At first he was unsuccessful because there were many Hussein Effendis in Durazzo. He sent an invitation to the American Consul to come over to tiffin and help him.
“Why the dickens the Foreign Office should suddenly be interested in Hussein Effendi, I cannot for the life of me understand.”
“The Foreign Department has to be interested in something, you know,” said the genial American. “I receive some of the quaintest requests from Washington; I rather fancy they only wire you to find if they are there.”
“Why are you doing this!”
“I've seen Hakaat Bey,” said the English official. “I wonder what this fellow has been doing? There is probably a wigging for me in the offing.”
At about the same time the sewerman in the bosom of his own family was taking loud and noisy sips from a big mug of tea.
“Don't you be surprised,” he said to his admiring better half, “if I have to go up to the Old Bailey to give evidence.”
“Lord! Joe!” she said with interest, “what has happened!”
The sewer man filled his pipe and told the story with a wealth of rambling detail. He gave particulars of the hour he had descended the Victoria Street shaft, of what Bill Morgan had said to him as they were going down, of what he had said to Harry Carter as they splashed along the low-roofed tunnel, of how he had a funny feeling that he was going to make a discovery, and so on and so forth until he reached his long delayed climax.
T. X. waited up very late that night and at twelve o'clock his patience was rewarded, for the Foreign Office messenger brought a telegram to him. It was addressed to the Chief Secretary and ran: