"And Watty and I?" questioned Hugh.
"You go to the Pera Palace Hotel. Meet this Miss King and her father, but don't let anybody suspect that you expected to meet them. Remember, you will be watched all the time. Your rooms and your baggage will be searched. I think they will investigate the Kings, too. Yes, that is likely. You must have Miss King hide the copy of the Instructions you sent her. Not in her trunks—ah, I have it! Let her place it in an envelope, addressed to herself, Poste restante. She can go to the Post Office and collect it whenever we need it.
"You and Watkins will not be in any danger. Toutou's people will be too busy trying to find Jack and me. They will be suspecting that you are simply bait to distract their attention—which will be quite correct. But you must be careful not to venture around the city without plenty of company. Take an Allied officer with you whenever you can. You might use the daylight hours to find the site of the Bucoleon."
"Professor King can help them there," I interrupted. "He knows old Constantinople quite well."
"Excellent," applauded Nikka. "But remember, Hugh, I said 'daylight hours.' Don't venture around indiscriminately, and don't go anywhere, even in the daylight, without several other people. The larger your party, the safer you will be against accidents—and it is an accident, rather than a deliberate attack, you will have to guard against."
"But how are we going to get in touch with you?" asked Hugh.
"Leave that to us," replied Nikka, with his quiet grin. "Make it a custom to lounge in front of the Pera Palace every morning after breakfast for half an hour; and keep a watch out for Gypsies. You'll be seeing them all the time, of course, but don't let on that you're interested in them. Some morning two especially disreputable fellows will come by, and one of them will contrive to get a word with you. Follow them."
"That's a corking plan," Hugh approved warmly. "Well, lads, we'll be in Marseilles early in the morning. Shall we nap a bit?"
If we were followed in Marseilles, we didn't know it. We only left the railroad station to get breakfast and dispatch a telegram from Nikka to his uncle—or, rather, to an address in Seres which acted as a clearing-house for the operations of this particular Gypsy band. Then we took the train for Milan, and stopped off over-night to secure some sleep. The Italian railways were never very comfortable, and the War did not improve them.
We figured, too, that by stopping at Milan we might additionally confuse our shadows, as the city was a natural point of departure for Belgrade. But the first person I saw in the Southern Express restaurant-car was Hélène de Cespedes. She had discarded her black dress for a modish costume with furs, and sat by herself in dignified seclusion, looking at once smartly aristocratic and innocently lovely. She greeted me with a smile, and crooked her finger.