'This is the 17th day of November. If we can't find out what we want
in two months we may chuck the job. On the 17th of January we should
forgather in Constantinople. Whoever gets there first waits for the
others. If by that date we're not all present, it will be considered
that the missing man has got into trouble and must be given up. If
ever we get there we'll be coming from different points and in
different characters, so we want a rendezvous where all kinds of
odd folk assemble. Sandy, you know Constantinople. You fix the
meeting-place.'

'I've already thought of that,' he said, and going to the writing-
table he drew a little plan on a sheet of paper. 'That lane runs down
from the Kurdish Bazaar in Galata to the ferry of Ratchik. Half-
way down on the left-hand side is a cafe kept by a Greek called
Kuprasso. Behind the cafe is a garden, surrounded by high walls
which were parts of the old Byzantine Theatre. At the end of the
garden is a shanty called the Garden-house of Suliman the Red. It
has been in its time a dancing-hall and a gambling hell and God
knows what else. It's not a place for respectable people, but the
ends of the earth converge there and no questions are asked. That's
the best spot I can think of for a meeting-place.'

The kettle was simmering by the fire, the night was raw, and it
seemed the hour for whisky-punch. I made a brew for Sandy and
myself and boiled some milk for Blenkiron.

'What about language?' I asked. 'You're all right, Sandy?'

'I know German fairly well; and I can pass anywhere as a Turk.