Spook. “Certainly. And listen! They may have anything they want for 24 hours. I give them a complete holiday because they have done very well to-night. After 24 hours they must begin living on bread alone—no cooked food. This is necessary to counter-balance the mistake made by the sitter to-night. Twenty-four hours’ freedom to do what they like, then semi-starvation till first clue is found. Tomorrow at noon I shall give some advice to the Sup. Next treasure séance after five days. Good-night.”
Moïse. “Good-night, Sir.”
Moïse was almost in tears at the failure. Over and over again he abused himself for having forgotten the Spook’s injunction to keep calm. He explained, pitifully, that he had not intended to name the Divinity. “Mon Dieu!” is a common, everyday expression of surprise in France, where he had been educated, and he had merely used the English equivalent. Besides, he did not know that “Asduidad” was the Armenian for God, as the local Armenians pronounced the word “Asdvad.” How was he to know he was getting into tune with the opposition? If he had only kept silence, we would have got the names, and it would not have taken long to make their owners tell what they knew! Now the names were hidden for ever! And so on.
We consoled him, and saw him to the gate, for he was very excited and very nervous as to what the Spook might do to him. Then Hill and I waltzed together in the little yard, for we had got out of the difficulty as to the name of the hider of the treasure, and the blame lay not with the Spook, nor with us, but with the Turks. We had also created a most useful “opposition” and taught the Turks—by experience—that the Spook depended largely for its success on our conduct, and on that of the Pimple, the Cook, and the Commandant. Lastly the Pimple’s only criticism of our Stevensonian treasure story had been to marvel at the cleverness of OOO. He had swallowed the yarn whole.
From our window we could see South hill gleaming white in the moonlight. Beside a rock in the snow the first clue lay buried. With luck, we’d dig it up quite soon, and photograph the Commandant in the process. Hill took extra pains in his practice at palming the camera that night.
And next morning the poor little Pimple came to us more nearly in tears than ever. His face was very red. The Commandant, he told us, had just smacked it because he had called three times upon his God.
“And indeed,” wailed the Pimple, “perhaps I should have known, for three is a mystic number!”
But all the same he shook his fist in the direction of Kiazim Bey’s office.
CHAPTER XV
IN WHICH THE SPOOK PUTS OUR COLONEL ON PAROLE IN HIS