I bethought myself of Halil Bey, the Foreign Minister, who had so kindly secured for me an interview with Enver Pasha. To my surprise the old man saw me at once. His is a very different reception-room from that of his colleague, Enver. Gloomy, miserable, without electric light or even an oil lamp, and lit only by candles, it was far from the sort of room that one would expect to be occupied by a Minister of Foreign Affairs. It was, however, another evidence of the good work of the Roumanians in cutting off the coal supply of Constantinople. I explained to Halil that it was my great desire to do myself the honour of seeing, if possible, the All-Highest War Lord, and that I wished to leave Constantinople for Belgrade. Halil Bey, in common with every other Turk, was in high spirits over the Gallipoli evacuation, and after a little judicious flattery as to his enormous powers, I succeeded in obtaining a letter to the Prefect of Police at Stamboul, and in order that he should see me instantly Halil gave me his card, which is reproduced below. [Illustration: HALIL BEY’S CARD] I lost no time in securing one of the few public carriages that are to be had in the city, and made my way behind the thinnest pair of horses imaginable to the Prefecture of Police. It was rather like entering the lion’s den, but it had to be done. If the police were really suspicious of me I should not be very long left in doubt. I was a little disturbed to hear from the Prefect that the only way of getting out of Constantinople to Belgrade was by a German military train. The first Balkan Express which was to link up Constantinople with Berlin and Vienna, was not due to start for a day or two, and as I felt disinclined to wait for it, I determined to push on to Belgrade and join the Balkan Express there. This would give me a short time in which to examine that town, which, as I have said, I was most anxious to see. I mentioned to the Prefect that I had been honoured by Enver Pasha with an interview, and that I felt sure His Excellency would do anything in his power to facilitate my movements. “I will see what can be done,” said the Prefect. “Please leave with me your passport and call again in the morning.” With considerable trepidation I returned to the Prefecture next morning, and to my delight found my passport marked in Turkish not only with permission to leave, but with actual permission to travel by the military train to Belgrade. The “visieat” (a written permission from the police to leave), which usually takes a few days to obtain, was handed to me at the same time, so I was more favoured than any other traveller. I felt that the stars were indeed fighting for me in their courses. At 11.30 a.m. I arrived at the Railway Station at Stamboul, and soon found myself in a queerly assorted company consisting of men of the German Red Cross Service, German officers, non-commissioned officers and soldiers.