“That is secret,” he began, as soon as Mabel had dumped the contents of the billy into a huge brown teapot.  “I expect Narayan Singh here presently.  He’ll have a letter with him, taken from the Syrian who stabbed that man in the hospital.”

“Whoa, hoss!” Jeremy interrupted.  “You mean you’ve sent that Sikh to get the shirt of Yussuf Dakmar?”

Grim nodded.

“That was my job,” Jeremy objected.

“Whoa, hoss, yourself, Jeremy!” Grim answered.  “You’d have gone down into the bazaar like a bull into a china-shop.  Narayan Singh knows where to find him.  If he shows fight, he’ll be simply handed over to the Sikh patrol for attacking a man in uniform, and by the time he reaches the lock-up that letter will be here on the table between us.”

“All the same, that’s a lark you’ve done me out of,” Jeremy insisted.  “That Yussuf Dakmar’s a stinker.  I know all about him.  Two whole squadrons had to eat lousy biscuit for a week because that swab sold the same meat five times over.  But I’ll get him yet!”

“Well, as I was saying,” Grim resumed, “there’s a letter in Jerusalem that’s supposed to be from Feisul.  But when Feisul writes anything he signs his name to it, whereas a number is the signature on this.  Now that fellow Sidi bin Tagim in the hospital is an honest old kite in his way.  He’s a great rooter for Feisul.  And the only easy way to ditch a man like Feisul, who’s as honest as the day is long, and no man’s fool, is to convince his fanatical admirers that for his own sake he ought to be forced along a certain course.  The game’s as old as Adam.  You fill up a man like Sidi bin Tagim with tales about Jews—­convince him that Jews stand between Feisul and a kingdom—­and he’ll lend a hand in any scheme ostensibly directed against Jews.  Get me?”

“So would I!” swore Jeremy.  “I’m against ’em too!  I camped alongside the Jordan Highlanders one time when—­”

But we had had that story twice that evening with variations.  He was balancing his chair on two legs, so I pushed him over backward, and before he could pick himself up again Grim resumed.

“Feisul is in Damascus, and the Syrian Convention has proclaimed him king.  That don’t suit the French, who detest him.  The feeling’s mutual.  When Feisul went to Paris for the Peace Conference, the French imagined he was easy.  They thought, here’s another of these Eastern princes who can be taken in the old trap.  So they staged a special performance at the Opera for him, and invited him to supper afterward behind the scenes with the usual sort of ladies in full war-paint in attendance.”

“Shall we cut that too?” suggested Mabel.

“Sure.  Feisul did!  He’s not that kind of moth.  Ever since then the French have declared he’s a hypocrite; and because he won’t yield his rights they’ve been busy inventing wrongs of their own and insisting on immediate adjustment.  The French haven’t left one stone unturned that could irritate Feisul into making a false move.”