“Why, only the other day a Russian spy walked coolly through our second parallel,” said a French officer, “and counted the number of the guns.  He passed himself off as an English traveller.”

“Great impudence, but great pluck.  I wish we had men who would do the same.  That’s what I complain of.  We want a better organised secret service, and men like Wellington’s famous Captain Grant in the Peninsular War, bold, adroit, and quick-witted, ready to run any risks, but bound to get information in the long run.  I wish I could lay my hands on a few Captain Grants.”

McKay smarted under the sting of these reproaches, feeling they applied, although scarcely so intended, to him.  But there was no man, after all, on the headquarter staff better fitted to remove them.  With his enterprising spirit and intimate acquaintance with many tongues, he ought to be able to secure information that would be useful to his chiefs.

Full of this idea, he rode down that afternoon to Balaclava, the centre of all the rascaldom that had gathered around the base of the Crimean army.  He was in search of agents whom he could employ as emissaries into the enemy’s lines.

Putting up his horse, he mixed amongst the motley crowd that thronged the “sutlers’ town,” as it was called, which had sprung up half-a-mile outside Balaclava, to accommodate the swarms of strangers who, under the strict rule of Colonel Harding, had been expelled from the port itself.

The place was like a fair—­a jumble of huts and shanties and ragged canvas tents, with narrow, irregular lanes between them, in which the polyglot traders bought and sold.  Here were grave Armenians, scampish Greeks from the Levant, wild-eyed Bedouins, Tartars from Asia Minor, evil-visaged Italians, scowling Spaniards, hoarse-voiced, slouching Whitechapel ruffians, with a well-developed talent for dealing in stolen goods.

As McKay stood watching the curious scene, and replying rather curtly to the eager salesmen, who pestered him perpetually to buy anything and everything—­food, saddlery, pocket-knives, horse-shoes, fire-arms, and swords—­he became conscious of a stir and flutter among the crowd.  It presently became strangely silent, and parted obsequiously, to give passage to some great personage who approached.

This was Major Shervinton, the provost-marshal, supreme master and autocrat of all camp-followers, whom he ruled with an iron hand.  Close behind him came two sturdy assistants—­men who had once been drummers, and were specially selected in an army where flogging was the chief punishment for their prowess with the cat-o’-nine-tales.

Woe to the sutler, whatever his rank or nation, who fell foul of the terrible provost!  Summary arrest, the briefest trial, and a sharp sentence peremptorily executed, in the shape of four dozen, was the certain treatment of all who offended against martial law.

“Hullo, McKay!” cried Shervinton, a big, burly, pleasant-faced man, whose cheery manner was in curious contrast with his formidable functions.  “What brings a swell from headquarters into this den of iniquity?  Lost your servant, or looking out for one?  Don’t engage any one without asking me.  They are an abominable lot, and deserve to be hanged, all of them.”