Suddenly Jeremy’s mood changed.  He became suspicious, stood up, resumed his seat—­and glared at Yussuf Dakmar, who retired into his corner and tried to seem unconscious of the game.

“I believe you are a thief—­one of those light-fingered devils from El-Kalil!” said Jeremy suddenly, after about three minutes’ silence.  “I believe you have stolen my letter!  Like the saint’s ass, you are a clever devil, aren’t you?  Nevertheless, you are like a man without fingernails, whose scratching does him no good!  Your labour was in vain.  Give me back the letter, or by Allah I will turn you upside down!”

Yussuf Dakmar denied the accusation with all the fervour that a blackguard generally does use when, for once, he is consciously innocent.

“By the Beard of the Prophet and on my honor I swear to you that I haven’t touched your letter!  I don’t know where it is.”

“Show me the Prophet’s beard!” commanded Jeremy.  “Show me your honor!”

“You talk like a madman!  How can I show either?”

“Then how can you swear by them?  Father of easy words and evil deeds, give me the letter back!”

Yussuf Dakmar appealed to me as presumably responsible for Jeremy.

“You saw, effendi, didn’t you?  I tried to help him.  But he who plays with the cat must suffer her claws, so now he accuses me of stealing.  I call you to witness that I took nothing.”

“You must excuse him,” I answered.  “That is a highly important letter.  If it isn’t found the consequences may be disastrous.”

“By Allah, it shall be found!” exploded Jeremy, glaring harder than ever at Yussuf Dakmar.  “Look at his face!  Look at his evil eyes!  He came in here on purpose to spy on us and steal that letter!  It is time to use my razor on him!  I swear not by the Prophet’s beard or anybody’s honor, but by the razor in my sock that he has the letter and that I will have it back!” Well, that was a challenge there was no side-stepping.  Sure of being able to prove innocence, Yussuf Dakmar decided that a bold course was the best.  He proceeded to empty his own pocket, laying the contents on the seat before Jeremy’s eyes.  And Jeremy watched like a puzzled puppy with his brow wrinkled.  The process took time, because he was wearing one of those imitation Western suits, of prehistoric cut but up-to-date with every imaginable pocket that a tailor could invent.  Their contents included a dagger and a clasp-knife with a long blade sharpened on both edges, but no pistol.

“Now are you satisfied?” he demanded, after turning inside-out the two “secret” pockets in the lining of his vest.

“Less than ever!” Jeremy retorted.  “Until I see you naked I will not believe you!”

Yussuf Dakmar turned to me again.  He was a patient spy, if ever there was one.

“Do you think I should be put to that indignity?” he asked.  “Shall I undress myself?”