Tactics of the Enemy.
Walter Wyman, a thorough-going man of the world, was quick of resource. Indeed, it was his shrewdness and clever ingenuity that had extricated him from many a tight corner during his long journeys of exploration. More than once had he carried his life in his hand on that perilous trip from the Albert Nyanza up to Darfur and Kordofan, which he boldly undertook for the intelligence department of the war office prior to Kitchener’s march to Omdurman; and more than once it was his quick foresight and promptness of action that had saved him.
The picture of health, he was an ideal British officer, well set-up, well-groomed, and well-clad; and as he stood there in a suit of grey tweed and Panama hat, a thoughtful frown crossed his merry countenance reddened by African suns.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Allan, old chap. We ought to ascertain how the enemy intend to start their campaign. There’s something decidedly funny about your old Italian hunchback being over here. Are you quite certain you’ve made no mistake?”
“Absolutely. Graniani has gone past with the Earl.”
“But the latter is believed by everyone in town to be still in India. His own servants must, of course, be in the know, but the whole circumstances are suspicious. Now, the hunchback doesn’t know me, therefore I shall have a much better chance of following them than if you came. They mustn’t know that you are here.”
“No. Go and see what their game is. I’ll remain here and wait for you. They’ve evidently gone through into the abbey, and will be poking about there. Keep a sharp eye on them, and we may learn something from their movements.”
“All right,” he answered, and without another word went out, closing the door after him.
The maid came in and cleared the table. Then I was left alone standing at the window, the wire blind of which fortunately prevented me from being seen from the street.
An hour passed, tolled out by the musical bells in the tower, but my friend did not return. Something important was transpiring, no doubt.