“Uh!”

I think he was feeling sore enough to take me ten miles for the satisfaction of making me tramp them back to Jerusalem.  But it turned out not to be his day for working off grievances.  We were bowling along pretty fast, and had just reached open country where it would be a simple matter to change into other clothes without risk of being seen doing it, when we began to be overhauled by another, larger car that came along at a terrific pace.  It was still too dark to make out who was in it until it drew almost abreast.

“The Administrator by the Horn Spoon!  What next, I wonder!  Pull up!” said Turner.  “Morning, sir.”

The two cars came to a standstill.  The Administrator leaned out.

“I think I can save you a walk,” he said, smiling.  “How about changing your clothes between the cars and driving back with me?”

I did not even know yet what new disguise I was to assume, but Turner opened a hand-bag and produced a suit of my own clothes and a soft hat.

“Burgled your bedroom,” he explained.

All he had forgotten was suspenders.  No doubt it would have given him immense joy to think of me walking back ten miles without them.

Sir Louis gave his orders while I changed clothes.

“You’d better keep going for some time, Turner.  No need to go all the way to Haifa, but don’t get back to Jerusalem before noon at the earliest, and be sure you don’t talk to anybody on your way.”

Turner drove on.  I got in beside the Administrator.

“Grim tells me that you don’t object to a certain amount of risk.  You’ve been very useful, and he thinks you would like to see the end of the business.  I wouldn’t think of agreeing to it, only we shall have to call on you as a witness against Scharnhoff and Noureddin Ali.  As you seem able to keep still about what you know, it seems wiser not to change witnesses at this stage.  It is highly important that we should have one unofficial observer, who is neither Jew nor Moslem, and who has no private interest to serve.  But I warn you, what is likely to happen this morning will be risky.”

I looked at the scar on his cheek, and the campaign ribbons, and the attitude of absolute poise that can only be attained by years of familiarity with danger.

“Why do you soldiers always act like nursemaids toward civilians?” I asked him.  “We’re bone of your bone.”

He laughed.

“Entrenched privilege!  If we let you know too much you’d think too little of us!”

We stopped at a Jew’s store outside the city for suspenders, and then made the circuit outside the walls in a whirlwind of dust, stopping only at each gate to get reports from the officers commanding companies drawn up in readiness to march in and police the city.