Two nights later, between the acts at a theatre, I met a young old friend. Twenty years before we had made a trip through Central America and Venezuela. To my surprise, for I had known him in other wars, he was not in khaki, but in white waistcoat and lawn tie and tail-coat. He looked as though he had on his hand nothing more serious than money and time. I complained that we had not met since the war.
“It’s a chance, our meeting to-night,” he said, “for I start for Cairo in the morning. I left the Dardanelles last Wednesday and arrived here only to-day.”
“Wednesday!” I exclaimed. “How could you do it?”
“Torpedo-boat from Moudros to Malta,” he explained, “transport to Marseilles, troop train to Calais, and there our people shot me across the Channel on a hospital ship. Then I got a special to town.”
“You are a swell!” I gasped. “What’s your rank?”
“Captain.”
That did not explain it.
“What’s your job?”
“King’s messenger.”