“Didn’t occur to me,” said Grim.  “But never mind, doc.  You need a rest.  Here’s tobacco, lots to read, and an armchair.  Lock yourself in and be happy.”

“Who’s this?” asked Templeton, looking down at me.

“Deaf and dumb poor devil, earning a few piastres by working for the Intelligence.”

“Spy, eh?  He looks fit for honest work if he had all his faculties.  Is he dumb as well as deaf, or because he’s deaf?”

“Dunno,” said Grim.  “He never speaks.”

“Perhaps I can do something for him.  Suppose you leave him here with me.  I can give him a thorough examination instead of wasting my time here.”

“He’s got a job of work to do right now,” said Grim.

“Does he know the sign language?  Have you any way of telling him to come and see me at the hospital?”

“I give him written instructions in Arabic.”

“That so?  I’ll look at his ears—­tell you in a minute whether it’s worth while to come to me.”

He took my head between strong, authoritative hands and tilted it sidewise.

“Hello!  What’s this?”

The Arab head-dress I was wearing shifted and showed non-Arab symptoms.

“Open that bag of mine, will you, Grim, and pass me that big pair of forceps you’ll find wrapped in oiled paper on top of everything.  There’s something I can attend to here at once.”

It was an uncomfortable moment.  Grim never cracked a smile.  He dug out the instrument of torture and gave it to Templeton.  But there were two points that occurred to me, in addition to the knowledge that nothing whatever was the matter with my ear.  Doctors in good standing, who are usually gentlemen, don’t operate without permission; and the forceps were much too big for any such purpose.  So I sat still.

“Um-m-m!  What he really needs is a red-hot needle run down close to the ear-drum.  It wouldn’t take five minutes, or hurt him—­ much.  After that I think he’d be able to hear perfectly.  Suppose we try.”

“I can wait ten minutes yet,” Grim answered.

“Very well.  I’ve a platinum needle in the bag.  I’ll get out the spirit-lamp and we’ll soon see.  To be candid with you, I don’t believe the man’s any more deaf than you or I.”

“If you run a hot needle through the lobe of his ear well find out whether he can really talk or not,” said Grim in his pleasantest voice.  “If he’s shamming I don’t mind.  What we need in this service is a man who can endure without betraying himself.”

“Well, we’ll soon see.”

I began to hate Grim pretty cordially.  I hated him more when Suliman came in, dressed for the street in a rather dirty cotton smock, with a turban in place of his fez.  He told the boy to hold the wooden handle of a paper-knife behind my ear to prevent the hot needle from going too far on its sizzling journey.  It didn’t seem to me the way to reciprocate volunteer secret service.  Suliman’s grin at the prospect of seeing a man tortured was enough to provoke murder.  I brushed the boy aside, fly-fashion, got up, crossed the room, and sat down again in the corner.