"It is well," said I, and giving the Arab a keran to spend in the bazaar, I dismissed him.

Hurrying home as fast as I was able, with steps as light as air, I bounded up the stairs to break the news to Edwards. He was out, and on the table I found a note addressed to me. I tore it open, and read the hasty pencil scrawl, which ran as follows:—

Dear Walter,—

Just had a message from the C.-G., saying he is very ill at Mosul. Has sent the launch down for me. Do not expect me back for at least a week. If I am detained longer, I will drop you a line. Mind you do not start for home before I come back. So long,

Yours

G. E.

Calling a servant, I asked when his master had left, and was told that the launch had gone up the river about an hour before. Utterly knocked out of time by this unexpected turn of events, I sank into a chair, and endeavoured to think out the situation. Something had to be done, and done quickly. Nothing should prevent my reaching the rendezvous opposite Ctesiphon that night. On that point I was determined. I would get the Golden Girdle without saying anything to anyone, and with luck I might be able to lay it in front of Edwards on his return from up-river. What a grand surprise it would be for him, and how I should crow over him! After all, it was rather a good thing, I thought, that both Edwards and the Consul-General were away from Baghdad; otherwise they might have interfered with my movements. I was, at anyrate, free to do as I pleased. But how I was to cover the fifty miles to the spot where I was to meet the Aeniza I could not decide. It was already two o'clock; I had about four hours of daylight I could order my horse and say I was going for an afternoon ride, then make straight for Ctesiphon. It was a long journey to accomplish on one horse in four hours, and I had never followed the road before. If I did not succeed in reaching the ruins before dark, I doubted if I should ever reach them, and even if I succeeded, I still had to cross to the opposite bank of the river. I should have to swim it—there was no other means of crossing. I did not like the idea. Then I thought I would cross the river by the Baghdad bridge, and try to find my way to the appointed place by following the right bank of the river. That, however, I abandoned as hopeless, for I was acquainted with no road on that side of the river. My next idea was to hire a kufa, and paddle away down stream. It would not be a very great undertaking, as I could certainly cover six or eight miles an hour by simply drifting, which would bring me to my destination well before break of day. There was only one thing against this plan: I was not at all sure that, being at such a little height above the water-level, I should be able to identify landmarks. There would be a good moon, I knew, and I had been to Ctesiphon by water once or twice from Baghdad. It was a risky undertaking, but I did not see what else I could do. All at once a sudden inspiration came to me. I leapt from my chair, rushed across the room, and hunted among my papers for the river steamer time-table. At last I found it, and, as I had hoped, discovered that this was the day that one of the steamers left Baghdad for Bussorah. Nervously I ran my finger along the line to learn the hour of departure, and when my eyes fell on the announcement "4 P.M.," I could have shouted for joy.

I had a couple of hours to make arrangements, though there were few to make. Still, certain matters had to be worked out. In the first place, I had qualms of conscience about going off without telling anyone, and I began to think that I had better take Dimitri, the dragoman, into my confidence. But I was afraid to trust him, as I thought that perhaps he would consider it his duty to frustrate my plan. Then I could not make up my mind whether to disguise myself as a native, and take a deck passage; or whether to go on board with a bag, and book first-class to Bussorah. My difficulty was that the captain of the steamer was a well-known member of the small English community in Baghdad, and a personal friend of mine. In either case, whether I shipped as a native or as myself, I should have to slip overboard when approaching Ctesiphon, and swim ashore, and in either case I should have to deceive my friend the captain. I hated the idea; but I came to the conclusion that, as a desperate man, I must bury my conscience for the time being. To fail now would probably be to throw away the opportunity of a lifetime. I would tell as few lies as possible, and trust that some day I might be able to make reparation for my evil doings.

My plan matured, I immediately set to work to collect a few odds and ends to fill my bag, fastened it up, called my boy, and sent him down to the steamer with it, at the same time giving him a note for the purser, in which I asked for a cabin to Bussorah. Having taken the first step, I felt easier in my mind, and telling Edwards's servants that I was going for a trip down the river, and should be away for a few days, I strolled leisurely down to the wharf, and went on board the steamer. From that moment I forgot my conscience altogether. I told the captain that, as Edwards had been called away to Mosul, and as I did not care about my own society, I had decided to spend the time in running down to Bussorah. He expressed himself as delighted to have my company, and I settled myself in my cabin, as if I really intended to remain on board for three or four days. We were a little late in getting off, but I knew that an hour or two would not affect my plans, as, even steaming in the dark, we ought to be off Ctesiphon within six hours or so of our departure from the city.

There being no other first-class passengers, I dined alone with the captain, and, aware that it might be my last respectable meal for some days, I made the most of it, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Afterwards, we sat long on the upper deck, outside the captain's cabin, discussing many things, and watching the reflections of the bright moon in the river. I began to grow anxious about the time, and a little nervous about the part I was shortly to play. I was a strong swimmer, but even with that knowledge I did not relish the prospect of plunging overboard and making for the shore. I confess that it required every scrap of courage that I possessed, and for a moment my courage almost failed me.

"You are very silent," said the captain, after a long pause in the conversation, "are you getting sleepy?"

"I suppose I must be," I replied. "I expect it is about time to turn in. Whereabouts are we?"