There was nothing in the street except the makings of a bad smell.  There was plenty of that.  I searched the opposite wall, on which the moon shone, but there was nothing there of even architectural interest.  My eyes traveled higher, and rested at last on something extremely curious.

The wall was not very high at that point.  It formed the blind rear of a house that faced into a court of some sort approached by an alley from another street.  There were no windows.  A small door some distance to my left belonged obviously to the next house.  On top of the wall, almost exactly, but not quite, in the middle of it, was a figure that looked like a wooden carving—­ something like one of those fat, seated Chinamen they used to set over the tea counter of big grocer’s shops.

But the one thing that you never see, and can be sure of not seeing in Jerusalem outside of a Christian church, is a carved human figure of any kind.  The Moslems are fanatical on that point.  Whatever exterior statues the crusaders for instance left, the Saracens and Turks destroyed.  Besides, why was it not exactly in the middle?

It was much too big and thick-set to be a sleeping vulture.  It was the wrong shape to be any sort of chimney.  It was certainly not a bale of merchandise put up on the roof to dry.  And the longer you looked at it the less it seemed to resemble anything recognizable.  I had about reached the conclusion that it must be a bundle of sheepskins up-ended, ready to be spread out in the morning sun, and was going to cast about for something else to puzzle over, when it moved.  The man who thinks he would not feel afraid when a thing like that moves in the dark unexpectedly has got to prove it before I believe him.  The goose-flesh broke out all over me.

A moment later the thing tilted forward, and a man’s head emerged from under a blanket.  It chuckled damnably.  If there had been a rock of the right size within reach I would have thrown it, for it is not agreeable to be chuckled at when you are hungry, sleepy, and in a trap.  I know just how trapped animals feel.

But then it spoke in good plain English; and you could not mistake the voice.

“That’s what comes of suiting yourself, doesn’t it!  Place plugged at both ends, and nowhere to go but there and back!  Thanks for tipping off Narayan Singh—­you see, we were all ready.  Here’s a pass that’ll let you out—­catch!”

He threw down a piece of white paper, folded.

“Show that to the Sikhs at either end.  Now beat it, while the going’s good.  Leave Suliman there.  I shall want him when he has had his sleep out.  Say:  hadn’t you better change your mind about coming back too soon from that joy ride?  Haven’t you had enough of this?  The next move’s dangerous.”

“Is it my choice?” I asked.

“We owe you some consideration.”

“Then I’m in on the last act.”