“I didn’t write this.  I never saw it before, or heard of it,” he said simply.

“I know that,” said Grim.  “But we thought you’d better look at it.”

Feisul laid the letter across his knee and paused to light a cigarette.  I thought he was going to do what nine men out of ten in a tight place would certainly have done; but he blew out the match, and went on smoking.

“You mean your government has seen the thing, and sent you to confront me with it?”

It was Grim’s turn to laugh, and he was jubilant without a trace of bitterness.

“No.  The chief and I have risked our jobs by not reporting it.  This visit is strictly unofficial.”

Feisul handed the letter back to him, and it was Grim who struck a match and burned it, after tearing off the seal for a memento.

“You know what it means, of course?” Grim trod the ash into the carpet.  “If the French could have come by that letter in Jerusalem, they’d have Dreyfussed you—­put you on trial for your life on trumped-up evidence.  They’d send a sworn copy of it to the British to keep them from taking your part.”

“I am grateful to you for burning it,” Feisul answered.

He didn’t look helpless, hopeless, or bewildered, but dumb and clinging on; like a man who holds an insecure footing against a hurricane.

“It means that the men all about you are traitors—­” Grim went on.

“Not all of them,” Feisul interrupted.

“But many of them,” answered Grim.  “Your Arabs are loyal hot-heads; some of your Syrians are dogs whom anyone can hire.”

It was straight speaking.  From a major in foreign service, uninvited, to a king, it sounded near the knuckle.  Feisul took it quite pleasantly.

“I know one from the other, Jimgrim.”

Grim got up and took a chair opposite Feisul.  He was all worked up and sweating at self-mastery, hotter under the collar than I had ever seen him.

“It means,” he went on, with a hand on each knee and his strange eyes fixed steadily on Feisul’s, “that the French are ready to attack you.  It means they’re sure of capturing your person—­and bent on seeing your finish.  They’ll give you a drumhead court martial and make excuses afterward.”

“Inshallah,” Feisul answered, meaning “If Allah permits it.”

“That is exactly the right word!” Grim exploded; and Lord, he was hard put to it to keep excitement within bounds.

I could see his neck trembling, and there were little beads of sweat on his temple.  It was Grim at last without the mask on.  “Allah marks the destiny of all of us.  Do you suppose we’re here for nothing—­at this time?”

Feisul smiled.

“I am glad to see you,” he said simply.

“Are you planning to fight the French?” Grim asked him suddenly, in the sort of way that a man at close quarters lets rip an upper-cut.

“I must fight or yield.  They have sent an ultimatum, but delayed it so as not to permit me time to answer.  It has expired already.  They are probably advancing.”