There was a magnolia shrub about ten paces away from us, casting a shadow so deep that the ground it covered looked like a bottomless abyss.  But nevertheless, something bright moved in it—­perhaps the sheen of that lone light in an upper window reflected on a knife-hilt or a button—­something that moved in time to a man’s breathing.

If there was a certainty in the world it was that somebody who had no right to be there was lurking in that shadow, and he was presumably up to mischief.  On the other hand, I had absolutely no right in that place either.  Jeremy and Narayan Singh, being both in the British Army, were liable to be disciplined, and I might be requested to leave the country, if we should happen to blunder and tree the wrong ’possum, revenge being more than usually sweet to the official disturbed in the pursuit of unauthorized “diplomacy.”  It might even be some clandestine love affair.

So I took each of my companions by the arm, gripping Jeremy’s particularly tightly, and started forward, whispering an explanation after we had turned the corner of the building.  “Let one of us go and warn the guard,” I suggested.  “If we should draw that cover and start a shindy, we’re more likely to get shot by the guard than thanked.”

So Narayan Singh started off for the guard-house, he being the one most capable of explaining matters to the Sikh officer, and Jeremy and I crept back through the shadows to within earshot of the dark magnolia tree, choosing a point from which we could see if anybody bolted.

You know how some uncatalogued sense informs you in the dark of the movement of the man beside you?  I looked suddenly sideways toward Jeremy, knowing, although I couldn’t see him, that his eyes were seeking mine.  It is only the animals who omit in the darkness those instinctive daylight movements; men don’t have sufficient control of themselves.  We had both heard Grim’s voice at the same instant, speaking Arabic but unmistakable.

There were three men there.  Grim was talking to the other two.

“Keep your hands on each other’s shoulders!  Don’t move!  I’m going to search all your pockets again.  Now, Mr. Charkian.  Ah!  That feels like quite a pretty little weapon; mother o’ pearl on the butt?  Have you a permit?  Never mind; not having the weapon you won’t need a permit, will you?  And papers—­Mashallah!  What a lot of documents; they must be highly important ones since you hide them under your shirt.  I expect you planned to sell them, eh?  Too bad!  Too bad!

“You keep your hands on Mr. Charkian’s shoulders, Yussuf Dakmar, or I’ll have to use violence!  I’m not sure, Mr. Charkian, that it wouldn’t be kinder to society to send you to jail after all; you need a bath so badly.  It seems a pity that a chief clerk to the Administration shouldn’t have a chance to wash himself, doesn’t it?  Well, I’ll have to read these papers afterward—­after we’ve usurped the prerogative of Destiny and mapped out a little of the future.  Now—­are you both listening?  Do you know who I am?”