It was a half-hour’s walk to Grim’s place, but I had the good fortune to catch him in again.  He was sitting in the same chair, studying the same book, and this time I saw the title of it—­ Walter Pater’s Marius the Epicurean—­a strange book for a soldier to be reading, and cutting its pages with an inlaid dagger, in a Jerusalem semi-military boarding-house.  But he was a man of unexpectedly assorted moods.

He laughed when I told of ben Nasir.  He looked serious when I mooted El-Kerak—­serious, then interested, them speculative.  From where I sat I could watch the changes in his eyes.

“What would the escort amount to?” I asked him.

“Absolute security.”

“And what’s this bunk about Americans being welcome anywhere?”

“Perfectly true.  All the way from Aleppo down to Beersheba.  Men like Dr. Bliss* have made such an impression that an occasional rotter might easily take advantage of it.  Americans in this country—­so far—­stand for altruism without ulterior motive.  If we’d accepted the mandate they might have found us out!  Meanwhile, an American is safe.” [President of the American College at Beirut.  Died 1920, probably more respected throughout the Near East than any ten men of any other nationality.]

“Then I think I’ll go to El-Kerak.”

Again his eyes grew speculative.  I could not tell whether he was considering me or some problem of his own.

“Speaking unofficially,” he said, “there are two possibilities.  You might go without permission—­easy enough, provided you don’t talk beforehand.  In that case, you’d get there and back; after which, the Administration would label and index you.  The remainder of your stay in Palestine would be about as exciting as pushing a perambulator in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.  You’d be canned.”

“I’d rather be killed.  What’s the alternative?”

“Get permission.  I shall be at El-Kerak myself within the next few days.  I think it can be arranged.”

“D’you mean I can go with you?” I asked, as eager as a schoolboy for the circus.

“Not on your life!  I don’t go as an American.”

Recalling the first time I had seen him, I sat still and tried to look like a person who was not thrilled in the least by seeing secrets from the inside.

“Well,” I said, “I’m in your hands.”

I think he rather liked that.  As I came to know him more intimately later on he revealed an iron delight in being trusted.  But he did not say another word for several minutes, as if there were maps in his mind that he was conning before reaching a decision.  Then he spoke suddenly.

“Are you busy?” he asked.  “Then come with me.”