"Good!" muttered the New Zealander. He knew he was telling the truth. Pulling out a pocket-book, he made a rough sketch of the ground round about, and then cross-examined the Syrian. Batteries, magazines, stores, trenches, headquarters, beaches, water and food supplies were all duly noted and placed on the map. Tony Brown, at one scoop, had entered the highest realms of the Intelligence Service. It was dusk when he had finished.
"Me go now," said the Syrian, rising.
"No you won't. You'll come with me and guide the way."
"But I geeves you informations, what more?"
"Look here, old cock, I believe you, but you're a Syrian."
"Syrian good man," protested the informer.
"Sometimes. Hands up!" said Tony, cocking his revolver suddenly.
"No' keels me—no' keels me!"
"I won't if you keep quiet. Now, push ahead—that way," said Tony, directing him on the return route. The Syrian cursed and mumbled in his own fiery way as he stumbled down the hill. He was annoyed.
"Here—look at this," said Tony, calling him back. The New Zealander bent down, and, uncovering the body of the dead Turk, showed it to him.