An atrocious murder had been committed on the Stamboul side, near the
Bridge of Boats.
Certainly, murders were not unknown in this hive of complex life,
harbouring as it did the very scum and refuse of European rascality.
But the victims were mostly vile, nameless vagabonds, low Greeks,
Maltese suttlers, Italian sailors, or one or other of the hybrid
mongrel ruffians following in the track of our armies, any of whom
might be sent to their long account without being greatly missed.
It was otherwise now: the murdered man was a prominent personage, an
Englishman of high rank, a rich and powerful representative of a great
people. No wonder that Constantinople was agitated and disturbed.
On this occasion Lord Lydstone was the murdered man.
He had been found at daybreak by the Turkish patrol, lying in a
doorway just where he had fallen dead, stabbed to the heart.
The body was taken to the nearest guard, and inquiries were
instituted. A card-case found on the body led to identification, and a
report made to the British Embassy set in motion the law and justice
of the peace.
Nothing satisfactory or conclusive was brought to light. No one could
account for his lordship's presence in that, the lowest quarter of the
city; the only clue to his movements was furnished by his steward and
body-servant on board the yacht.
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