"And why with the Turks? You are not a soldier," said Geoff, noticing that the man was in civilian costume.
"A soldier? No, Excellency. A messenger merely, one who bears a missive to the British."
"Then a friend of the British, eh?" asked Geoff.
"A friend? Yes, always. In the service of a British Pasha these many years. A friend, at heart, of England."
Geoff stared at the man, and then, setting Sultan in motion, rode along, the man trotting his horse beside him.
"A message, eh?" asked Geoff after a while, having pondered deeply. "For the British, you say?"
"For the British, Excellency, for any whom it may concern. News of an English pasha who came but lately to this country."
"Oh, whom? The name? For whom is the message intended?"
"Excellency, I was to find the British force invading Mesopotamia. I was to hand my missive over to an officer of distinction, and I was to search amongst the officers who came from India for one, a youth, who might be with them."
"His name?" asked Geoff, now beginning to tremble with excitement, for who could this white man be who had sent a message? Who could the pasha be to whom this Armenian referred? Could it be Joe Douglas, his guardian, that excellent fellow who had befriended him these many years, and who had so recently gone on an expedition to Asiatic Turkey, and who, after his custom—a custom that Geoff knew so well—had disappeared entirely? There was no news from Joe Douglas these many weeks past, not a line, not a chirrup from him. But could this be his messenger? If so, Geoff should know him. Swinging round in his saddle he gripped the man's arm and stared into his face. A moment later he uttered a shout—a shout of happiness.