“Ah, here is Francois.  Good Francois!  Francois, mon brave, here is a letter, eh?  You know where to take it—­eh?  Ha-ha!  Francois knows, doesn’t he!  Francois doesn’t talk; he tells nobody; he’s wise, is Francois!  He runs, eh?  He runs through the rain and the night; and he hides so that nobody can see him; and he delivers the letter; and somebody gives Francois money and tobacco and a little rum; and Francois comes running back to the nice little, dark little hole where he sleeps.  Plenty to eat, eh, Francois?  Nice soft food that needs no chewing!  Nothing to do but run with a letter now and then, eh?  A brave fellow is Francois—­a clever fellow—­a trustworthy fellow—­a dependable, willing fellow, always ready to please!  Ready to go?

“Well, there’s the letter; be careful with it, and run-run-run like a good boy!  A whole bottle of rum when you come back—­think of it!  A whole bottle of nice brown rum to yourself in that nice little room where your bed is!  There, goodbye!”

The creature addressed as Francois vanished, with a snort and a sort of squeal that may have been meant for speech.  “That is the best messenger in Syria,” said Rene.  “He is priceless—­incorruptible, silent, and as sure as Destiny!  The French General Staff will have that letter before dawn.  Now—­what next?”

“You come with me,” I answered.

He felt better now that the message was on its way; second thought convinced him of my connection with the French.  There is no more profitless delusion than to suppose that a country’s secret agents are always its own nationals.  They are almost always not.

If the French used only Frenchmen, Germany used none but Germans, Great Britain only Englishmen, and so on, it might be prettier and easier for the police, but intelligence departments would starve.  So there was nothing about an obvious American doing spy-work for the French that should stick in his craw; and that being so, the more cheerfully he aided me the better it would likely be for him.

So he called for the servant again, and proved himself a good campaigner by superintending the packing of a big basket with provisions—­bread and butter, cold chicken, wine, olives, and hot coffee in a thermos bottle.

“The French will be in Damascus by noon tomorrow,” he said.  “Ha-ha!  Those French and their hungry Algerians!  We do well to take a good provision with us—­enough for two days at least.  We shall enter with them, I suppose, or at least behind them, and of course my house here will receive consideration; but—­ha-ha!—­how many chickens do you believe will be purchasable in Damascus one hour after the first Algerians get here?  Eh?  Put in another chicken, Hassan, mon brave.  Eh bien, oui—­pack the basket full; put in more of everything!”

At last he got into an overcoat lined with fox-pelt, for the night air was chilly and an overcoat is less trouble than blankets if you expect to spend a night on the move.  We hove the huge basket into the waiting auto, slammed the front door of the house behind us, piled into the back seat and were off.