“Well, I’m hanged!” cried the new-comer; “Charley Smith, of all men in the world.”

“Hullo, Johnson!” said Smith, recognizing in the speaker a messmate of his middy days, now a naval officer in the Sultan’s service; “I say, you can do something for me.”

“I dare say I can,” replied the other laughing, “but where do you spring from?  I didn’t know you were in these parts.”

“Only arrived five minutes ago, from London.”

Johnson stared.

“Not in that machine?”

“Yes, certainly.  Eight hours’ run; a record, isn’t it?  But I’m short of petrol.  There’s some ordered by wire from a man named Benzonana; can you put me in the way of getting it quickly?”

“Of course.  Benzonana’s a Jew, with stores at Kourshounlou Han.  But there’s no hurry.  We’ll get some one to look after your aeroplane, and you’ll come back with me to the club:  this sort of thing doesn’t happen every day, old man.  By Jove!  Do you really mean to say you’ve got here in eight hours from London?”

“I left there at 12.35 this morning.  Barracombe—­you remember him—­saw me off.  But I’m sorry I can’t come with you, Dick.  I’ve only a couple of hours to spare, and must get the petrol at once.”

“My dear chap, are you mad?  You can’t go on at once, after eight hours in the air.  You’ll crock up.  Of course, if it’s a wager—­”

“It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Oh, in that case!  But I’m afraid you won’t get off in two hours.  Things go slow in this country, and here’s the first obstacle.”

He pointed beyond the crowd, and Smith saw a troop of cavalry approaching at a hand-gallop.  The throng of Turks, Jews, and Armenians, who had all this time been volubly discussing the wonderful devil machine, broke apart with shouts of “Yol ver!  Yol ver!” (Make way!) The troop of horsemen clattered up, and Smith saw himself and his aeroplane surrounded by a cordon of soldiers.

The captain looked suspiciously from the two grimy travellers to the spick-and-span Englishmen in golfing costume.  He said something in Turkish to his lieutenant.

“What does he say?” asked Smith in a whisper.

“He’s telling the lieutenant they must draw up a proces-verbal.  Don’t lose your temper, old man; he talks of putting you under arrest as a Bulgarian spy.  You’ll have to be patient.  I’ll do what I can, but if they make a diplomatic incident of it you’ll be kept here a week or more.”

Johnson went up to the captain and addressed him politely in Turkish.  The officer looked incredulous, and said something to his lieutenant, who trotted off across the field.  In a few minutes Johnson returned to Smith, who was walking up and down in agitation.  Rodier was fast asleep in the car of the aeroplane.

“I’ve given the captain the facts of the case,” said Johnson, “and he does me the honour to disbelieve me.  The lieutenant has gone off to the Ministry of War for instructions.  Meanwhile, you are under arrest, and they won’t let you quit this spot without authority.  If you really mean that you must go at once——­”