The gyro-car was soon surrounded by a motley crowd, apparently of many nationalities. Maurice rejected the officious offers of shabby touts to guide him to an hotel, and George steered direct for the harbour. As good luck would have it, they saw an English naval officer walking along by the harbour wall. Maurice sprang out of the car and accosted him.
“Yes, I am in command of the torpedo-boat wired for from London,” he said, in reply to Maurice’s question.
“My name is Buckland. My brother and I have come across the continent in his gyro-car. We want to get on to Constantinople without delay.”
“I’m sorry to say we’ve had a mishap. My vessel went aground outside the harbour in the mist this morning. If we can get her off, it will be two or three days before she can put to sea. Understanding that the job was urgent, I wired to Malta, but I doubt whether another vessel can arrive within a couple of days; they are all at manœuvres. They might recall one by wireless, but she would certainly have to return to Malta for fuel. It’s rather a bad job.”
“It is indeed. We have been chased all the way by a gang of German or Austrian spies, who want to get hold of a despatch I have. We only got away by the skin of our teeth; no doubt they’ll be here before long.”
“The deuce they will!” said the officer. “Did they molest you at all?”
Maurice related the circumstances of the breakdown, and how the pursuers had fired at them.
“That’s good enough. Charge them with assault on the highway. The authorities here will take care of them.”
“I’m afraid I can’t afford the time. It would mean endless delays, and I’m sorry to say we haven’t quite clean hands ourselves—we don’t possess a licence.”
“That’s a trifle. Our consul can put that right; the authorities won’t interfere with a man in your position.”