he remarked. "My wife would
be pleased, I'm sure."

Mr. Spokesly looked at Archy Bates. That gentleman was no longer paying
attention. In his own peculiar fashion he had arrived at some sort of
intuitive recognition of the fact that Mr. Dainopoulos had no intention
of letting him in on this affair. Well, that was all right, Mr. Bates
reflected in one of those appallingly clear and coherent moments which
suddenly open in the mentality of dipsomaniacs. That was all right. They
were making a lot of money. Big risk for him, by Jove! but he was
willing to shoulder it. By Jove! That last time in Port Said, when the
police rushed into his cabin not five minutes after the laundryman, who
also took his rake-off, had carried the stuff ashore in a boat-load of
dirty sheets. It was a near thing. Two hundred quid he had netted over
that, paid in Turkish gold. And they had found the bit of burlap in
which it had been wrapped. He saw the chief of police now, standing
there, in his bright red fez, and white uniform, legs apart, holding the
thing to his nose. Hashish, by Jove! A close call! "What's this?" Mr.
Bates jumped and made the table shake. Mr. Spokesly was speaking. For a
moment he had forgotten where he was. Little beads of sweat stood out on
his forehead. He smiled with relief.

"Shall we go?" repeated Mr. Spokesly. Somewhat to his surprise, Mr.
Bates shook his head. He was still smiling with relief, for that brief
moment, during which his consciousness had slippe