There is naturally far less danger of Secret Service officers in a crowded city than in small towns. In Constantinople I was but one of thousands of strangers passing to and fro, and that at a time of great change in the history of the Turkish capital. The arrival, however, of a stranger in a village sets every local busybody talking and speculating as to where he has come from and why he has come. And this brings him into conflict with, or at least under the suspicion of, some blundering minor official. Quite possibly this person, zealous in his desire to show his authority and his patriotism, may, by virtue of his blundering, stumble across something that his superiors have quite overlooked. Such a thing had happened to me already on a previous occasion. I therefore determined to be more than ever careful, and to leave nothing whatever to chance. I was desirous of getting as far as possible along the Baghdad Railway, not only to examine the line itself, but to talk to the passengers _en route_. People of strange countries become companionable, and I have often found that there is more to be learned in a railway carriage during a comparatively short journey, than from a long stay in a city. There is a bond of sympathy between travellers, just as there is between smokers, that causes them after a few hours, sometimes even after only a few minutes, to become communicative. I wanted to get to Aleppo, but I came to the conclusion that I should probably never return if I penetrated too far on the road to Baghdad. The train for Eski-Shehr, which is the junction for the Caucasian Railway, _via_ Angora, left at four in the afternoon. Turkish soldiers on their way to the Caucasian front to fight the Russians go by rail only as far as Angora, the rest of the journey being made on foot. The roads are terribly bad, but the Turkish soldier philosophically overcomes all the difficulties he encounters, for he is justly famous for his stout heart and his capacity to endure hardships of every description.