“The secret agents point out that although Feisul is against anything of the sort, he must be committed to it for his own sake.  And they make great capital out of Feisul’s promise that he will protect the Jews if recognized as king of independent Syria.  Kill all the Jews beforehand, so there won’t be any for him to protect when the time comes—­that’s the argument.”

Mabel interrupted.

“Haven’t you warned Feisul?”

She had both elbows on the table and her chin between her hands, and I dare say she had listened in just that attitude to fifty inside stories that the newspapers would scatter gold in vain to get.

“I sure did.  And he has sent one of his staff down here to keep an eye on things.  I saw him this afternoon riding in a cab toward the Jaffa Gate.  I said as much to that fellow in the hospital, and he was scared stiff at the idea of my recovering the supposed Feisul letter and showing it to an officer who is really in Feisul’s confidence.  That—­I mean the man’s fear—­linked everything up.”

“You talk like Sherlock Holmes,” laughed Jeremy.  “I’ll bet you a new hat nothing comes of it.”

“That bet’s on,” Grim answered.  “It’s to be a female hat, and Mabel gets it.  Order an expensive one from Paris, Mabel; Jeremy shall pay.  We’ve lots of other information.  The troops here have been warned of an intended massacre of Jews.  The arrival of this letter probably puts a date to it.

“But it puts a date to something else on which the whole future of the Near East hangs; and that means the future of half the world, and maybe the whole of it, because about three hundred million Mohammedans are watching Feisul and will govern themselves accordingly.  India, Persia, Mesopotamia, Egypt, all Northern Africa—­there’s almost no limit to what depends on Feisul’s safety; and the French can’t or won’t understand that.”

There came the sound of heavy ammunition boots outside on the stone step, followed by a cough that I believe I could recognize among a thousand.  Narayan Singh coughs either of two ways—­once, deep bass, for all’s well; twice, almost falsetto, for a hint of danger.  This time it was the single deep bass cough.  But it was followed after half a minute by the two high-pitched barks, and Grim held up a hand for silence.  At the end of perhaps a minute there came from the veranda a perfect imitation of the lascar’s ungrammatical, whining singsong from a fo’castle-head: 

“Hum dekta hai!—­I’m on the watch.”

Grim nodded—­to himself, I suppose, for none had spoken to him.

“Do you mind stepping out and getting that letter from him, Ramsden?  Keep in the shadow, please, and give him this pistol; he may need it.”

So I slipped out through the screen door and spent a minute looking for Narayan Singh.  I’m an old hunter, but it wasn’t until Narayan Singh deliberately moved a hand to call attention to himself that I discovered him within ten feet of me.