“What of it?”

“That was set down in Aramaic, nowadays called Hebrew, something like three thousand years ago,” said Grim.  “It’s Aramaic magic.  Let’s take a look at it.”

We trudged together down the dusty Bethlehem Road, turned to the east just short of the Pool of the Sultan (where they now had a delousing station for British soldiers) and went nearly to the end of the colony of neat stone villas that the Germans built before the War, and called Rephaim.  It was a prosperous colony until the Kaiser, putting two and two, made five of them and had to guess again.

The house we sought stood back from the narrow road, at a corner, surrounded by a low stone wall and a mass of rather dense shrubs that obscured the view from the windows.  The front door was a thing of solid olive-wood.  We had to hammer on it for several minutes.  There was no bell.

A woman opened it at last—­an Arab in native costume, gazelle-eyed, as they all are, and quite good looking, although hardly in her first youth.  Her face struck me as haunted.  She was either ashamed when her eyes met Grim’s or else afraid of him.  But she smiled pleasantly enough and without asking our business led the way at once to a room at the other end of a long hall that was crowded with all sorts of curios.  They were mostly stone bric-a-brac-fragments of Moabite pottery and that kind of thing, with a pretty liberal covering of ordinary house dust.  In fact, the house had the depressing “feel” of a rarely visited museum.

The room she showed us into was the library—­three walls lined with books, mostly with German titles—­a big cupboard in one corner, reaching from floor to ceiling—­a big desk by the window—­three armchairs and a stool.  There were no pictures, and the only thing that smacked of ornament was the Persian rug on the floor.

We waited five minutes before Scharnhoff came in, looking as if we had disturbed his nap.  He was an untidy stout man with green goggles and a grayish beard, probably not yet sixty years of age, and well preserved.  He kept his pants up with a belt, and his shirt bulged untidily over the top.  When he sat down you could see the ends of thick combinations stuffed into his socks.  He gave you the impression of not fitting into western clothes at all and of being out of sympathy with most of what they represent.

He was cordial enough—­after one swift glance around the room.

“Brought a new acquaintance for you,” said Grim, introducing me.  “I’ve told him how all the subalterns come to you for Palestinian lore—­”

“Ach!  The young Lotharios!  Each man a Don Juan!  All they come to me for is tales of Turkish harems, of which I know no more than any one.  They are not interested in subjects of real importance.  ’How many wives had Djemal Pasha?  How many of them were European?’ That is what they ask me.  When I discuss ancient history it is only about King Solomon’s harem that they care to know; or possibly about the modern dancing girls of El-Kerak, who are all spies.  But there is no need to inform you as to that.  Eh?  I haven’t seen you for a long time, Major Grim.  What have you been doing?”