“You are here on business?  What business?”

“Private business,” said I, with an eye on Jeremy just coming down the stairs.  “You talk Arabic?”

He nodded, eyeing me keenly.

“That man is my servant and knows my affairs.  I’m too tired to talk after the journey.  Suppose you ask him.”

So Jeremy came and sat beside us, and threw the cow’s husband around as blithely as he juggles billiard balls.  I wasn’t supposed to understand what he was saying.

“The big effendi is a prizefighter, who has heard there is money to be made at Feisul’s court.  At least, that is what he says.  Between you and me, I think he is a spy for the French Government, because when he engaged me in Jerusalem he gave me a fist-full of paper francs with which to send a telegram to Paris.  What was in the telegram?  I don’t know; it was a mass of figures, and I mixed them up on purpose, being an honest fellow averse to spy’s work.  Oh, I’ve kept an eye on him, believe me!  Ever since he killed a Syrian in the train I’ve had my doubts of him.  Mashallah, what a murderous disposition the fellow has!  Kill a man as soon as look at him—­indeed he would.  Are you a prince in these parts?”

“A banker.”

“Bismillah!  What a mercy that I met you!  I overheard him say that he will visit the bank tomorrow morning to cash a draft for fifty thousand francs.  I’d examine the draft carefully if I were you.  It wouldn’t surprise me to learn it was stolen or forged.  Is there any other bank that he could go to?”

“No, only mine; the others have suspended business on account of the crisis.”

“Then, in the name of Allah don’t forget me!  You ought to give me a thousand francs for the information.  I am a poor man, but honest.  At what time shall I come for the money in the morning?  Perhaps you could give me a little on account at once, for my wages are due tonight and I’m not at all certain of getting them.”

“Well, see me in the morning,” said the banker.

He got up and left us at once, hardly troubling to excuse himself; and Grim heard him tell the hotel proprietor that our whole party would be locked up in jail before midnight.  That rumour went the rounds like wild-fire, so that we were given a wide berth and had a table all to ourselves in the darkest corner of the big dim dining-room.

There were more than a hundred people eating dinner, and Narayan Singh, Hadad and I were the only ones in western clothes.  Every seat at the other tables was occupied by some Syrian dignitary in flowing robes—­ rows and rows of stately looking notables, scant of speech and noisy at their food.  Many of them seemed hardly to know the use of knife and fork, but they could all look as dignified as owls, even when crowding in spaghetti with their fingers.

We provided them with a sensation before the second course was finished.  A fine-looking Syrian officer in khaki, with the usual cloth flap behind his helmet that forms a compromise between western smartness and eastern comfort, strode into the room and bore down on us.  He invited us out into the corridor with an air that suggested we would better not refuse, and we filed out after him in an atmosphere of frigid disapproval.