park. He solved it; they were serving the
guns. Down the lines he stumbled, grunting like an old horse, and,
occasionally, sitting down to view the scene. They had plenty of
biscuits, and even such luxuries as coffee, bread, and water melons.
No signs of starvation or lack of supplies. That was an important
point. Tony was doing well. His scheme was succeeding beyond his
dreams. Indeed, he was beginning to feel quite cocky, till, on looking
round, he found a swarthy little fellow behind him. He was being
followed. Something gripped his heart. He had shot his bolt. Still
he did not lose his head. This little man must be led on a little
farther. Tony retraced his steps. The man followed him. He sat down;
the Turk also sat down. This was unnerving, and the young sub. almost
shouted in anger and agony. Rising again, he went on, striking into
the open and less populated part. And, all the while, the officer
wondered how he was going to deal with his sleuth-hound. He could not
shoot him there.

At last his eye caught sight of the little knoll where his dead Turk
lay buried. Good! He would lead him up there. He plodded on, and,
behind him, stalked the patient-looking Turk. Oh! the agony of those
moments. It was like a knife sinking by degrees into the human heart.
It was the hour for nerve, coolness and caution. Tony reached the top
of the hill. With a sigh he sat down, pulled out his pipe and
commenced to smoke. The Turk also sat down, but at the foot of the
hill. He too started to smoke. His face had the sense of ease, his
eyes a humorous gleam. He, apparently, was in no hurry. What the
devil did he mean? Tony wondered, and wondered. This torture was
insufferable; so insufferable that the subaltern waved his arm,
signalling the Turk to come up beside him. He obeyed. As he reached
the top he took off his cap and said, "Good days, Mr. Ingleesman."

"Who's English?" said Tony, smiling at his own audacity and apparent
admission.

"You very Inglees--you smokit pipe, your boots, your walk. I plenty
savvy," he said, tapping his head. "I no seely Turk. Me Syrian."

"What the devil are you doing here?"

"They maket me fight. I no' wants fight. Me Christian. I likes
Inglees."

"But what are you following me for?"

"Well--monees--backsheesh. Me poor man."

"How did you spot me?"

"You droppit this when you down there," said the Syrian, pulling an
identity disc out of his pocket. Th