“That little beady-eyed, rat-faced fellow may be an American,” I said.  “In fact, of course he is, since you say so.  But as for being up to any good—­”

“You’re mistaken.  You’re looking at the wrong man.  Observe the other one.”

I was more than ever sure I was not mistaken.  Stately gesture, dignity, complexion, attitude—­to say nothing of his Bedouin array and the steadiness with which he kept his dark eyes fixed on the smaller man he was talking to, had laid the stamp of the desert on the taller man from head to heel.

“That tall man is an American officer in the British army.  Doesn’t look the part, eh?  They say he was the first American to be granted a commission without any pretense of his being a Canadian.  They accepted him as an American.  It was a case of that or nothing.  Lived here for years, and knew the country so well that they felt they had to have him on his own terms.”

You can believe anything in Jerusalem after you have been in the place a week or two, so, seeing who my informant was, I swallowed the fact.  But it was a marvel.  It seemed even greater when the man strolled out, pausing to salute my host with the solemn politeness that warfare with the desert breeds.  You could not imagine that at Ellis Island, or on Broadway—­even on the stage.  It was too untheatrical to be acting; too individual to be imitation; to unself-conscious to have been acquired.  I hazarded a guess.

“A red man, then.  Carlisle for education.  Swallowed again by the first desert he stayed in for more than a week.”

“Wrong.  His name is Grim.  Sounds like Scandinavian ancestry, on one side.  James Schuyler Grim—­Dutch, then, on the other; and some English.  Ten generations in the States at any rate.  He can tell you all about this country.  Why not call on him?”

It did not need much intelligence to agree to that suggestion; but the British military take their code with them to the uttermost ends of earth, behind which they wonder why so many folks with different codes, or none, dislike them.

“Write me an introduction,” I said.

“You won’t need one.  Just call on him.  He lives at a place they call the junior Staff Officers’ Mess—­up beyond the Russian Convent and below the Zionist Hospital.”

So I went that evening, finding the way with difficulty because they talk at least eighteen languages in Jerusalem and, with the exception of official residences, no names were posted anywhere.  That was not an official residence.  It was a sort of communal boarding-house improvised by a dozen or so officers in preference to the bug-laden inconvenience of tents—­in a German-owned (therefore enemy property) stone house at the end of an alley, in a garden full of blooming pomegranates.