Then, instead of putting on his own Moslem over-cloak he threw that over her shoulders and, digging down into his bag for a spare head-dress, snatched her hat off and bound on the white kerchief in its place with the usual double, gold-covered cord of camel-hair.

Then came my friend the train conductor and addressed me as Colonel, offering to carry out the bags.  The moment he had grabbed his load and gone Grim broke silence: 

“Call her Colonel and me Grim.  Don’t forget how!”

We became aware of faces under helmets peering through the window-officers of Feisul’s army on the watch for unwelcome visitors.  From behind them came the conductor’s voice again, airing his English: 

“Any more bags inside there, Colonel?”

“Get out quick, Jeremy, and make a fuss about the Colonel coming!” ordered Grim.

Jeremy suddenly became the arch-efficient servitor, establishing importance for his chief, and never a newly made millionaire or modern demagog had such skillful advertisement.  The Shereefian officers stood back at a respectful distance, ready to salute when the personage should deign to alight.

“What shall be done with the memsahib’s hat?” demanded Narayan Singh.

You could only see the whites of his eyes, but he shook something in his right hand.

“Eat it!” Grim answered.

“Heavens!  That’s my best hat!” objected Mabel.  “Give it here.  I’ll carry it under the cloak.”

“Get rid of it!” Grim ordered; and Narayan Singh strode off to contribute yellow Leghorn straw and poppies to the engine furnace.

I gave him ten piastres to fee the engineer, and five for the fireman, so you might say that was high-priced fuel.

“What kind of bunk are you throwing this time?” I asked Grim.

He didn’t answer, but gave orders to Mabel in short, crisp syllables.

“You’re Colonel Lawrence.  Answer no questions.  If anyone salutes, just move your hand and bow your head a bit.  You’re just his height.  Look straight in front of you and take long strides.  Bend your head forward a little; there, that’s it.”

“I’m scared!” announced Mabel, by way of asking for more particulars.

She wasn’t scared in the least.

“Piffle!” Grim answered.  “Remember you’re Lawrence, that’s all.  They’d give you Damascus if you asked for it.  Follow Jeremy, and leave the rest to us.”

I don’t doubt that Grim had been turning over the whole plan in his mind for hours past, but when I taxed him with it afterward his reply was characteristic: 

“If we’d rehearsed it, Mabel and Hadad would both have been self-conscious.  The game is to study your man—­or woman, as the case may be—­and sometimes drill ’em, sometimes spring it on ’em, according to circumstances.  The only rule is to study people; there are no two quite alike.”

Hadad was surprised into silence, too thoughtful a man to do anything except hold his tongue until the next move should throw more light on the situation.  He followed us out of the car, saying nothing; and being recognized by the light of one dim lantern as an intimate friend of Feisul, he accomplished all that Grim could have asked of him.