is was stamped, "Lieut. Tony Brown,
New Zealand Dragoons." The subaltern paled as he looked at this
damning proof. He must have dropped it when fumbling with his pockets
in the camp below.

He inwardly cursed his stupidity.

"Have a cigarette?" said he, offering a Virginian to his new-found
friend.

"Oh, wery nice--wery Inglees _too_," said the Syrian, looking at the
inscription: "Three Castles. W. D. & H. O. Wills." "No maket these in
Stamboul--eh?"

"Not till we get there," said Tony with a yawn, at the same time
measuring the distance between his man and debating whether it would be
better to kill him or capture him and then take him back in the boat.

Meanwhile the Syrian was smoking airily, almost casually. He was a
born scoundrel. Intrigue was his game. This Syrian had Mammon all
over his body and soul. Good gold could buy him any time.

"You spy?" he said, looking up at Tony in a casual yet cunning way.
The word "spy" was a dagger into the subaltern's nerves and heart. It
left him breathless for a moment. Recovering his wits, he airily
answered, "Well----"

"Me poor man--me tell you things. How much?"

"Fifty pounds--eh?"

"One hundreds--it worth it--good beesness. Me plenty savvy--me know."

"What?"

"Plentee news 'bout guns, men and--beeg attacks----"

"Oh!" said Tony, startled out of his casual way. The Syrian smiled.
He had divined his quest.

"Tell me then."

"Monees," said the Syrian, holding out his hand. The ways of the East
are, at least, direct.

"There you are," said the subaltern, handing him ten crisp Bank of
England notes. He had come prepared for this contingency.

"When is the attack, now?"

"Friday mornings early."

"The exact time I want."

"Half past fours."

"How do you know?"

"I orderleys and interpreeters to arteelery's staff."

"Oh! Now, isn't there a battery down there?" said Tony, pointing to a
piece of rising ground which he had passed over.

"No--one batterees there," said the Syrian, directing his eyes to the
exact place where Tony had discovered the first battery.

"Good!" muttered the New Zealander. He knew he was telling the truth.
Pulling out a pocket-book, he made a rough sketch of the ground round
about, and then cross-examined the Syrian. Batteries, magazines,
stores, trenches, headquarters, beaches, water and food supplies were
all duly noted and placed on the map. Tony Brown, at one scoop, had
entered the highest realms of