“Monsieur, your reverend father, must surely have told you stories about the destruction of the Gallipoli school, mademoiselle,” he insisted.
“Yes. It happened a year before the mission at Trebizond was destroyed by the Turks.” I said maliciously.
“So I have heard. What a pity! Our Osmanli—our peasantry are so stupid! And it was such a fine school. A German engineer was killed there, I believe.”
“A certain Herr Conrad Wilner, was it not?”
“Yes. How did you hear of him, Colonel Izzet?”
“It was known in Stamboul. He perished by mistake, I believe—at Gallipoli.”
“Yes; my father said that Herr Wilner was the only man hurt. He went out all alone into the mob and began to cut them with his riding whip. My father tried to save him, but they killed Herr Wilner with stones.”
“Exactly.” He spread his beautifully jewelled hands deprecatingly and seemed greatly grieved.
“And Herr Wilner’s—property?” he inquired. “Did you ever hear what became of it?”