“When?”
“When you were eighteen—when you had syphilis, you know.”
“There you go again!” I roared. “I tell you I never had it! You lie and you lie and you lie! You are in the pay of the English! You all say the same, and you all lie! It’s a plot, I know it is, and you’re going to lock me up again, so that I’ll never see the Sultan, and shove needles into me, and inject things into me like that fool M——[[52]] did, and keep me locked up for months and months, all on the excuse that I’ve got syphilis, and I haven’t, I tell you I haven’t, I tell you it’s a lie, and you’ll have to admit it, as M—— had to admit it, and let me go again as he had to let me go, and then I’ll have you all hanged, every man jack of you, along with Baylay....”
I raved on and on, bringing in the name of M—— at frequent intervals.
At length Ihsan managed to calm me down again and proceeded with his questions.
“Say these figures—4, 7, 9, 6, 5, 3.”
“What fool game are you at now?” I asked. “Why should I say them?”
“Because you must!” Ihsan said sharply.
“Why?” I persisted.
“I want to see if you can repeat them after me. I’m testing your memory for Enver Pasha.”