“Inshallah,” said Feisul, nodding.

“But that if you let pride go by the board, and seem to run away, there’ll be a breathing spell?  Asia would wonder for a few months, and do nothing, until it began to dawn on them that you had acted wisely and had a better plan in view.”

“I am not proud, except of my nation,” Feisul answered.  “I would not let pride interfere with policy.  But it is too late to talk of this.”

“Which is better?” Grin demanded.  “A martyr, the very mention of whose name means war, or a living power for peace under a temporary cloud?”

“I am afraid I am a poor host.  Forgive me,” Feisul answered.  “Dinner has been waiting all this while, and you have a lady with you.  This is disgraceful.”

He rose and led the way into another room, closing the discussion.  We ate an ordinary meal in an ordinary dining room, Feisul presiding and talking trivialities with Mabel and Hadad.  There was an occasional boisterous interlude by Jeremy, but even he with his tales of unknown Arabia couldn’t lift the load of depression.  Grim and I sat silent through the meal.  I experienced the sensation that you get when an expedition proves a failure and you’ve got to go home again with nothing done—­all dreary emptiness; but Grim was hatching something, as you could tell by the far-away expression and the glowering light in his eyes.  He looked about ready for murder.

Narayan Singh’s face all through the meal was a picture—­delight and pride at dining with a king, amazement at his karma that had brought a sepoy of the line to hear such confidences first hand, chagrin over Grim’s apparent failure and desire to be inconspicuous controlled his expression in turn.  Once or twice he tried to make conversation with me, but I was in no mood for it, being a grouchy old bear on occasion without decent manners.

Feisul excused himself the minute the meal was over, saying he had a conference to attend, and we all went back into the sitting-room, where Grim took the chair he occupied before and marshalled us into a row on the seat in front of him.  He was back again in form—­electric—­and self-controlled.

“Have you folk got the hang of this?” he asked.  “Do you realize what it means if Feisul goes out and gets scuppered?”

We thought we did, even if we didn’t.  I don’t suppose anyone except the few who, like Grim, have made a life-study of the problem of Islam in all its bearings could quite have grasped it.  Mabel had a viewpoint that served Grim’s purpose as well as any at the moment.

“That man’s too good, and much too good-looking to be wasted!” she said emphatically.  “D’you suppose that if Colonel Lawrence were really here—­”

“Half a minute,” said Grim, “and I’ll come to that.  How about you, Hadad?  How far would you go to save Feisul from this Waterloo?”

“I would go a long way,” he answered cautiously.  “What do you intend?”