“And that one?”

He didn’t like the look of me at all.  Western clothes and a shaven face spell nothing reassuring to the Arab when in trouble; he has been “helped” by the foreigner a time or two too often.

“An American named Ramsden.  Also a friend of mine.”

“Oh!  An Amirikani?  A hakim?”

“No.  Not a doctor.  Not a man to fear.  He is a friend of Feisul.”

“On whose word?”

“Mine,” Grim answered.

Sidi bin Tagim nodded.  He seemed willing to take Grim’s word for anything.

“Why did you say a Jew stabbed you?” Grim asked suddenly.

“So that they might hang a Jew or two.  Wallah!  Are the Jews not at the bottom of all trouble?  If a Greek should kill a Maltese it would be a Jew who planned it!  May the curse of Allah change their faces and the fire of Eblis consume them!”

“Did you see the man who stabbed you?”

“Yes.”

And was he a Jew?”

“Jimgrim, you know better than to ask that!  A Jew always hires another to do the killing.  He who struck me was a hireling, who shall die by my hand, as Allah is my witness.  But may Allah do more to me and bring me down into the dust unburied unless I make ten Jews pay for this!”

“Any one Jew in particular?” Grim asked, and the man in bed closed up like a clam that has been touched.

He was a strange-looking fellow—­rather like one of those lean Spaniards whom Goya used to paint, with a scant beard turning grey, and hollow cheeks.  He had thrown off the grey army blanket because fever burned him, and his lean, hard muscles stood out as if cast in bronze.

“But for the Jews, Feisul would be king of all this land this minute!” he said suddenly, and closed up tight again.

Grim smiled.  He nearly always does smile when apparently at a loose end.  At moments when most cross-examiners would browbeat he grows sympathetic—­humours his man, and, by following whatever detour offers, gets back on the trail again.

“How about the French?” he asked.

“May Allah smite them!  They are all in the pay of Jews!”

“Can you prove it?”

“Wallah!  That I can!”

Grim looked incredulous.  Those baffling eyes of his twinkled with quiet amusement, and the man in bed resented it.

“You laugh, Jimgrim, but if you would listen I might tell you something.”

But Grim only smiled more broadly than ever.

“Sidi bin Tagim, you’re one of those fanatics who think the world is all leagued against you.  Why should the Jews think you sufficiently important to be murdered?”

“Wallah!  There are few who hold the reins of happenings as I do.”

“If they’d killed you they’d have stopped the clock, eh?”

“That is as Allah may determine.  I am not dead.”

“Have you friends in Jerusalem?”

“Surely.”