“You are the very fellow to help me, Shervinton,” and McKay, taking the provost-marshal aside, told him his errand.

“I firmly believe every second man here is a spy, or would be if he had the pluck.”

“Are any of them, do you think, in communication with the Russians?”

“Lots.  They come and go through the lines, I believe, as they please.”

“I wish I could find a few fellows of this sort.”

“Perhaps I can put you in the way; only I doubt whether you can trust to a single word that they will tell you.”

“But where shall we come upon them?”

“The best plan will be to consult Valetta Joe, the Maltese baker at the end of the lines.  I have always suspected him of being a Russian spy; but I dare say we could buy him over if you want him.  If he tries to play us false we will hang him the same day.”

Valetta Joe was in his bread-store—­a small shed communicating with the dark, dirty, semi-subterranean cellar behind, in which the dough was kneaded and baked.  The shed was encumbered with barrels of inferior flour, and all around upon shelves lay the small short rolls, dark-looking and sour-tasting, which were sold in the camp for a shilling a piece.

“Well, Joe, what’s the news from Sebastopol to-day?” asked Shervinton.

“Why you ask me, sare?  I a poor Maltee baker—­sell bread, make money.  Have nothing to do with fight.”

“You rascal!  You know you’re in league with the Russians.  I have had my eye on you this long time.  Some of these days we’ll be down upon you like a cart-load of bricks.”

“You a very hard man, Major Shervinton, sare—­very unkind to poor Joe.  I offer you bread every day for nothing; you say No.  Why not take Joe’s bread?”

“Because Joe’s a scoundrel to offer it.  Do you suppose I am to be bribed in that way?  But here:  I tell you what we are after.  This gentleman,” pointing to McKay, “wants news from the other side.”

“Why you come to me?  I nothing to do with other side.”

“You can help him, you know that, and you must; or we will bundle you out of this and send you back to Constantinople.”

The provost-marshal’s manner was not to be mistaken.

“What can I do, sare?”

“Find out some one who can pass through the lines and bring or send him to my friend.”

“Who is this gentleman?”

“He is one of Lord Raglan’s staff; his name is Mr. McKay.”

A close observer would have seen that the baker started slightly at the name and that he bent an eager, inquisitive look upon McKay.

“Will the gentleman give promise to do no harm to me or my people?”

“So long as you behave properly,—­yes.”

“I think I know some one, then.”

“Produce him at once.”

“He not here to-day; out selling bread.  Where he find you, sare, to-morrow, or any time he have anything to tell?”