It was a week later. In one of the tents of the Headquarters staff behind the British lines Burnet, once more in Arab dress, was conversing with Captain Mitchell, an officer high in the Intelligence branch. He had just come to the end of a rather long narrative—the story of his adventures from the day when he had said good-bye to Captain Mitchell more than a month before, down to the time of the attack on Rejeb's stronghold.
"And how did you get out?" asked the captain.
"I slipped away to the south through the marshes, swimming the deep places on a waterskin, and wading the rest. When I was clear I steered south-east till I struck the Tigris and got aboard a country boat that was bringing up fodder."
"It sounds simple, though I daresay it wasn't all what the rags at home call a joy-ride."
Burnet smiled: it was not necessary to tell all that had happened during that week.
"I will place the situation before the Chief," the captain went on. "You will hear from him."
"He will understand that Rejeb is waiting to hear whether he may expect help? He is greatly outnumbered."
"Quite so. The Chief will realise what is at stake, and I think you may depend on prompt instructions."
The interview was at an end. Burnet went off to visit his particular friends, including Scuddy Smith, captain in the Bengal Lancers.
"What ho!" cried Smith. "Back again, then. We were getting anxious about you. Where's Ellingford?"