"We'll hear more about Georgeos Hymettus," declared Webb.
One morning orders were received for the surviving members of the ill-fated Portchester Castle's ship's company to hold themselves in readiness for embarkation on the transport Sinai, which was about to sail for Malta.
Dacres and Major Fane had already bidden farewell to their former companions in peril. They had left a few days after the Paradox arrived at Port Said—the former for England, the Major, with his leave cancelled at his own request, to resume duty with a Soudanese battalion somewhere in the vicinity of Khartoum.
"Looks like getting into harness again," remarked the Sub on hearing the news. "Well, I, for one, am not sorry. Things are a bit slow out here, in spite of our little encounter with the spy. And I'm afraid we didn't shine over that."
"A common failing with fellows who take on the amateur-detective business," commented Osborne, who was never reticent in owning up to the errors for which he was responsible. "However, that's over and done with," he added cheerfully. "A little bird whispered to me that we're to be sent to the Grecian Archipelago. From all accounts there's going to be trouble with the so-called Royalist section of the Greek nation. The rotten way in which these fellows are carrying on is enough to make any self-respecting Greek of ancient history literally squirm in his grave. There's only one thing, in my opinion, that prevents Tino's army from marching northwards from Athens, and taking the Allied forces at Salonika in the rear."
"And what's that?" enquired Webb.
"The Navy—the British and French fleets," replied the Lieutenant. "With Athens and Corinth under the guns of the fleet, and a stern reminder that 'He who is not for us is against us', the double-dealing Tino will have to tread warily."
Early on the following day the depleted ship's company of the Portchester Castle boarded the vessel that was to take them to Malta. Under her quarter-deck awnings Osborne and Webb were pacing up and down, looking, without any qualms of regret, at the sun-baked town and port of Alexandria.
At that moment a small coasting steamer, flying the Greek mercantile ensign, fussily slipped from the quay-side and steamed seawards.
"She's bound for Crete with stores for the Venezelists," remarked Osborne. "I saw her departure mentioned in yesterday's orders."