"Humph, I still don't see why we should go out of our way to talk to them," I grumbled.
"Hilyer seemed in a reasonable frame of mind," argued Hugh. "He said his crowd are sick of the whole business, that they as well as we are wasting time, and that we might as well compromise."
"I hope you have no such idea in your head," exclaimed Betty. "You couldn't trust them, in any event."
"No, I haven't—not yet, anyway," returned Hugh. "I told Hilyer we had no reason to be discouraged, but he just grinned. He said it was a stalemate. What I am after is to feel out the enemy's position."
None of us could think up a valid reason for objecting to Hugh's strategy, so it was agreed that he, Vernon King, Nikka and myself should keep the appointment at Hilmi's house. Betty said that she would take Watkins and go for a sail in the Curlew, and we all approved her plan because we considered her safest on the water.
After luncheon we escorted Betty and Watkins to the Man-o'-war Dock, saw them off and then walked through Pera to Hilmi's house in the Rue Midhat Pasha. It was a handsome residence in the French style. As we approached it from the corner, a big automobile halted in front of the entrance, and Hilmi, himself, appeared in the doorway, ushering out a stout personage, whose frock-coat, fez and predatory visage proclaimed the Turkish official. The man scarcely glanced at us, merely climbed into his machine and drove away. Hilmi, awaiting us on the doorstep, rubbed his hands together, with an oily smirk of satisfaction.
"Your servant, gentlemen," he said, with mock humility. "Did you happen to recognize my guest who departed as you arrived?"
"No," replied Hugh curtly.
Hilmi had a peculiar effect on you. He was a rat. You didn't so much hate him or desire to kill him as you did hanker to kick him or stamp on him.
He saw this, and his smirk became a sour grimace.