That was a nice state of affairs.  I did not want to be caught there by a lot of truculent Sikhs under one of those jocularly incredulous young British subalterns that Sikhs adore.  In the first place, I had nothing whatever in writing to prove my innocence.  The least that was likely to happen would be an ignominious return to Jerusalem, after a night in a guard-house, should there be a guard-house; failing that, a night in the open within easy reach of Sikh’s bayonets.  In Jerusalem, no doubt, Sir Louis would order me released immediately.  But it began to look as if the whole mystery after all was nothing but a well-staged decoy, using me for bait.  Not even tadpoles enjoy being used for live-bait without being consulted first.  I began to spear about for remedies.

“If you’re an honest man,” I said, “you’d better simply deny all connection with the raid.”

“Hah?”

He shrugged his shoulders.  He did not look like an honest man.  He wasn’t one.  He knew it.  He retorted gloomily: 

“Anazeh’s scoundrels will have raided sheep, and perhaps cattle.  If any one has resisted them, there will be wailing widows crying out for vengeance.  They will put the sheep and cattle in their boats in which they came over the sea this afternoon.  The boats will be found by the Sikhs, hauled up on the sand-pit just below my house, with my motor-boat beside them.  I am ruined!”

Well, my own predicament was better than that.  Nobody was likely to accuse me of having stolen sheep.  But I could not feel sorry for my host, because he was so sorry for himself.  He was one of those unfortunates who carry the conviction of their own guilt in their faces.  I gave up all idea of relying on him in case the Sikhs should come.

My next idea was to ask for the loan of one of the donkeys, and to start back toward Jerusalem.  But I had not more than thought of it when men’s footsteps pattered on the yard dung, and an indubitable rifle-butt beat on the wooden door.

“For God’s sake!” hissed the owner of the place.  He ran to the door to open it as the thumping grew louder.  As he drew the bolt somebody kicked the door open, sending him reeling backwards.  For a second I thought the Sikhs had come.

But he was nothing like a Sikh who strode in, with a dozen ruffians at his tail and one-eyed Ali bringing up the rear.  He was one of the finest-looking Arabs I had ever seen, although considerably past fifty and wrinkled so that his face was a net-work of fine lines, out of which his big, dark eyes shone with unaged intelligence.  He was magnificently dressed, perhaps in order to do me honour.  Except for the fact that he carried a modern military rifle on his elbow, in place of a shepherd’s crook or a spear, he looked like one of those historic worthies who stalk through the pages of the Pentateuch.  The dignity and charm with which he bowed to me were inimitable—­unconveyable.  But he turned on my Christian host like a prophet of old rebuking blasphemy.