CHAPTER XI

THE CONSTANTINOPLE COURIER An ear-splitting report sent them all reeling back. The air stank with the fumes of burnt cordite. Then Clubfoot’s voice went booming through the room. A great automatic was smoking in his hand. “The next shot will go through your head, Bewlay,” he roared at the prisoner who, on the report of the pistol, had momentarily ceased struggling. “Stand back there, Tarock,” he thundered. “I’ll have no brawling here. Sit down, all of you! Heinrich!” The young German appeared in the doorway. “Take …