When Grim came at last he knocked quietly, and waited in silence while Yussuf applied his eye to the nail-hole.  When he entered, the only surprising thing about him seemed to me the thinness of his disguise.  In the morning, when I had seen him change in ten minutes from West to East, it had seemed perfect; but, having looked for him so long with the Syrian disguise in mind, it seemed impossible now that any one could be deceived by it.  He was at no pains to keep the kaffiyi thing close to his face, and I held my breath, expecting to see Noureddin Ali denounce him instantly.

But nothing of that sort happened.  Grim sat down, thrust his legs out in front of him, leaned back and called for coffee.  It was obvious at once that the alligator person had been lying when he boasted of knowing Staff-Captain Ali Mirza, for he made no effort to claim acquaintance or to denounce him as an impostor.  But he nodded to Suliman, and Suliman came over and nudged me.

I let the boy go through a lot of pantomimic argument before admitting that I understood, but finally I crossed the room to Grim and offered him the envelope.  He looked surprised, examined the outside curiously, spoke to me, shrugged his shoulders when I did not answer, tossed a question or two to Suliman, shrugged again and tore the letter open.  Then his face changed, and he glanced to right and left of him as if afraid of being seen.  He stuffed the letter into his tunic pocket and I went back to the corner by the front door.

Yussuf was pottering about, still rearranging all the pots and furniture that I had scattered, but his big ears projected sidewise and suggested that he might have another motive.  However, it was a simple matter to evade his curiosity by talking French, and Noureddin All could contain himself no longer.

“Pardon me, sir?  Staff-Captain Ali Mirza?”

Grim nodded suspiciously.

“I have heard of you.  We have all heard of you.  We are proud to see you in Jerusalem.  We wish all success to your efforts on behalf of Mustapha Kemal, the great Turkish Nationalist leader.  Our prayer is that he may light such a fire in Anatolia as shall spread in one vast conflagration throughout the East!”

“Who are you?” asked Grim suspiciously. (Evidently the real Ali Mirza had a reputation for gruff manners.)

“Noureddin Ali Bey.  It may be you have heard of me.  I am not without friends in Damascus.”

“Oh, are you Noureddin Ali?” Grim’s attitude thawed appreciably.  “We have been looking for more action and less talk from you.  I made an excuse to visit Jerusalem and discover how much fire there is under this smoke of boasting.”

“Fire!  Ha-ha!  That is the right word!  There is a camouflage of talk, but under it—­Aha!  You shall see!”

“Or is that more talk?”

“We are not all talkers.  Wait and see!”

“Oh, more waiting?  Has Mustapha Kemal Pasha waited in Anatolia?  Has he not set you all an example of deeds without words?  Am I to wait here indefinitely in Jerusalem to take him news of deeds that will never happen?”