"Then a friend of the British, eh?" asked Geoff. "A friend? Yes, always. In the service of a British Pasha these many years. A friend, at heart, of England." Geoff stared at the man, and then, setting Sultan in motion, rode along, the man trotting his horse beside him. "A message, eh?" asked Geoff after a while, having pondered deeply. "For the British, you say?" "For the British, Excellency, for any whom it may concern. News of an English pasha who came but lately to this country." "Oh, whom? The name? For whom is the message intended?" "Excellency, I was to find the British force invading Mesopotamia. I was to hand my missive over to an officer of distinction, and I was to search amongst the officers who came from India for one, a youth, who might be with them." "His name?" asked Geoff, now beginning to tremble with excitement, for who could this white man be who had sent a message? Who could the pasha be to whom this Armenian referred? Could it be Joe Douglas, his guardian, that excellent fellow who had befriended him these many years, and who had so recently gone on an expedition to Asiatic Turkey, and who, after his custom--a custom that Geoff knew so well--had disappeared entirely? There was no news from Joe Douglas these many weeks past, not a line, not a chirrup from him. But could this be his messenger? If so, Geoff should know him. Swinging round in his saddle he gripped the man's arm and stared into his face. A moment later he uttered a shout--a shout of happiness. "You are Esbul, eh?" he asked. "And you, Excellency, you are Keith Pasha." "The message; give it to me," demanded Geoff fiercely, worked up by the occasion. "Yes, I am Keith Pasha, and your message comes from Douglas Pasha, my dear guardian." It was with a shout of joy that he recognized the handwriting of that gallant soldier who had been as a father to him, and tearing the missive open he read it with an eagerness which was plainly apparent to the man who had brought it. "If this reaches the hand of my ward, Geoff Keith, or of any British officer, let him give information of my position to the Commanding Officer of any expedition which may come from India to Mesopotamia. I have little time or space or means whereby to write a long message, and therefore must compress my information. I am a prisoner lying in a cell within a Turkish fort to the north and west of Bagdad, but where precisely I cannot say, nor do I know the name of this fortress. I was captured by a German named von Hildemaller. His agents trapped me at a place I sought outside Bagdad, and seized me. But for a friendly Turk they would have murdered me on the spot, and, as it is, they handed me over a prisoner. I make no complaint, but if the expedition advances towards Bagdad, let it make an effort to relieve me." Geoff gasped, and re-read the message--devoured it in fact--for it was good to hear that Joe Douglas was alive, even though he were a prisoner.