Djavid then said that the Cabinet proposed to investigate the matter, and, in fact, they were discussing it at that moment. He told me how it had happened. A Turkish torpedo-boat had passed through the Dardanelles and attempted to enter the Ægean. The British warships stationed outside hailed the ship, examined it, and found that there were German sailors on board. The English admiral at once ordered the vessel to go back; this, under the circumstances, he had a right to do. Weber Pasha, the German general who was then in charge of the fortifications, did not consult the Turks, but he immediately gave orders to close the Straits. Wangenheim had already boasted to me, as I have said, that the Dardanelles could be closed in thirty minutes, and the Germans now made good his words. Down went the mines and the nets; the lights in the lighthouses were extinguished; signals were put up notifying all ships that there was “no thoroughfare,” and the deed, the most high-handed which the Germans had yet committed, was done. And here I found these Turkish statesmen, who alone had authority over this indispensable strip of water, trembling and stammering with fear, running hither and yon like a lot of frightened rabbits, appalled at the enormity of the German act, yet apparently powerless to take any decisive action. I certainly had a graphic picture of the extremities to which Teutonic bullying had reduced the present rulers of the Turkish Empire. And at the same moment before my mind rose the figure of the Sultan, whose signature was essential to close legally these waters, quietly dozing at his palace, entirely oblivious of the whole transaction.