“Strange that they haven’t been to see you.”

“Wallah!  Not strange at all.”

“I see.  They regard you as a man without authority, who might make trouble and leave other men to face it, eh?”

“Who says I have no authority?”

“Well, if you could prove you have—­”

“What then?” the man in bed demanded, trying to sit up.  “Feisul, for instance, is a friend of mine, and these men with me are his friends too.  You have no letter, of course, for that would be dangerous...”

“Jimgrim, in the name of the Most High, I swear I had a letter!  He who stabbed me took it.  I—­”

“Was the letter from Feisul?”

“Malaish—­no matter.  It was sealed, and bore a number for the signature.  If you can get that letter for me, Jimgrim—­but what is the use!  You are a servant of the British.”

“Tell me who stabbed you and I’ll get you the letter.”

“No, for you are clever.  You would learn too much.  Better tell the doctor of this place to hurry up and heal me; then I will attend to my own affairs.”

“I’d like to keep you out of jail, if that’s possible,” Grim answered.  “You and I are old acquaintances, Sidi bin Tagim.  But of course, if you’re here to sow sedition, and should there be a document at large in proof of it, which document should fall into the hands of the police—­ well, I couldn’t do much for you then.  You’d better tell me who stabbed you, and I’ll get after him.”

“Ah!  But if you get the letter?”

“I shall read it, of course.”

“But to whom will you show it?”

“Perhaps to my friends here.”

“Are they bound by your honour?”

“I shall hold them so.”

There was the glint in Grim’s eye now that should warn anyone who knew him that the scent was hot; added to the fact that the rest of his expression suggested waning interest, that look of his forebode fine hunting.

“There’s one other I might consult,” he admitted casually.  “On my way here I saw one of Feisul’s staff captains driving in a cab toward the Jaffa Gate.”

The instant effect of that remark was to throw the wounded man into a paroxysm of mingled rage and fear.  He almost threw a fit.  His already bloodless face grew ashy grey and livid blue alternately, and he would have screamed at Grim if the cough that began to rack his whole body would have let him.  As it was, he gasped out unintelligible words and sought to make Grim understand by signs.  And Grim apparently did understand.

“Very well,” he laughed, “tell me who stabbed you and I won’t mention your name to Staff-Captain Abd el Kadir.”

“And these men?  Will they say nothing?”

“Not a word.  Who stabbed you?”

“Yussuf Dakmar!  May Allah cut him off from love and mercy!”