"All of them, sir, all together. Turks are known to be five miles away and the young lieutenant expects them to ride in before morning. He says passports are a sure road to paradise—you can get to heaven quicker on an ambassador's signature than on any other. I'd do this block next time if I was you, Mr. Faber, to be sure I would. We may all have our throats cut before morning."
Faber chewed his cigar heavily.
"Mr. Paleologue doesn't think it; he's been among them before. He says the Turks like newspaper men; he's one of them. I advised our people in Constantinople I was coming, and I don't suppose they've gone to sleep. Anyway, can you fire a gun, Frank?"
Frank turned a little pale.
"I'd sooner see others fire it, sir."
"True enough, and guns won't be much good if the knives get going. I think we'll move on to-morrow, Frank; we'll learn what happens from the newspapers."
"I wish you'd go to-night, sir."
Faber shook his head.
"There's the young lady to be thought of. I guess she's asleep. It's got to be the morning, anyway."
"At any particular hour, sir?"