The Sultan's Daughter by Dennis Wheatley

desperately concentrated on its twists and turns, for and against himself, that he had been only vaguely conscious of cold and hunger; but now, as the cart trundled out of the town, he began to shiver and could hear his stomach rumbling. Miserably, while the jolting of the cart again bruised his limbs against the hard floorboards, he longed for food, warmth and comfort, at the same time endeavouring to convince himself that the most dangerous stage in his ordeal was over.
    Three-quarters of an hour later he heard a command ring out to halt. The cart pulled up and a soldier poked his head in over the backboard. Withdrawing it, he shouted, ‘You may proceed,’ and the cart moved on through the gates of a big cantonment, which had been set up on the downs when the numbers of troops garrisoning the coast had become too large to be accommodated in the town barracks.
    Five minutes later the cart pulled up again in front of a long, low building facing a parade ground, but only Tardieu and Citizen Prosecutor Corbiel entered it. Another quarter of an hour elapsed before the Lieutenant came out and had his men escort Roger into the building, then along to an office at the back that had a view across distant sand-dunes to the sea.
    It then transpired that General Desmarets was absent from the camp and would not be free to attend to any business until he had returned and had his dinner. For the moment, Roger’s affair was being dealt with by the General’s adjutant, a pleasant-faced young Major, who was lolling behind a desk. When Roger was brought before him he looked at him with lazy interest and said:
    â€˜So you are the Englishman and spy?’
    â€˜I am neither,’ declared Roger firmly. ‘This whole business is a ghastly mistake. I am Colonel Breuc and an aide-de-camp to General Bonaparte.’
    The young Major sat back and roared with laughter.
    â€˜How dare you laugh!’ Roger cried indignantly. ‘This is a very serious matter.’ Yet, could he have seen himself, he would have realised that his statement, coupled with his appearance, gave ample grounds for mirth. His unshaven chin was covered with unsightly stubble, his undressed brown hair looked like a bird’s nest and his clothes, which had not been pressed since their immersion in the sea, hung as they had rough-dried, ugly folds and ridges about him. At that moment he could hardly have looked less like the Staff officer to a General-in-Chief that he claimed to be.
    Recovering himself, the Major made him a mocking little bow. ‘I’m sorry—yes, let us call you “Colonel”; although I gather you would find it mighty difficult to substantiate your claim to that rank.’
    â€˜By no means,’ Roger replied firmly. ‘And I am relying on you, Major, to enable me to do so. In this cantonment there must be many men who served with General Bonaparte in the Army of Italy. I most earnestly request that you will have them sought out and confront me with them. I count it certain that a number of them will readily vouch for my identity. I pray you, too, to give heed to the fact that my life hangs upon your doing as I have asked.’
    The young man’s face had suddenly become grave. ‘Your request would be pointless did you not expect to vindicate yourself through it. The great majority of the men who fought in General Bonaparte’s victorious campaign are still with the Army of Italy. Few of them have been transferred to us here in the north. But I will at once have enquiries set on foot for such as have come to us from Italy.’
    After pausing a moment, he went on, ‘However, it will take some time to collect them. By then General Desmarets should be available and, no doubt, he will wish to adjudicate in this matter in person. Meanwhile, although it seems possible that I may have the pleasure of welcoming you to our Mess later in the day, for the present I am sure you willappreciate that I have