Instead of a belated breakfast, however, a posse of policemen arrived, and we started on our journeys again: my friends still in their shirt-sleeves and slippers, and myself still in my bowler hat, although I did not now wear it so rakishly.
But we were fairly cheery. We had learnt (no matter how) that the females of Theodore's family would soon be released, and that Theodore himself, although still in duress, would not suffer any extreme fate. Also, it was by now fairly obvious that Miss Whitaker would not be apprehended, as sufficient evidence was not obtainable against her. She had covered her tracks too well. All things considered, there was no cause for depression.
But waiting is hungry work. That afternoon still saw us, fretful and unfed, waiting outside the office of Djevad Bey, the Military Commandant of Constantinople.
At last I was taken into an ornate room, where I had my first talk with this redoubtable individual, who was popularly supposed to be the hangman of the Young Turks. Anyone less like an executioner I have never seen. He was plump, well-dressed, with humorous grey eyes. He wore long, rather well-fitting boots, and smoked his cigarettes from a long amber holder. He also had a long amber moustache, which was being trained Kaiser-wise.
I stood before him at attention.
"About this forged passport," he began—"do gentlemen in your country forge each other's signatures?"
"It is not usual," I admitted.
"Then you, as an English gentleman, surely did not counterfeit my writing?"
"Oh no! I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing."
"Then how do you account for this passport being in your possession?"