CHAPTER XII

"Start something before they're ready for it!"

Just before the train started, a handsome fellow with short black beard

trimmed into a point and wearing a well-cut European blue serge suit,

but none the less obviously an Arab, came to the door of our compartment

and stared steadily at Grim. He stood like a fighting man, as if every

muscle of his body was under command, and the suggestion was

strengthened by what might be a bullet scar over one eye.

If that fellow had asked me for a loan on the spot, or for help against

his enemies, he would have received both or either. Moreover, if he had

never paid me back I would still believe in him, and would bet on him

again.

However, after one swift glance at him, Grim took no notice until the

train was under way--not even then in fact, until the man in blue serge

spoke first.

"Oh, Jimgrim!" he said suddenly in a voice like a tenor bell.

"Come in, Hadad," Grim answered, hardly glancing at him. "Make yourself

at home."

He tossed a valise into the rack, and I gave up the corner seat so that

he might sit facing Grim, he acknowledging the courtesy with a smile

like the whicker of a sword-blade, wasting no time on foolish protest.

He knew what he wanted--knew enough to take it when invited--understood

me, and expected me to understand him--a first-class fellow. He sat

leaning a little forward, his back not touching the cushion, with the

palms of both hands resting on his knees and strong fingers motionless.

He eyed Mabel Ticknor, not exactly nervously but with caution.

"Any news?" asked Grim.

"Jimgrim, the world is full of it!" he answered in English with a laugh.

"But who are these?"

"My friends."

"Your intimate friends?" Grim nodded.

"The lady as well?" Grim nodded again.

"That is very strong recommendation, Jimgrim!"

Grim introduced us, giving Jeremy's name as Jmil Ras.

"Hah! I have heard of you," said Hadad, staring at him. "The

Australian who wandered all over Arabia? I am probably the only Arab

who knew what you really were. Do you recall that time at Wady Hafiz

when a local priest denounced you and a Sheik in a yellow kuffiyi told

the crowd that he knew you for a prophet? I am the same Sheik. I liked

your pluck. I often wondered what became of you."

"Put it here!" said Jeremy, and they shook hands.

For twenty minutes after that Hadad and Jeremy swapped reminiscences in

quick staccato time. It was like two Gatling guns playing a duet, and

the score was about equally intelligible to anyone unfamiliar with

Arabia's hinterland--which is to say to all except about one person in

ten million. It was most of it Greek to me, but Grim listened like an

operator to the ticking of the Morse code. It was Hadad who cut it

short; Jeremy would have talked all the way to Damascus.

"And so, Jimgrim, do the kites foregather? Or are we a forlorn hope?

Do we go to bury Feisul or to crown him king?"

"How much do you know?" Grim answered.

"Hah! More than you, my friend! I come from Europe--London--Paris--

Rome. I stopped off in Deraa to listen a while, where the tide of

rumour flows back and forth across the border. The English are in

favour of Feisul, and would help him if they could. The French are

against him and would rather have him a dead saint than a living

nuisance. The most disturbing rumour I have heard was here in Deraa, to

the effect that Feisul sent a letter to Jerusalem calling on all Moslems

to rise and massacre the Jews. That does not sound like Feisul, but the

French agent in Deraa assured me that he will have the original letter

in his hands within a day or two."

Grim smiled over at Mabel.

"You might show him the letter?" he suggested.

So Mabel dug down into the mysteries beneath her shirtwaist and produced

the document wrapped in a medical bandage of oiled silk. Hadad unwrapped

it, read it carefully, and handed it to Grim.

"Are you deceived by that?" he asked. "Does Feisul speak like that, or

write like that? Since when has he turned coward that he should sign

his name with a number?"

"What do you make of it?" asked Grim.

"Hah! It is as plain as the ink on the paper. It is intended for use

against Feisul, first by making the British suspicious of him, second by

providing the French with an excuse to attack him, third by convicting

him of treachery, for which he can be jailed or executed after he is

caught. What do you propose to do with it, Jimgrim?"

"I'm going to show it to Feisul."

"Good! I, too, am on my way to see Feisul. Perhaps the two of us

together can convince him what is best."

"If we two first agree," Grim answered with a dry smile.

"Do you agree that two and two make four? This is just as simple,

Jimgrim. Feisul cannot contend with the French. The financiers have

spread their net for Syria, Feisul has no artillery worth speaking of--

no gas--no masks against gas, and the French have plenty of everything

except money. Syria has been undermined by propaganda and corruption.

Let Feisul go to British territory and thence to Europe, where his

friends may have a chance to work for him. The British will give him

Mesopotamia, and after that it will be up to us Arabs to prove we are a

nation. That is my argument. Are we agreed?"

"If that's your plan, Hadad, I'm with you!" Grim answered.

"Then I also am with you! Let us shake hands."

"Shwai shwai!" (Go slow!) said Grim. "Better join up with me in

Damascus. There are six men in the car ahead who'll try to murder us

all presently. They've got a letter that they think is that one. The

minute they find out we've fooled them there'll be ructions."

"I am good at ructions!" Hadad answered.

"My friend Narayan Singh is forward watching them," said Grim. "What

they'll probably try when they make the discovery will be to have the

lot of us arrested at some wayside station. I propose to forestall

them."

"I am good at forestalling!" said Hadad.

"Then don't you forestall me!" laughed Jeremy. "The fellow with a face

like a pig's stern is Yussuf Dakmar, and he's my special preserve."

"I am a good Moslem. I refuse to lay hand on pig," said Hadad, smiling.

We discussed Feisul and the Arab cause.

"Oh, if we had Lawrence with us!" exclaimed Hadad excitedly at last. "A

little, little man--hardly any larger than Mrs. Ticknor--but a David

against Goliath! And would you believe it?--there is an idiotic rumour

that Lawrence has returned and is hiding in Damascus! The French are

really disturbed about it. They have cabled their Foreign Office and

received an official denial of the rumour; but official denials carry

no weight nowadays. Out of ten Frenchmen in Syria, five believe that

Lawrence is with Feisul and if they can catch him he will get short

shrift. But, oh, Jimgrim--oh, if it were true! Wallahi!"

Grim didn't answer, but I saw him look long at Jeremy, and then for

about thirty seconds steadily at Mabel Ticknor. After that he stared

out of the window for a long time, not even moving his head when a crowd

of Bedouins galloped to within fifty yards of the train and volleyed at

it from horseback "merely out of devilment," as Hadad hastened to assure

us.

We were winding up the Lebanon Valley by that time. Carpets of flowers;

green grass; waterfalls; a thatched hut to the twenty square miles,

with a scattering of mean black tents between; every stone building in

ruins; goats where fat kine ought to be; and a more or less modern

railway screeching across the landscape, short of fuel and oil. That's

Lebanon.

We grew depressed. Then silent. Our meditations were interrupted by

the sudden arrival of Narayan Singh in the door of the compartment,

grinning full of news.

"They have opened the letter, sahib! They accuse Yussuf Dakmar of

deceiving them. They threaten him with death. Shall I interfere?"

"Any sign of the train crew?" Grim asked.

"Nay, they are gambling in the brake-van."

Grim looked sharply at Hadad.

"What authority have you got?"

"None. I am a personal friend of Feisul, that is all."

"Well, we'll pretend you've power to arrest them. Ramsden, you've

suddenly missed your letter. You've accused Jeremy of stealing it. He

has confessed to selling it to Yussuf Dakmar. Go forward in a rage and

demand the letter back. Start something before they're ready for it!

We'll be just behind you."

"Leave Yussuf Dakmar to me!" insisted Jeremy. "I pay the debt of an

Anzac division!"

I hope I've never hurt a man who didn't deserve it, or who wasn't fit to

fight; but I have to admit that Grim didn't need to repeat the

invitation. I started forward in a hurry, and Jeremy elbowed Narayan

Singh aside in order to follow next, Australians being notoriously

unlady-like performers when anybody's hat is in the ring.

By the time I reached the car ahead the train had entered a wild gorge

circle by one of those astonishing hairpin curves with which engineers

defeat Nature. The panting engine slowed almost to a snail's pace,

having only a scant fuel ration with which to negotiate curve and grade

combined. To our right there was a nearly sheer drop of four hundred

feet, with a stream at the bottom boiling among limestone boulders.

But there was no time to study scenery. From the middle compartment of

the car there came yells for help and the peculiar noise of thump and

scuffle that can't be mistaken. Men fight in various ways, Lord knows,

and the worst are the said-to-be civilized; but from Nome to Cape Town

and all the way from China to Peru the veriest tenderfoot can tell in

the dark the difference between fight and horseplay.

I reached the door of the compartment in time to see three of them (two

bleeding from knife-wounds in the face) force Yussuf Dakmar backward

toward the window, the whole lot stabbing frantically as they milled and

swayed. The fifth man was holding on to the scrimmage with his left

hand and reaching round with his right, trying to stick a knife into

Yussuf Dakmar's ribs without endangering his own hide.

But the sixth man was the rascal I had kicked. He had no room--perhaps

no inclination--to get into the scrimmage; so he saw me first, and he

needed no spur to his enmity. With a movement as quick as a cat's and

presence of mind that accounted for his being leader of the gang, he

seized the fifth man by the neck and spun him round to call his

attention; and the two came for me together like devils out of a

spring-trap.

Now the narrow door of a compartment on a train isn't any kind of easy

place to fight in, but I vow and declare that Jeremy and I both did our

best for Yussuf Dakmar. That's a remarkable thing if you come to think

of it. As a dirty murderer--thief--liar--traitor--spy, he hadn't much

claim on our affections and Jeremy cherished a war-grudge against him on

top of it all. What is it that makes us side with the bottom dog

regardless of pros and cons?

It was a nasty mix-up, because they used knives and we relied on hands

and fists. I've used a pick-handle on occasion and a gun when I've had

to, but speaking generally it seems to me to demean a white man to use

weapons in a row like that, and I find that most fellows who have walked

the earth much agree with me.

We tried to go in like a typhoon, shock-troop style, but it didn't work.

Another man let go of Yussuf Dakmar, who was growing weak and too short

of wind to yell, and in a moment there were five of us struggling on the

floor between the seats, one man under me with my forearm across his

throat and another alongside me, stabbing savagely at a leather valise

under the impression that he was carving up my ribs. On top of that

mess Narayan Singh pounced like a tiger, wrenching at arms and legs

until I struggled to my feet again--only to be thrust aside by Jeremy as

he rose and rushed at Yussuf Dakmar's two assailants.

But with all his speed Jeremy was a tenth of a tick too late. The wretch

was already helpless, and I dare say they broke his back as they leaned

their combined weight on him and forced him backward and head-first

through the window. Jeremy made a grab for his foot, but missed it, and

a knife-blade already wet with Yussuf Dakmar's blood whipped out and

stung him in the thigh. That, of course, was sheer ignorance. You

should never sting an Australian. Kill him or let him alone. Better

yet, make friends with him or surrender; but, above all, do nothing by

halves. They're a race of whole-hoggers, equally ready to force their

only shirt on you or fight you to a finish.

So Jeremy finished the business at the window. He took a neck in each

hand and cracked their skulls together until the whack-whack-whack of it

was like the exhaust of a Ford with loose piston rings; and when they

fell from his grip, unconscious, he came to my rescue. Believe me, I

needed it.

They were as strong and lithe as wildcats, those Syrians, and fully

awake to the advantage that the narrow door gave them. One man

struggled with Narayan Singh and kept him busy with his bulk so wedged

across the opening that Grim and Hadad were as good as demobilized out

in the corridor; and the other two tackled me like a pair of butchers

hacking at a maddened bull. I landed with my fists, but each time at

the cost of a flesh-wound; and though I got one knife-hand by the wrist

and hung on, wrenching and screwing to throw the fellow off his feet,

the other man's right was free and the eighteen-inch Erzeram dagger that

he held danced this and that way for an opening underneath my guard.

Jeremy's left fist landed under the peak of his jaw exactly at the

moment when he stiffened to launch his thrust. He fell as if pole-axed

and the blade missed my stomach by six inches, but the combined force of

thrust and blow was great enough to drive the weapon into the wooden

partition, where it stayed until I pulled it out to keep as a souvenir.

There wasn't much trouble after that. Grim and Hadad came in and we

tore strips from the Syrians' clothing to tie their hands and feet with.

Hadad went to the rear of the train, climbing along the footboard of the

third-class cars to the caboose to throw some sort of bluff to the

conductor, who came forward--called me "Colonel" and Hadad "Excellency"

--looked our prisoners over--recognized no friends--and said that

everything was "quite all right." He said he knew exactly what to do;

but we left Narayan Singh on watch, lest that knowledge should prove too

original which, however, it turned out not to be. It was bromidian--as

old as history. Narayan Singh came back and told us.

"Lo, sahib; he went through their clothes as an ape for fleas, I

watching. And when he had all their valuables he laid them on the

footboard, and then, as we passed some Bedouin tents, he kicked them

off. But he seems an honest fellow, for he gave them back some small

change to buy food with, should any be obtainable."

After that he stood flashing his white teeth for half an hour watching

Mabel bandage Jeremy and me, for it always amuses a Sikh to watch a

white man eat punishment. Sikhs are a fine race--but curious--

distinctly curious and given to unusual amusement. When Mabel had

finished with me at last I stuck a needle into him, and he laughed,

accepting the stab as a compliment.

A strange thing is how men settle down after excitement. Birds do the

same thing. A hawk swoops down on a hedgerow; there is a great

flutter, followed by sudden silence. A minute later the chattering

begins again, without any reference to one of their number being torn in

the plunderer's beak. And so we; even Grim loosened up and gossiped

about Feisul and the already ancient days when Feisul was the up-to-date

Saladin leading Arab hosts to victory.

But there was an even stranger circumstance than that. We weren't the

only people in the train; our car, for instance, was fairly well

occupied by Armenians, Arabs, and folk whose vague nationality came

under the general heading of Levantine. The car ahead where the fight

took place, though not crowded, wasn't vacant, and there were others in

the car behind. Yet not one of them made a move to interfere. They

minded their own business, which proves, I think, that manners are based

mainly on discretion.

As the train gasped slowly up the grade and rolled bumpily at last along

the fertile, neglected Syrian highland, all the Armenians on the train

removed their hats and substituted the red tarboosh, preferring the

headgear of a convert rather than be the target of every Bedouin with a

rifle in his hand.

The whole journey was a mix-up of things to wonder at--not least of them

the matter-of-fact confidence with which the train proceeded along a

single track, whose condition left you wondering at each bump whether

the next wouldn't be the journey's violent end. There were lamps, but

no oil for light when evening came. Once, when we bumped over a shaky

culvert and a bushel or two of coal-dust fell from the rusty tender, the

engineer stopped the train and his assistant went back with a shovel and

piece of sacking to gather up the precious stuff.

There was nothing but squalid villages and ruins, goats and an

occasional rare camel to be seen through the window--not a tree

anywhere, the German General Staff having attended to that job

thoroughly. There is honey in the country and it's plentiful as well as

good, because bees are not easy property to raid and make away with;

but the milk is from goats, and as for overflowing, I would hate to have

to punish the dugs of a score of the brutes to get a jugful for dinner.

Syria's wealth is of the past and the future.

Long before it grew too dark to watch the landscape we were wholly

converted to Grim's argument that Syria was no place for a man of

Feisul's calibre. The Arab owners of the land are plundered to the

bone; the men with money are foreigners, whose only care is for a

government that will favour this religion and that breed. To set up a

kingdom there would be like preaching a new religion in Hester Street;

you could hand out text, soup and blankets, but you'd need a whale's

supply of faith to carry on, and the offertories wouldn't begin to meet

expenses.

Until that journey finally convinced me, I had been wondering all the

while in the back of my head whether Grim wasn't intending an

impertinence. It hasn't been my province hitherto to give advice to

kings; for one thing, they haven't asked me for it. If I were asked, I

think I'd take the problem pretty seriously and hesitate before

suggesting to a man on whom the hope of fifty million people rests that

he'd better pull up stakes and eat crow in exile for the present. I'd

naturally hate to be a king, but if I were one I don't think quitting

would look good, and I think I'd feel like kicking the fellow who

suggested it.

But the view from the train, and Grim's talk with Hadad put me in a mood

in which Syria didn't seem good enough for a soap-box politician, let

alone a man of Feisul's fame and character. And when at last a few

lights in a cluster down the track proclaimed that we were drawing near

Damascus, I was ready to advise everybody, Feisul included, to get out

in a hurry while a chance remained.

CHAPTER VIII

"Bismillah! What a mercy that I met you!"

While the fireman scraped the iron floor for his last two shovelfuls of

coal-dust and the train wheezed wearily into the dark station, Grim

began to busy himself in mysterious ways. Part of his own costume

consisted of a short, curved scimitar attached to an embroidered belt--

the sort of thing that Arabs wear for ornament rather than use. He took

it off and, groping in the dark, helped Mabel put it on, without a word

of explanation.

Then, instead of putting on his own Moslem over-cloak he threw that over

her shoulders and, digging down into his bag for a spare head-dress,

snatched her hat off and bound on the white kerchief in its place with

the usual double, gold-covered cord of camel-hair.

Then came my friend the train conductor and addressed me as Colonel,

offering to carry out the bags. The moment he had grabbed his load and

gone Grim broke silence:

"Call her Colonel and me Grim. Don't forget how!"

We became aware of faces under helmets peering through the window-

officers of Feisul's army on the watch for unwelcome visitors. From

behind them came the conductor's voice again, airing his English:

"Any more bags inside there, Colonel?"

"Get out quick, Jeremy, and make a fuss about the Colonel coming!"

ordered Grim.

Jeremy suddenly became the arch-efficient servitor, establishing

importance for his chief, and never a newly made millionaire or modern

demagog had such skillful advertisement. The Shereefian officers stood

back at a respectful distance, ready to salute when the personage should

deign to alight.

"What shall be done with the memsahib's hat?" demanded Narayan Singh.

You could only see the whites of his eyes, but he shook something in his

right hand.

"Eat it!" Grim answered.

"Heavens! That's my best hat!" objected Mabel. "Give it here. I'll

carry it under the cloak."

"Get rid of it!" Grim ordered; and Narayan Singh strode off to

contribute yellow Leghorn straw and poppies to the engine furnace.

I gave him ten piastres to fee the engineer, and five for the fireman,

so you might say that was high-priced fuel.

"What kind of bunk are you throwing this time?" I asked Grim.

He didn't answer, but gave orders to Mabel in short, crisp syllables.

"You're Colonel Lawrence. Answer no questions. If anyone salutes, just

move your hand and bow your head a bit. You're just his height. Look

straight in front of you and take long strides. Bend your head forward

a little; there, that's it."

"I'm scared!" announced Mabel, by way of asking for more particulars.

She wasn't scared in the least.

"Piffle!" Grim answered. "Remember you're Lawrence, that's all. They'd

give you Damascus if you asked for it. Follow Jeremy, and leave the

rest to us."

I don't doubt that Grim had been turning over the whole plan in his mind

for hours past, but when I taxed him with it afterward his reply was

characteristic:

"If we'd rehearsed it, Mabel and Hadad would both have been

self-conscious. The game is to study your man--or woman, as the case

may be--and sometimes drill 'em, sometimes spring it on 'em, according

to circumstances. The only rule is to study people; there are no two

quite alike."

Hadad was surprised into silence, too thoughtful a man to do anything

except hold his tongue until the next move should throw more light on

the situation. He followed us out of the car, saying nothing; and

being recognized by the light of one dim lantern as an intimate friend

of Feisul, he accomplished all that Grim could have asked of him.

He was known to have been in Europe until recently. Rumours about

Lawrence had been tossed from mouth to mouth for days past, and here was

somebody who looked like Lawrence in the dark, followed by Grim and

Hadad and addressed as "Colonel." Why shouldn't those three Shereefian

officers jump to conclusions, salute like automatons and grin like loyal

men who have surprised a secret and won't tell anyone but their bosom

friends? It was all over Damascus within the hour that Lawrence had

come from England to stand by Feisul in the last ditch. The secret was

kept perfectly!

We let Mabel walk ahead of us, and there was no trouble at the customs

barrier, where normally every piastre that could be wrung from

protesting passengers were mulcted to support a starving treasury; for

the officers strode behind us, and trade signs to the customs clerk, who

immediately swore at everyone in sight and sent all his minions to yell

for the best cabs in Damascus.

Narayan Singh distributed largesse to about a hundred touts and

hangers-on and we splashed off toward the hotel in two open landaus,

through streets six inches deep in water except at the cross-gutters,

where the horses jumped for fear of losing soundings. Abana and

Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, were in flood as usual at that time of

year, and the scavenging street curs had to swim from one garbage heap

to the next. There was a gorgeous battle going on opposite the hotel

door, where half a dozen white-ivoried mongrels with their backs to a

heap of kitchen leavings held a ford against a dozen others, each beast

that made good his passage joining with the defenders to fight off the

rest. I stood on the hotel steps and watched the war for several

minutes, while Grim went in with the others and registered as "Rupert

Ramsden of Chicago, U.S.A., and party."

The flood, and darkness owing to the lack of fuel, were all in our

favour, for such folk as were abroad were hardly of the sort whose

gossip would carry weight; nevertheless, we hadn't been in the hotel

twenty minutes before an agent of the bank put in his appearance,

speaking French volubly. Seeing my name on the register, he made the

mistake of confining his attention to me, which enabled Grim to get

Mabel safely away into a big room on the second floor.

The Frenchman (if he was one--he had a Hebrew nose) made bold to corner

me on a seat near the dining-room door. He was nervous rather than

affable--a little pompous, as behooved the representative of money

power--and evidently used to having his impertinences answered humbly.

"You are from the South? Did you have a good journey? Was the train

attacked? Did you hear any interesting rumors on the way?"

Those were all preliminary questions, thrown out at random to break ice.

As he sat down beside me you could feel the next one coming just as

easily as see that he wasn't interested in the answers to the first.

"You are here on business? What business?"

"Private business," said I, with an eye on Jeremy just coming down the

stairs. "You talk Arabic?"

He nodded, eyeing me keenly.

"That man is my servant and knows my affairs. I'm too tired to talk

after the journey. Suppose you ask him."

So Jeremy came and sat beside us, and threw the cow's husband around as

blithely as he juggles billiard balls. I wasn't supposed to understand

what he was saying.

"The big effendi is a prizefighter, who has heard there is money to be

made at Feisul's court. At least, that is what he says. Between you and

me, I think he is a spy for the French Government, because when he

engaged me in Jerusalem he gave me a fist-full of paper francs with

which to send a telegram to Paris. What was in the telegram? I don't

know; it was a mass of figures, and I mixed them up on purpose, being

an honest fellow averse to spy's work. Oh, I've kept an eye on him,

believe me! Ever since he killed a Syrian in the train I've had my

doubts of him. Mashallah, what a murderous disposition the fellow has!

Kill a man as soon as look at him--indeed he would. Are you a prince in

these parts?"

"A banker."

"Bismillah! What a mercy that I met you! I overheard him say that he

will visit the bank tomorrow morning to cash a draft for fifty thousand

francs. I'd examine the draft carefully if I were you. It wouldn't

surprise me to learn it was stolen or forged. Is there any other bank

that he could go to?"

"No, only mine; the others have suspended business on account of the

crisis."

"Then, in the name of Allah don't forget me! You ought to give me a

thousand francs for the information. I am a poor man, but honest. At

what time shall I come for the money in the morning? Perhaps you could

give me a little on account at once, for my wages are due tonight and

I'm not at all certain of getting them."

"Well, see me in the morning," said the banker.

He got up and left us at once, hardly troubling to excuse himself; and

Grim heard him tell the hotel proprietor that our whole party would be

locked up in jail before midnight. That rumour went the rounds like

wild-fire, so that we were given a wide berth and had a table all to

ourselves in the darkest corner of the big dim dining-room.

There were more than a hundred people eating dinner, and Narayan Singh,

Hadad and I were the only ones in western clothes. Every seat at the

other tables was occupied by some Syrian dignitary in flowing robes--

rows and rows of stately looking notables, scant of speech and noisy at

their food. Many of them seemed hardly to know the use of knife and

fork, but they could all look as dignified as owls, even when crowding

in spaghetti with their fingers.

We provided them with a sensation before the second course was finished.

A fine-looking Syrian officer in khaki, with the usual cloth flap behind

his helmet that forms a compromise between western smartness and eastern

comfort, strode into the room and bore down on us. He invited us out

into the corridor with an air that suggested we would better not refuse,

and we filed out after him in an atmosphere of frigid disapproval.

Mabel was honestly scared half out of her wits now. Not even the smiles

of the hotel proprietor in the doorway reassured her, nor his deep bow

as she passed. She was even more scared, if that were possible, when

two officers, obviously of high rank, came forward in the hall to greet

her, and one addressed her in Arabic as Colonel Lawrence. Luckily one

oil lamp per wall was doing duty in place of electric light, or there

might have been an awkward incident. She had presence of mind enough to

disguise her alarm by a fit of coughing, bending nearly double and

covering the lower part of her face with the ends of the headdress

folded over.

The officers had no time to waste and gave their message to Grim

instead.

"The Emir Feisul is astonished, Jimgrim, that Colonel Lawrence and you

should visit Damascus without claiming his hospitality. We have two

autos waiting to take you to the palace."

Well, the luggage didn't amount to much; Narayan Singh brought that

down in a jiffy; and when I went to settle with the hotel-keeper one of

the Syrian officers interfered.

"These are guests of the Emir Feisul," he announced. "Send the bill to

me."

We were piled into the waiting autos. Mabel, Grim and I rode in the

first one, with the Syrian officers up beside the driver; Jeremy,

Narayan Singh and Hadad followed; and we went through the dark streets

like sea-monsters splashing over shoals, unseen I think--certainly

unrecognized.

The streets were almost deserted and I didn't catch sight of one armed

man, which was a thing to marvel at when you consider that fifty

thousand or so were supposed to be concentrated in the neighbourhood,

with conscription working full-blast and the foreign consuls solely

occupied in procuring exemption for their nationals.

It wasn't my first visit to a reigning prince, for if you travel much in

India you're bound to come in contact with numbers of them; so I

naturally formed a mental picture of what was in store for us, made up

from a mixture of memories of Gwalior, Baroda, Bikanir, Hyderabad, Poona

and Baghdad of the Arabian-Nights. It just as naturally vanished in

presence of the quiet, latter-day dignity of the real thing.

The palace turned out to be a villa on the outskirts of the city, no

bigger and hardly more pretentious than a well-to-do commuter's place at

Bronxville or Mount Vernon. There was a short semi-circular drive in

front, with one sentry and one small lantern burning at each gate; but

their khaki uniforms and puttees didn't disguise the fact that the

sentries were dark, dyed-in-wool Arabs from the desert country, and

though they presented arms, they did it as men who make concessions

without pretending to admire such foolishness. I wouldn't have given

ten cents for an unescorted stranger's chance of getting by them,

whatever his nationality.

Surely there was never less formality in a king's house since the world

began. We were ushered straight into a narrow, rather ordinary hall,

and through that into a sitting-room about twenty feet square. The

light was from oil lamps hanging by brass chains from the curved beams;

but the only other Oriental suggestions were the cushioned seats in each

corner, small octagonal tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and a mighty

good Persian carpet.

Narayan Singh and Jeremy, supposedly being servants, offered to stay in

the hall, but were told that Feisul wouldn't approve of that.

"Whatever they shouldn't hear can be said in another room," was the

explanation.

So we all sat down together on one of the corner seats, and were kept

waiting about sixty seconds until Feisul entered by a door in the far

corner. And when he came he took your breath away.

It always prejudices me against a man to be told that he is dignified

and stately. Those adjectives smack of too much self-esteem and of a

claim to be made of different clay from most of us. He was both, yet he

wasn't either. And he didn't look like a priest, although if ever

integrity and righteousness shone from a man, with their effect

heightened by the severely simple Arab robes, I swear that man was he.

Just about Jeremy's height and build--rather tall and thin that is--with

a slight stoop forward from the shoulders due to thoughtfulness and

camel-riding and a genuine intention not to hold his head too high, he

looked like a shepherd in a Bible picture, only with good humour added,

that brought him forward out of a world of dreams on to the same plane

with you, face to face--understanding meeting understanding--man to man.

I wish I could describe his smile as he entered, believing he was coming

to meet Lawrence, but it can't be done. Maybe you can imagine it if you

bear in mind that this man was captain of a cause as good as lost,

hedged about by treason and well aware of it; and that Colonel Lawrence

was the one man in the world who had proved himself capable of bridging

the division between East and West and making possible the Arab dream of

independence.

But unhappily it's easier to record unpleasant things. He knew at the

first glance--even before she drew back the kuffiyi--that Mabel wasn't

Lawrence, and I've never seen a man more disappointed in all my

wanderings. The smile didn't vanish; he had too much pluck and

self-control for that; but you might say that iron entered into it, as

if for a second he was mocking destiny, willing to face all odds alone

since he couldn't have his friend.

And he threw off disappointment like a man--dismissed it as a rock sheds

water, coming forward briskly to shake hands with Grim and bowing as

Grim introduced us.

"At least here are two good friends," he said in Arabic, sitting down

between Grim and Hadad. "Tell me what this means, and why you deceived

us about Lawrence."

"We've something to show you," Grim answered. "Mrs. Ticknor brought it;

otherwise it might have been seen by the wrong people."

Feisul took the hint and dismissed the Syrian officers, calling them by

their first names as he gave them "leave to go." Then Mabel produced

the letter and Feisul read it, crossing one thin leg over the other and

leaning back easily. But he sat forward again and laughed bitterly when

he had read it twice over.

"I didn't write this. I never saw it before, or heard of it," he said

simply.

"I know that," said Grim. "But we thought you'd better look at it."

Feisul laid the letter across his knee and paused to light a cigarette.

I thought he was going to do what nine men out of ten in a tight place

would certainly have done; but he blew out the match, and went on

smoking.

"You mean your government has seen the thing, and sent you to confront

me with it?"

It was Grim's turn to laugh, and he was jubilant without a trace of

bitterness.

"No. The chief and I have risked our jobs by not reporting it. This

visit is strictly unofficial."

Feisul handed the letter back to him, and it was Grim who struck a match

and burned it, after tearing off the seal for a memento.

"You know what it means, of course?" Grim trod the ash into the carpet.

"If the French could have come by that letter in Jerusalem, they'd have

Dreyfussed you--put you on trial for your life on trumped-up evidence.

They'd send a sworn copy of it to the British to keep them from taking

your part."

"I am grateful to you for burning it," Feisul answered.

He didn't look helpless, hopeless, or bewildered, but dumb and clinging

on; like a man who holds an insecure footing against a hurricane.

"It means that the men all about you are traitors--" Grim went on.

"Not all of them," Feisul interrupted.

"But many of them," answered Grim. "Your Arabs are loyal hot-heads;

some of your Syrians are dogs whom anyone can hire."

It was straight speaking. From a major in foreign service, uninvited,

to a king, it sounded near the knuckle. Feisul took it quite

pleasantly.

"I know one from the other, Jimgrim."

Grim got up and took a chair opposite Feisul. He was all worked up and

sweating at self-mastery, hotter under the collar than I had ever seen

him.

"It means," he went on, with a hand on each knee and his strange eyes

fixed steadily on Feisul's, "that the French are ready to attack you.

It means they're sure of capturing your person--and bent on seeing your

finish. They'll give you a drumhead court martial and make excuses

afterward."

"Inshallah," Feisul answered, meaning "If Allah permits it."

"That is exactly the right word!" Grim exploded; and Lord, he was hard

put to it to keep excitement within bounds.

I could see his neck trembling, and there were little beads of sweat on

his temple. It was Grim at last without the mask on. "Allah marks the

destiny of all of us. Do you suppose we're here for nothing--at this

time?"

Feisul smiled.

"I am glad to see you," he said simply.

"Are you planning to fight the French?" Grim asked him suddenly, in the

sort of way that a man at close quarters lets rip an upper-cut.

"I must fight or yield. They have sent an ultimatum, but delayed it so

as not to permit me time to answer. It has expired already. They are

probably advancing."

"And you intend to sit here and wait for them?"

"I shall be at the front."

"You know you haven't a chance!"

"My advisers think that my presence at the front will encourage our men

sufficiently to win the day."

"Have you a charm against mustard gas?"

"That is our weakness. No, we have no masks."

"And the wind setting up from the sea at this time of year! Your army

is going straight into a trap, and you along with it. Half of the men

who advise you to go to the front will fight like lions against a net,

and the other half will sell you to the French! Your fifty thousand men

will melt like butter in the sun and your Arab cause will be left

without a leader!"

Feisul pondered that for about a minute, leaning back and watching

Grim's face.

"We held a council of war, Jimgrim," he said at last. "It was the

unanimous opinion of the staff that we ought to fight and the cabinet

upheld them. I couldn't cancel the order if I wished. What would you

think of a king who left his army in the lurch?"

"Nobody will ever accuse you of cowardice," Grim answered. "You're a

proven brave man if ever there was one. The point is, do you want all

your bravery and hard work for the Arab cause to go for nothing? Do you

want the prospect of Arab independence to go up in smoke on a gas-swept

battlefield?"

"It would break my heart," said Feisul, "although one heart hardly

matters."

"It would break more hearts than yours," Grim retorted. "There are

millions looking to you for leadership. Leave me out of it. Leave

Lawrence out of it, and all the other non-Moslems who have done their

bit for you. Leave most of these Syrians out of it; for they're simply

politicians making use of you--a mess of breeds and creeds so mixed and

corrupted that they don't know which end up they stand! If the Syrians

had guts they'd have rallied so hard to you long ago that no outsider

would have had a chance."

"What do you mean? What are you proposing?" Feisul asked quietly.

"Baghdad is your place, not Damascus!"

"But here I am in Damascus," Feisul retorted; and for the first time

there was a note of impatience in his voice. "I came here at the

request of the Allies, on the strength of their promises. I did not ask

to be king. I would rather not be. Let any man be ruler whom the Arabs

choose, and I will work for him loyally. But the Arabs chose me and the

Allies consented. It was only after they had won their war with our

help that the French began raising objections and, the British deserted

me. It is too late to talk of Baghdad now."

"It isn't! It's too soon!" Grim answered, bringing down a clenched fist

on his knee, and Feisul laughed in spite of himself.

"You talk like a prophet, Jimgrim, but let me tell you something. It is

mainly a question of money after all. The British paid us a subsidy

until they withdrew from Syria. They did their best for us even then,

for they left behind guns, ammunition, wagons and supplies. When the

French seized the ports they promised to continue the subsidy, because

they are collecting the customs dues and we have no other revenue worth

mentioning. But rather than send us money the French have told our

people not to pay taxes; so our treasury is empty. Nevertheless, we

contrived by one means and another. We arranged a bank credit, and

ordered supplies from abroad. The supplies have reached Beirut, but the

French have ordered the bank to cancel the credit, and until we pay for

the supplies they are withheld."

"Any gas masks among the supplies you ordered?" Grim asked him; and

Feisul nodded.

"That banker has played fast and loose with us until the last minute.

Relying on our undertaking not to molest foreigners he has resided in

Damascus, making promises one day and breaking them the next, keeping

his funds in Beirut and his agency here, draining money out of the

country all the while."

"Why didn't you arrest him?"

"We gave our word to the French that he should have complete protection

and immunity. It seemed a good thing to us to have such an influential

banker here; he has international connections. As recently as

yesterday, twenty minutes before that ultimatum came, he was in this

room assuring me that he would be able to solve the credit difficulty

within a day or two."

"Would you like to send for him now?" suggested Grim.

"I doubt if he would come."

"Well, have him fetched!"

Feisul shook his head.

"If other people break their promises, that is no reason why we should

break ours. If we can defeat the French and force them to make other

terms, then we will expel him from Syria. I leave at midnight,

Jimgrim."

"To defeat the French? You go to your Waterloo! You're in check with

only one move possible, and I'm here to make you realize it. You're a

man after my own heart, Feisul, but you and your Arabs are children at

dealing with these foreign exploiters!

"They can beat you at every game but honesty. And listen: If you did

defeat the French--if you drove them into the sea tomorrow, they'd get

away with all the money in Beirut and you'd still be at the mercy of

foreign capitalists! Instead of an independent Arab kingdom here you'd

have a mixture of peoples and religions all plotting against one another

and you, with capitulations and foreign consuls getting in the way, and

bond-holding bankers sitting on top of it all like the Old Man of the

Sea in the story of Sindbad the Sailor!

"Leave that to the French! Let them have all Syria to stew in! Go to

England where your friends are. Let the politicians alone. Meet real

folk and talk with them. Tell them the truth; for they don't know it!

Talk with the men and women who haven't got political jobs to lose--with

the fellows who did the fighting--with the men and women who have votes.

They'll believe you. They've given up believing politicians, and they're

learning how to twist the politicians' tails. You'll find yourself in

Baghdad within a year or two, with all Mesopotamia to make a garden of

and none but Arabs to deal with. That's your field!"

Feisul smiled with the air of a man who recognizes but is unconvinced.

"There are always things that might have been," he answered. "As it is,

I cannot desert the army."

"We'll save what we can of the army," Grim answered. "Your Syrians will

save their own skins; it's only the Arabs we've got to look out for--a

line of retreat for the Arab regiments, and another for you. It's not

too late, and you know I'm right! Come on; let's get busy and do it!"

Feisul's smile was all affection and approval, but he shook his head.

"If what you say is true, I should only have the same problem in

Mesopotamia--foreign financiers," he answered.

"That's exactly where you're wrong!" Grim retorted triumphantly.

He stood up, and pointed at Jeremy.

"Here's a man who owns a gold-mine. It lies between Mesopotamia and

your father's kingdom of the Hedjaz, and its exact whereabouts is a

secret. He's here tonight to make you a present of the mine! And

here's another man,"--he pointed at me--"a mining expert, who'll tell

you what the thing's worth. It's yours, if you'll agree to abandon

Syria and lay a course for Baghdad!"

CHAPTER XIV

"You'll be a virgin Victim!"

Feisul was interested; he couldn't help being. And he was utterly

convinced of Grim's sincerity. But he wasn't moved from his purpose,

and not even Jeremy's account of the gold-mine, or my professional

opinion of its value, had the least effect toward cancelling the plans

he had in mind. He was deeply affected by the offer, but that was all.

"Good heavens, man!" Grim exploded suddenly. "Surely you won't throw

the whole world into war again! You know what it will mean if the

French kill or imprison you. There isn't a Moslem of all the millions

in Asia who won't swear vengeance against the West--you know that! A

direct descendant of Mohammed, and the first outstanding, conquering

Moslem since Saladin--"

"The Allies should have thought of that before they broke promises,"

said Feisul.

"Never mind them. Damn them!" answered Grim. "It's up to you! The

future of civilization is in your lap this minute! Can't you see that

if you lose you'll be a martyr, and Islam will rise to avenge you?"

"Inshallah," said Feisul, nodding.

"But that if you let pride go by the board, and seem to run away,

there'll be a breathing spell? Asia would wonder for a few months, and

do nothing, until it began to dawn on them that you had acted wisely and

had a better plan in view."

"I am not proud, except of my nation," Feisul answered. "I would not

let pride interfere with policy. But it is too late to talk of this."

"Which is better?" Grin demanded. "A martyr, the very mention of whose

name means war, or a living power for peace under a temporary cloud?"

"I am afraid I am a poor host. Forgive me," Feisul answered. "Dinner

has been waiting all this while, and you have a lady with you. This is

disgraceful."

He rose and led the way into another room, closing the discussion. We

ate an ordinary meal in an ordinary dining room, Feisul presiding and

talking trivialities with Mabel and Hadad. There was an occasional

boisterous interlude by Jeremy, but even he with his tales of unknown

Arabia couldn't lift the load of depression. Grim and I sat silent

through the meal. I experienced the sensation that you get when an

expedition proves a failure and you've got to go home again with nothing

done--all dreary emptiness; but Grim was hatching something, as you

could tell by the far-away expression and the glowering light in his

eyes. He looked about ready for murder.

Narayan Singh's face all through the meal was a picture--delight and

pride at dining with a king, amazement at his karma that had brought a

sepoy of the line to hear such confidences first hand, chagrin over

Grim's apparent failure and desire to be inconspicuous controlled his

expression in turn. Once or twice he tried to make conversation with

me, but I was in no mood for it, being a grouchy old bear on occasion

without decent manners.

Feisul excused himself the minute the meal was over, saying he had a

conference to attend, and we all went back into the sitting-room, where

Grim took the chair he occupied before and marshalled us into a row on

the seat in front of him. He was back again in form--electric--and

self-controlled.

"Have you folk got the hang of this?" he asked. "Do you realize what it

means if Feisul goes out and gets scuppered?"

We thought we did, even if we didn't. I don't suppose anyone except the

few who, like Grim, have made a life-study of the problem of Islam in

all its bearings could quite have grasped it. Mabel had a viewpoint that

served Grim's purpose as well as any at the moment.

"That man's too good, and much too good-looking to be wasted!" she said

emphatically. "D'you suppose that if Colonel Lawrence were really here--"

"Half a minute," said Grim, "and I'll come to that. How about you,

Hadad? How far would you go to save Feisul from this Waterloo?"

"I would go a long way," he answered cautiously. "What do you intend?"

"To appear near the firing-line, for one thing, with somebody who looks

like Colonel Lawrence, and somebody else who looks enough like Feisul in

one of Feisul's cars, and give the French a run for it in one direction

while Feisul escapes in the other."

"Wallahi! But what if Feisul won't go?"

"He'll get helped! Did you ever hear what they did to Napoleon at

Waterloo? Seized his bridle and galloped away with him."

"You mean I'm to act Lawrence again?" asked Mabel, looking deathly

white.

Grim nodded.

"Who's cast for Feisul?" Jeremy inquired.

"You are. You're the only trained stage-actor in the bunch. You're his

height--not unlike his figure--"

"I resemble him as much as a kangaroo looks like an ostrich!" laughed

Jeremy. "You're talking wild, Jim. What have you had to drink?"

"How about you, Ramsden? Will you see this through?"

Jeremy shook his head at me. I believe he thought for the moment that

Grim had gone mad. He hadn't the experience of Grim that I had, and

consequently not the same confidence in Grim's ability to dream, catch

the essence of the dream, pin it down and make a fact of it.

"I'll go the limit," said I.

"Well, I'll be damned" laughed Jeremy. "All right; same here. I stake

a gold-mine and Rammy raises me. Fetch your crown and sceptre and I'll

play king to Jim's ace in a royal straight flush. Mabel's queen.

Hadad's a knave. He looks it! Keep smiling, Hadad, old top, and I'll

let you forgive me. Rammy's the ten-spot--tentative--tenacious--ten

aces up his sleeve--and packs a ten-ton wallop when you get him going.

What's Narayan Singh? The deuce?"

"The joker," answered Grim. "Are you in on this?"

"Sahib, there was no need to ask. What your honor finds good enough--

your honor's order--"

"Orders have nothing to do with it. We're not in British territory.

This in unofficial. I've no right to give you orders," said Grim.

"You're free to refuse. I'm likely to lose my job over this and so are

you if you take part in it."

Narayan Singh grinned hugely.

"Hah! A sepoy's position is a smaller stake than a major's commission

or a gold-mine, but I likewise have a life to lose, and I play too!"

Grim nodded curtly. It was no time for returning compliments.

"How about you, Mabel? We can manage this without you, and you've a

husband to think of--"

"If he were here he'd hate it, but he'd give permission."

"All right. Now, Hadad. What about it?"

"Am I to obey you absolutely, not knowing what the--"

Grim interrupted him:

"The proposal's fair. Either you withdraw now and hold your tongue, or

come in with us. If you're in I'll tell the details; if not, there's no

need."

"Wallahi! What a sword-blade you are, Jimgrim! If I say 'yes,' I risk

my future on your backgammon board; if I say 'no,' my life is worth a

millieme, for you will tell that Sikh you call the 'joker' to attend to

me!"

"Not so," Grim answered. "If you don't like the plan, I'll trust you to

fall out and keep the secret."

"Oh, in that case," answered Hadad, hesitating. "Since you put it that

way... well, it is lose all or perhaps win something--half-measures are

no good--the alternative is ruin of the Arab cause--it is a forlorn

hope--well, one throw of the dice, eh?--and all our fortunes on the

table!--one little mistake and helas--finish! Never mind. Yes, I will

play too. I will play this to the end with you."

"So we're all set," remarked Grim with a sigh of relief. Instantly he

threw his shoulders back and began to set his pieces for the game. And

you know, there's a world of difference between the captain of a side

who doesn't worry until the game begins and Grim's sort, who do their

worrying beforehand and then play, and make the whole side play for

every ounce that's in them.

"Mabel, you're Lawrence. Keep silent, be shy, avoid encounters--act

like a man who's not supposed to be here, but who came to help Feisul

contrary to express commands laid on him by the Foreign Office. Get

that? Lawrence is a shy man, anyway--hates publicity, rank, anything

that calls attention to himself. The more shy you are, the easier

you'll get away with it. Feisul must help pretend you're Lawrence. The

presence of Lawrence would add to his prestige incalculably, and I think

he'll see that, but if not, never mind, we'll manage. Any questions?

Quick!"

You can't ask questions when you're given that sort of opportunity. The

right ones don't occur to you and the others seem absurd. Grim knew

that, of course, but when you're dealing with a woman there's just one

chance in a hundred that she may think of something vital that hasn't

occurred to anybody else. Most women aren't practical; but it's the

impractical things that happen.

"Suppose we're captured by the French?" she suggested. "That's what's

going to happen," he answered. "When they've got you, then you're Mrs.

Mabel Ticknor, who never saw Lawrence and wouldn't recognize him if you

did."

"They'll ask why I'm wearing man's clothes, and masquerading as an

Arab."

"Well, you're a woman, aren't you? You answer with another question--

ask them just how safe a woman would be! They may claim that their

Algerians are baby-lambs, but they can't blame you for not believing it!

Anything else?"

She shook her head, and he turned on Hadad.

"Hadad, lose no opportunity of whispering that Lawrence is with Feisul.

Add that Lawrence doesn't want his presence known. Hunt out two or

three loyal Arabs on the staff and tell them the plan is to kidnap

Feisul and carry him to safety across the border; but don't do it too

soon; wait until the debacle begins, and then persuade a few of them--

old Ali, for instance, and Osman--choose the old guard--you and they

bolt with him to Haifa. The Syrians have been thoroughly undermined by

propaganda; gas will do the rest, and as soon as the Arabs see the

Syrians run they'll listen to reason. They know you, and know you're on

the level. Do you understand? Will you do that?"

"I will try. I see many a chance of spilling before this cup comes to

the drinking, Jimgrim!"

"Then carry it carefully!" Grim answered. "Ramsden, take that car you

came in. Find that banker. He's the boy who has bought Feisul's staff,

or I'm much mistaken. Bring him here." "Suppose he won't come?"

"Bring him. Take Jeremy with you. Try diplomacy first. Tell him that

a plot to kidnap Feisul has been discovered at the last minute, but give

him to understand that no suspicion rests on him. Get him, if you can,

to send a message to the French General Staff, warning them to watch for

Feisul and two civilians and Lawrence in an auto. After that bring him

if you have to put him in a sack."

"What's his name, and where does he live?"

"Adolphe Rene. Everybody knows his house. Jeremy, look as unlike

Feisul as you can until the time comes, but study the part and be ready

to jump into his clothes. Narayan Singh, stay with me. You and I will

do the dirty work. Get busy, Ramsden."

Circumstances work clock-fashion, wheel fitting into wheel, when those

tides that Shakespeare spoke of are at flood. Disregarding all the

theory and argument about human will as opposed to cosmic law I say

this, without any care at all who contradicts me:

That whoever is near the hub of happenings is the agent of Universal

Law, and can no more help himself than can the watch that tells the

hour. The men who believe that they make history should really make a

thoughtful fellow laugh. "The moving finger writes, and having writ

moves on"; the old tentmaker Omar knew the truth of it. You could

almost hear the balance-wheel of Progress click as the door opened

before Grim had finished speaking, and a staff officer appeared to

invite him to be present at Feisul's conference.

Grim asked at once for the auto for me (I couldn't have had it

otherwise), and a moment later Jeremy and I were scooting into darkness

through narrow streets and driving rain, with the hubs of the wheels

awash in places and "shipping it green" over the floor when we dipped

and pitched over a cross-street gutter. The Arab driver knew the way,

from which I take it he had a compass in his head as well as a charm

against accidents and a spirit of recklessness that put faith in

worn-out springs. There wasn't room for more than one set of wheels at

a time in most of the streets we tore through, but a camel tried to

share one fairway with us and had the worst of it; he cannoned off into

an alley 'himd end first, and we could hear him bellowing with rage a

block away.

And our manner of stopping was like our progress, prompt. The brake-

bands went on with a shriek and Jeremy and I pitched forward as the car

brought up against the kerb in front of an enormous door, whose brass

knocker shone like gold in the rays of our headlights. We told the Arab

to wait for us and stepped knee-deep into a pool invisible, stumbled and

nearly fell over a great stone set to bridge the flood between street

and door, then proceeded to use the knocker importunately, thunderously,

angrily, as men with wet feet and bruised toes likely will, whatever the

custom of the country.

We went on knocking, taking turns, until the door opened at last and the

banker's servant peered at us with a candle in his hand, demanding to

know in the name of the thousand and one devils whom Solomon boiled in

oil what impudent scavengers were making all that noise. But the banker

himself was in the background, thinking perhaps that the French had come

already, on the lookout over the servant's shoulder for a glimpse of a

kepi. So we put our shoulders to the door, thrust by the servant, and

walked in.

"Take care! I have a pistol in my hand!" said the banker's voice.

"Three shots for a shilling at me then!" retorted Jeremy.

"Who are you?"

"Tell that shivering fool to bring the candle, and you'll see!"

"Oh, you, is it! I told you to come in the morning. I can't see you

now."

"Can't see me, eh? Come in here and peel your eyes, cocky! Sit down

and look at us. There, take a pew. Wonder where I learned such good

English? Well, I used to shine the toenails of the Prince o' Wales, and

you have to pass a Civil Service examination before they give you that

good job. I talk any language except French and Jewish, but this master

of mine turns out to be a Jew who talks French, and not a prizefighter

after all.

"What did I tell you this evening? Said he was a spy for the French,

didn't I? I tell you, I'm a dependable man. What I say you can bet on

till you've lost all your money. Here he is, spying to beat the

promised-landers--just had tea with Feisul and learned all the inside

facts--offered me a pound to come and find you, but I charged him two

and got the money in advance.

"You ought to pay me a commission, too, and then I'll get married if

there's an honest woman left in Damascus. If either of you want my

advice, you won't believe a word the other says, but I expect you're

both too wilful to be guided. Anyhow, you'll have to talk in front of

me, because my master is afraid of being murdered; he isn't afraid of

ghosts or bad smells, but the sight of a long knife turns his heart to

water and sets him to praying so loud that you can't get a word in

edgewise. Go on, both of you--yalla! Talk!"

Does it begin to be obvious why kings used to employ court jesters? The

modern cabinets should have them--men like Jeremy (though they'd be hard

to find) to break the crust of situations. Suspicion weakens in the

presence of incongruity.

"This fellow seems less than half-witted," I said, "but he's shrewd, and

I've found him useful. Unfortunately he has picked up a lot of

information, so we'll have to keep an eye on him. My business is to

communicate with the French General Staff and I'm told you know how to

manage it."

"Huh-huh? Who told you that?"

"Those who gave me my instructions. If you don't know who they are

without my telling you, you're the wrong man and I'll not waste time

with you."

"Let us suppose that I know then. Proceed."

"Your name was given to me as that of a man who can be trusted to take

necessary action in the interests of ... er ... you understand?"

"Uh-huh!"

"The plot for Feisul to be kidnapped by some Syrian members of his staff

has been discovered at the last minute," I said, looking hard at him;

and he winced palpably.

"Mon Dieu! You mean--"

"That it is not too late to save the situation. You have not been

accused of connection with it. I came here in pursuance of a different

plan to kidnap him--a sort of reserve plan, to be employed in case other

means should fail. All arrangements are in working order except the one

item of communicating with the French General Staff. I require you to

accompany me for that purpose, and to send off to them immediately a

message at my dictation."

"Tschaa! Suppose you show me your authority?"

"Certainly!" I answered.

Realizing that he wasn't in immediate danger of life he had returned his

own pistol to his pocket. So I showed him the muzzle of mine, and he

divined without a sermon on the subject that it would go off and shoot

accurately unless he showed discretion. He didn't offer to move when

Jeremy's agile fingers found his pocket and flicked out the mother-of-

pearl-handled, rim-fire thing with which he had previously kept his

courage warm.

"I was told not to trust you too far," I explained. "I was warned in

advance that you might question my credentials. You are said to be

jealous of interference. As a precaution against miscarriage of this

plan through jealousy on your part, I was ordered to oblige you to obey

me."

"And if I refuse?"

"Your widow will then be the individual most concerned. Be good enough

to take pen and paper, and write a letter to my dictation."

Jeremy went to the door, which was partly open, made sure that the

servant was out of earshot, and slammed it tight. Rene the banker went

to his escritoire, took paper, and shook his fountain pen.

"How shall I commence the letter?" he asked me with a dry, sly smile.

He thought he had me there. There are doubtless proper forms of address

that serve to establish the genuineness of letters written by a spy.

"Commence half-way down the page," I answered. "We'll insert the

address afterwards. Write in French:"

"I shall accompany the Emir Feisul and Colonel Lawrence to the front

tonight, former plan having miscarried. When Syrian retreat begins look

out for automobile containing Feisul and Lawrence, which may be

recognized easily as it will also contain myself and another civilian in

plain clothes. At the psychological moment a white flag will be shown

from it, waved perhaps surreptitiously by one of the civilians. In the

event of breakdown of the automobile a horsed vehicle will be used and

the same signal will apply. For the sake of myself and the other

civilian, please instruct all officers to keep a sharp lookout and

protect the party from being fired on."

"There," I said, "sign that and address it."

He hesitated. He couldn't doubt that his own arrangements with traitors

on the staff to kidnap Feisul had gone amiss, else how should I be aware

of them at all--I, who had only arrived that evening in Damascus? But

it puzzled him to know why I should make him write the letter, or, since

his plan must have failed, why I should let him share in the kidnapping.

He smelt the obvious rat. Why didn't I sign the letter myself, and get

all the credit afterward, as any other spy would do?

"You sign it," he said, pushing the letter toward me; and I got one of

those sudden inspirations that there is no explaining--the right idea

for handling fox Rene the banker.

"So you're afraid to sign that, are you? All right; give it here, I'll

sign it; pass me your pen. But you'll come along with me tonight, my

lad, and make your explanations to the French in the morning!"

Looking back, I can see how the accusation worked, although it was an

arrow shot at a venture. His greasy, sly, fox face with its touch of

bold impudence betrayed him for a man who would habitually hedge his

bets. Feisul's safe-conduct had protected him from official

interference, but it had needed more than that to preserve him from

unofficial murder, and beyond a doubt he had betrayed the French in

minor ways whenever that course looked profitable. Now in a crisis he

had small choice but to establish himself as loyal to the stronger side.

He hurriedly wrote a number at the bottom of the letter, and another

followed by three capitals and three more figures at the top.

"Seal it up and send it--quick!" I ordered him.

He obeyed and Jeremy called the servant.

"Summon Francois," said the banker, and the servant disappeared again.

Francois must remain a mystery. He was insoluble. Dressed in a pair of

baggy Turkish pants, with a red sash round his middle, knotted loosely

over a woollen jersey that had wide horizontal black and yellow strips,

with a grey woollen shawl over the lot, and a new tarboosh a size or two

too small for him perched at an angle on his head, he stood shifting

from one bare foot to the other and moved a toothless gap in his lower

face in what was presumably a smile.

He had no nose that you could recognize, although there were two blow-

holes in place of nostrils with a hideous long scar above them. One ear

was missing. He had no eyebrows. But the remaining ear was pointed at

the top like a satyr's, and his little beady eyes were as black as a

bird's and inhumanly bright.

The banker spoke to him in the voice you would use to a rather spoilt

child when obedience was all-important, using Arabic with a few French

words thrown in.

"Ah, here is Francois. Good Francois! Francois, mon brave, here is a

letter, eh? You know where to take it--eh? Ha-ha! Francois knows,

doesn't he! Francois doesn't talk; he tells nobody; he's wise, is

Francois! He runs, eh? He runs through the rain and the night; and he

hides so that nobody can see him; and he delivers the letter; and

somebody gives Francois money and tobacco and a little rum; and

Francois comes running back to the nice little, dark little hole where

he sleeps. Plenty to eat, eh, Francois? Nice soft food that needs no

chewing! Nothing to do but run with a letter now and then, eh? A brave

fellow is Francois--a clever fellow--a trustworthy fellow--a dependable,

willing fellow, always ready to please! Ready to go?

"Well, there's the letter; be careful with it, and run-run-run like a

good boy! A whole bottle of rum when you come back--think of it! A

whole bottle of nice brown rum to yourself in that nice little room

where your bed is! There, goodbye!"

The creature addressed as Francois vanished, with a snort and a sort of

squeal that may have been meant for speech. "That is the best messenger

in Syria," said Rene. "He is priceless--incorruptible, silent, and as

sure as Destiny! The French General Staff will have that letter before

dawn. Now--what next?"

"You come with me," I answered.

He felt better now that the message was on its way; second thought

convinced him of my connection with the French. There is no more

profitless delusion than to suppose that a country's secret agents are

always its own nationals. They are almost always not.

If the French used only Frenchmen, Germany used none but Germans, Great

Britain only Englishmen, and so on, it might be prettier and easier for

the police, but intelligence departments would starve. So there was

nothing about an obvious American doing spy-work for the French that

should stick in his craw; and that being so, the more cheerfully he

aided me the better it would likely be for him.

So he called for the servant again, and proved himself a good campaigner

by superintending the packing of a big basket with provisions--bread and

butter, cold chicken, wine, olives, and hot coffee in a thermos bottle.

"The French will be in Damascus by noon tomorrow," he said. "Ha-ha!

Those French and their hungry Algerians! We do well to take a good

provision with us--enough for two days at least. We shall enter with

them, I suppose, or at least behind them, and of course my house here

will receive consideration; but--ha-ha!--how many chickens do you

believe will be purchasable in Damascus one hour after the first

Algerians get here? Eh? Put in another chicken, Hassan, mon brave. Eh

bien, oui--pack the basket full; put in more of everything!"

At last he got into an overcoat lined with fox-pelt, for the night air

was chilly and an overcoat is less trouble than blankets if you expect

to spend a night on the move. We hove the huge basket into the waiting

auto, slammed the front door of the house behind us, piled into the back

seat and were off.

"I shall be glad when this business is over," said Rene, with a sigh of

satisfaction. "I am a banker by profession. For me the ebb and flow of

trade, with its certainties and its discretions. But what would you?

Trade must be prepared for; doors that will not open must be forced;

those who stand in the way must be thrust aside. This Feisul is an

impossible fellow. He is a hypocrite, I tell you--one of those praters

about righteousness who won't understand that the church and the mosque

are the places for that sort of thing. Eh? You follow me? But tell

me, what has been done to Daulch, Hattin and Aubek? Were they backed

against a wall and shot? Who betrayed them? Too bad that such a plan

should fail, for it was perfect."

"Far from perfect," I answered; for that one piece of strategy I have

by heart--the way to make a man tell all he knows is to pretend to

superior knowledge.

"Heh? How could you improve on it? Three members of the staff to order

sauve-qui-peut unexpectedly, seize Feisul, and deliver him dead or

alive? What is better than that? But what has been done to the three?"

"Nothing," I answered.

"Just like him! just like him! I tell you, that man Feisul would

rather be a martyr than succeed at his proper business." We reached the

palace just as Feisul was leaving it. Several members of his staff were

hard on his heels in the porch and our party was behind them again, with

Mabel last of all. There was a line of waiting autos nearly long enough

to fill the drive, but an utter absence of military fuss, and no

shouting or hurry. It looked in the dark more like a funeral than the

departure of a king to join his army at the front.

I remained in the car with the banker and sent Jeremy to report our

doings to Grim. Presently I could see him standing under the porch lamp

with a hand on Grim's shoulder, and I leaned out over the auto door to

watch; but Rene the banker leaned back, snuggled up in his overcoat,

liking neither to be seen nor to get his skin wet. I expected to see

the three staff officers Daulch, Hattin and Aubek arrested there and

then; but nothing happened, except that Feisul suddenly drove away with

Mabel and Grim in the same car with him.

There followed a rush for the other cars, and the whole line started

forward, Jeremy jumping in as our car passed the porch. "Daulch, Hattin

and Aubek are at the front," he said, and began humming to himself.

"At the front?" demanded Rene, sitting upright suddenly. "At the front,

you say? When did they leave for the front?"

"This evening," answered Jeremy.

You couldn't see his face in the dark, but I think he was chuckling.

"Strange!" said the banker. "Yet you say they have been betrayed--their

plan is known--yet they left for the front this evening?"

It was pitch-dark inside the car, for the rain swished down in torrents

and Jeremy fastened the flaps after he got in. Rene's change of

expression was a thing that you could feel, not see. He kept perfect

silence for about two minutes, while the car skidded and bumped at the

rear of the procession. Then:

"You tell me that Feisul knows, and yet..."

"Oh, I didn't tell you that," laughed Jeremy. "It was this other man

who said so. I never deceived anyone; I'm an honest fellow, I am.

Remember, I warned you against him when we talked in the hotel; you

can't blame me. I told you he was up to mischief. I advised you to

keep a careful eye on him and to look twice at his paper! Wallah! You

must be a lamb in foxskin. My master is a wolf in a woolly overcoat!

Wait till you've seen him eat that chicken that you brought, and then

you'll know what kind of a man he is!

"You see, you should have given me money when I asked you for it. I'm a

fellow with a price, I am. Whoever pays my price gets his money's

worth. If you'd had the sense to pay me more than this man does, I'd

have helped you trick him instead of helping him trick you; but he gave

me my wages before dinner and you gave me nothing, so here you are, and

I wouldn't like to be keeping your pair of trousers warm! I tell you,

this Ramsden effendi is an awful fellow, who will stick at nothing, and

I'm worse because I'm honest and do what I'm paid to do!"

I took the precaution of putting my arm around Rene, for it was likely

that he had another weapon hidden somewhere, and the obvious thing for

him to do was to shoot the two of us and make a bolt for it. For a

second I thought I felt his hand moving; but it was Jeremy's, searching

all his pockets and feeling for hidden steel. So I pulled out a cigar

and lit a match.

Of course, anyone's face looks ghastly by that sort of sudden light;

but Rene's was a picture of hate, rage, baffled cunning and fear, such

as I had never seen; his eyes looked like an animal's at bay, and the

way his lips parted from his teeth conveyed the impression that he was

searching his mind wildly for a desperate remedy that would ruin all

concerned except himself.

But it was only a stale old recourse that he had. In a man's extremity

he turns by instinct to his own tin gods for help, and you may read his

whole heart and religion then.

"Very well; very well," he said, as if he were on the rack, speaking

hurriedly to get it over with. "I make the sacrifice. You will find my

money in an inner vest pocket underneath my vest. It is a life's

savings. Take it, and let me go. It is not much--only a little--I am

not a rich man--I had hoped to be, but it would mean a fortune to you no

doubt. Take it and be merciful; give me back the smaller packet of the

two, keep the larger, and let me go."

Out of curiosity I reached inside his vest and pulled out both packets.

Jeremy struck a match. The smaller packet contained a draft on Paris

for a quarter of a million francs. The larger held nothing but

correspondence. I returned them to him.

"Listen!" I said. "I've never yet murdered a man, so if you provide me

with another excuse for murdering you, you'll be a virgin victim. Keep

that in mind!"

CHAPTER XV

"Catch the Alfies napping and kick hell out of 'em!"

You're no doubt familiar with the fact that the accounts given by two

men who have witnessed a battle from the same angle will differ widely,

not only in minor detail but in fundamentals; so you won't look to me

for confirmation of any one of the countless stories that have seen the

light of print, pretending to explain how the French won Damascus so

easily and unexpectedly. I was only on the inside, looking outward as

it were; the fellows on the outside, looking in, would naturally give a

different explanation.

Then you must bear in mind that this is a day of "official" accounts

that would make a limping dog of Ananias. When the General Staff of an

invading army controls all the wires and all lines of communication you

may believe what they choose to tell you, if you wish. But you don't

have to, as they say in Maine. And I admit that all I saw was from a

curtained auto as we swayed and bumped over broken roads, with an

occasional interlude when Jeremy and I got out to lend our shoulders and

help the Arab driver heave the car out of a slough.

My clearest memory is of that Arab--silent, stolid, staring like an owl

straight forward most of the time--but a perfect marvel in emergencies,

when he would suddenly spring to life, swear a living streak of

brimstone blasphemy in high falsetto, and perform a driver's miracle.

By two hours after midnight we were running on four flat tires; and

I've got the name of the maker of those wheels for future reference and

use. One spring broke, but we went forward sailor-fashion, with a jury-

rig of chain and rope, after getting more gas from some Christian monks,

who swore they hadn't any and wept when one of Feisul's officers

demonstrated that they had. You couldn't see any monastery; I don't

even know that there was one--nothing but lean faces with tonsured tops

that nodded in unison and lied fearfully.

The gunfire began to be heavy about that time, although nothing like the

thousand-throated bedlam of Flanders. As neither side could see the

other and neither had any ranges marked, my guess is that the French

were advertising their advance--doing a little propaganda that was cheap

for all concerned except the tax-payers. And the Syrian army was

shooting back crazily, sending over long shots on the off chance, more

to encourage themselves than for any other reason.

The sensation was rather like riding in an ambulance away from the

battle instead of toward it, for you couldn't see anything and you had a

sense of helpless detachment from it all, as if a power you couldn't

control were carrying you away from a familiar destiny to one that you

couldn't imagine. It wasn't so much like a dream as like a different,

real existence that you couldn't understand because it bore no kind of

relation to anything in the past.

Anyhow, we bumped and blundered on until dawn came, streaked with

wonderful rolling mist, and gave a glimpse at intervals of a wide plain

sloping toward the west, with long lines of infantry and here and there

guns extended across it in parallels drawn north and south.

The rifle firing started ten minutes after dawn, and it was all over in

less than half an hour; but I can't describe exactly how the finish

came, because the wind was toward us and the morning mist blew along in

blanketing white masses that only allowed you a momentary glimpse and

then shut off the view.

We were about a mile behind the firing-line and I couldn't see Feisul's

car or any of the others. For the moment there was just one clear line

of vision, straight from where I sat to the nearest infantry. I could

see about fifty yards of the line and perhaps that many men; and they

were blazing away furiously over a low earthwork, although I couldn't

see a sign of the French. There was hardly any artillery firing at that

time.

Suddenly without any obvious reason the men whose backs I was watching

broke and ran. The mist obscured them instantly and the line of vision

shifted, so that bit by bit I saw I dare say a mile of the firing line.

The whole lot were running for their lives and, look where I would,

there wasn't a sign of a Frenchman anywhere.

I should say it took about ten minutes for the first of them to reach

the dirt road, where our autos stood hub-deep in mud, and by that time

we had shoved and pulley-hauled them into movement, our engines making

as much row as a nest of machine-guns as they struggled against the

strain. We didn't want to be swamped under that tide of fugitives.

But they took no notice of us. They had thrown away their weapons and

were running for home with eyes distended and nothing in mind but to put

distance between there and the enemy. I jumped out of the car and

seized one man.

"What are you running from? What has happened?" I demanded, holding him

harder the more he struggled.

"Poison gas!" he gasped, and I let him go.

I thought I caught a whiff of the darned stuff then, but that may have

been imagination.

"Poison gas!" I said, returning to the car, and Rene made a fine

exhibition of himself, smothering his head under the foxlined overcoat

and screaming.

He got right down on the floor of the car and lay there huddled and

gasping--which may have been a sensible precaution; I don't know.

There was no time just then to bother with him.

The flukey morning breeze shifted several points. The mist curled

suddenly and began to flow diagonally across our line of cars instead of

toward us, and from one moment to the next you could see straight along

the road for maybe a mile or more. There was a sight worth seeing--

Feisul's cavalry in full rout--running away from ghosts by the look of

it--their formation hardly yet broken, horse and man racing with the

wind and a scattering of unhorsed fugitives streaming behind like a

comet's tail.

According to Grim, who should know, that cavalry division was the

kingpin of Feisul's plan. He had intended to lead a raid in person,

swooping down the French flank to their rear; but the three staff

traitors, Daulch, Hattin and Aubck, sent forward the previous evening to

place the division and hold it ready, had simply tipped the French off

to the whole plan and at the critical moment of Feisul's arrival on the

scene had ordered the sauve-qui-peut. I don't believe the French used

more than a can or two of gas. I don't believe they had more than a few

cans of it so far advanced.

But the sauve-qui-peut might have been useless without Feisul's capture,

for he was just the man to rally a routed army and snatch victory out of

a defeat. Nobody knew better than Feisul the weakness of the French

communications, and the work of those three traitors was only half done

when the cavalry took to its heels. The one man who could possibly save

the day had to be bagged and handed over.

I didn't realize all that, of course, in the twinkling of an eye, as

they say you do in a climax. Maybe I've never faced a climax. I'm no

psychologist and not at all given to review of sudden situations in the

abstract.

There was a fight, or a riot, or something like it going on near the

head of our line of autos. The first two or three had come to a

standstill; several in the middle of the line were trying to wheel

outward and bolt for it behind the fleeing cavalry, and those at the

tail end were blocked by one that had broken down. Of course everybody

was yelling at the top of his lungs and the hurrying shreds of blown

mist further confounded the confusion.

So Jeremy and I ran forward, plunging through the mud and knocking over

whoever blocked our way. It was rather fun--like the football field at

school. But one man--a Syrian officer--stood near the last of the

forward cars with the evident purpose of standing off interference. He

took careful aim at me with a revolver, fired point-blank, and missed.

I forgot all about my own pistol and went for him with a laugh and a

yell of sheer exhilaration. There's an eighth of a ton of me, mostly

bone and muscle, so it isn't a sinecure to have to stop my fist when the

rest of the bulk is under way behind it. I landed so hard on his nose,

and with such tremendous impetus, that he hadn't enough initial

stability to take the impact and bring me up on my feet. He went down

like a ninepin, I on top of him, laughing with mud in my teeth, and

Jeremy landed on top of the two of us, holding the skirts of his cloak

in both hands as he jumped.

Jeremy picked up the fellow's revolver and threw it out of sight, and

the two of us ran on again--too late by now to help in the emergency,

but in time for the next event.

Grim had managed everything, although he was bleeding, and smiling

serenely through the blood. Hadad was there, not smiling at all, but

bleached white with excitement; he had brought a number of Arab

officers with him, six or seven of whom were standing on the running-

board of the front car and all arguing with Feisul, who sat back with

his feet and hands tied, guarded by Narayan Singh.

At Grim's feet--dead, with bullets through their heads--were three

Syrian staff officers. They were the traitors Daulch, Hattin and Aubek.

Grim's pistol was in his right hand and had been used.

There had been a first-class fight, all over in two minutes; for the

traitors hadn't arrived on the scene without assistants. Unfortunately

for them, Hadad had turned up at the same moment with his loyalists.

Narayan Singh had jumped from the car behind and seized Feisul, thrown

him to the floor out of the path of bullets, and tied his arms. It was

actually Mabel, hardly realizing what she was doing but obeying the

Sikh's orders yelled in her ear as he struggled to keep his wiry

prisoner down, who tied the king's feet, using her Arab girdle.

Feisul, of course, was all for dying at the head of a remnant of his

men. That would be the first impulse of any decent leader in like

circumstance. But his loyal friends, eager to die with him if they

must, but unwilling to die at all if there were an alternative, were

overwhelming him with streams of words and promises. Suddenly two of

them jumped into the car and began to untie his arms and feet. Grim,

looking swiftly to right and left, saw Jeremy and pounced on him so

fiercely that an onlooker might have guessed another fight to the death

was under way. Too excited to say what he had in mind, he tugged at

Jeremy's clothes.

"I get you, Jim--I get you!" Jeremy laughed gaily, and in ten seconds

had stripped himself down to his underwear.

Hadad must have been discussing details of the plan with Grim along the

road; for he got busy at the same time, persuading Feisul to part with

his garments--not that his consent really mattered at the moment; they

were pulled off him by half a dozen hands at once, and Jeremy had the

best of that bargain all right, for in addition to silk headdress and a

fine black Arab full-dress coat, there was linen of a sort you can't

buy--better stuff than bishops wear and clean, which Jeremy's own

wasn't.

The time it takes to read this gives a totally false impression of the

speed. The whole thing took place, I should say, within two minutes

from the time when I punched that Syrian's nose until Mabel and Narayan

Singh stood beside me watching Hadad, two more Arabs and Feisul drive

away, with a second car crowded full of loyalists in close attendance.

By that time Jeremy was dressed in Feisul's clothes; and though he

didn't look a bit like Feisul from a yard away, in the mist at ten

yards, provided you were looking for Feisul, you'd have taken your Bible

oath he was the man; for he had the gesture and mannerism copied to

perfection.

However, standing there wasn't going to increase the real Feisul's

chance of escaping. The sooner we got caught, the quicker the French

would discover that our man had given them the slip. Our business was

to give the French a long chase in the wrong direction, and those bogged

autos weren't ideal for the purpose.

But they were the only means in sight just then, and we had to bear in

mind that message I had made Rene send, warning the French to look out

for an auto with a white flag and two civilians together with Feisul and

Lawrence. So we picked out the two best that remained, pitched Rene and

his basket of provisions into the front one with Mabel and Jeremy, piled

Narayan Singh in after them to take my place as the second civilian, and

started them off straight forward, Grim and I following in a second car

after I had paid our former Arab driver handsomely and sent him off

grinning to give a lift to as many runaways as the car would hold.

We learned afterward that the rascal made a fortune, charging as much as

fifty pounds sterling for the trip halfway back to Damascus, at which

point the car collapsed. They say he carried eleven officers that far,

bought two wives with the proceeds and escaped all the way to a village

near Mecca, where his home was.

You know how bewildering and tricky those early mists are when they

start to roll up before the wind. We had hardly got going when the

whole mass seemed to shift in one great cloud, covering the fleeing

troops and incidentally Feisul, but leaving us in our two autos high and

dry, as it were, in full view of the French. And they were advancing by

that time.

I couldn't see more than a division of them that we would have to reckon

with--nearly all Algerians--and they looked dead-weary. I guess they

had forced the pace in advance of the main body in order to take

advantage of the treason of Feisul's officers. They came slouching

forward with their rifles at the trail and a screen of skirmishers

thrown out a quarter of a mile or so ahead.

There were cavalry and guns far off on their right, evidently trying to

work around to the flank of the fleeing array, but those were much too

far away to trouble us and were going in the wrong direction. Rolling

banks of mist shut off the farther view to westward and there was no

guessing where the main French force might be, and for all I know it

hadn't started from the coast yet.

Fortune came to our rescue with one riderless horse, a splendid Arab

gelding tied by the bridle to the wheel of a water-cart and left behind

in the stampede. Jeremy appropriated it, riding Arab fashion with short

stirrups, and I wouldn't have blamed Feisul's own brother for falsely

identifying him at ten yards. He was born mischievous and he

caricatured Feisul on horseback as if he were acting for the movies.

I guess the French officers had good glasses with them, for Jeremy had

hardly mounted when the advancing Algerians opened a hot fire on us.

The whole division surely wouldn't have blazed away, with machine-guns

and all, at two cars and a man on horseback unless someone had passed

the word along that Feisul was in full view.

So Grim and I abandoned our car, driver and all, and jumped into

Jeremy's place. It wasn't more than two hundred yards to the top of a

gentle rise, over which we disappeared from view; and just as we bumped

over it I wrenched out the white tablecloth in which Rene's chicken and

stuff was wrapped and waved it violently.

Then, Lord, what a sight! Below us, sheltered between two flanking

hillocks, was about a division of Feisul's Arab infantry, packing up

sulkily, preparing to follow the retreat. It was a safe bet the French

didn't know they were there, and I dare say the same thought occurred to

every one of us the same instant. Mabel thought of it. I know I did.

But Jeremy voiced it first, heeling his horse up beside us.

"What do you say, Jim? I bet you I can rally that gang. Shall I lead

'em and lick hell out of the Algies?"

But Grim shook his head.

"You might, but the game is to pull the plug properly. Get this lot on

the run. The less fighting, the less risk of drasticism when the French

get to Damascus. Chase 'em off home!"

So Jeremy did it; and that, I believe, accounts for a story that got in

the newspapers about Feisul trying to spring a surprise on the French at

the last minute. Some French officers in armored cars came over the

brow of the hill in pursuit of us--three cars, three officers, three

machine-guns, and about a dozen men. One car quit on the hill-top, so I

suppose it broke down, but its occupants must have seen Jeremy careering

up and down the line encouraging those sulky Arabs to get a move on, and

I suppose they told tales afterwards to a newspaper correspondent at the

base.

Anyhow, the two pursuing armored cars didn't dare come near enough to be

dangerous until we had followed the retreating Arab regiments for about

a mile, and the Algerians appeared over the hill-top, coming very

slowly. A long-range rifle-fire commenced, the Arabs returning it

scrappily as they retreated; and we made believe there were other

regiments to be shepherded, steering a northward course downhill toward

broken ground that couldn't have suited our purpose better. By the way

those armored cars came after us, keeping their distance, it was clear

enough that they suspected an ambush.

So we had a clear start and led them a dance in and out among boulders

and the branches of a watercourse, Jeremy galloping ahead to spy a

course out. Whenever they came in view we acted a little piece for

them, making Rene wave the white cloth while I protected him and held

off Mabel and Grim, who went through the motions of trying to brain me

with pistol butts.

Two or three times they opened fire, more by way of forcing a surrender,

I think, than with any intention of hitting us; they wanted to take

Feisul alive. It was like a game of fox and geese, and with Jeremy

scouting ahead we could have kept them dodging us for hours if we hadn't

run out of gas.

Then we abandoned the car and took refuge in a cave that stank as if it

had been a tomb for generations. The French drew up their cars fifty

yards away with machine-guns covering the cave mouth; and after we were

sure they weren't going to squirt a stream of lead at us, I went out

with the tablecloth to negotiate terms.

I didn't want to go, but Grim seemed to think they'd understand my

French.

Of course, there wasn't anything really to argue about, but I played for

time, because every minute was of value to the real Feisul, speeding on

his way to British territory. The French officer who did the talking

for his side--a little squat, pale, pug-faced fellow, who gave the

impression of having risen from the ranks without learning polite

manners on the way, agreed to accept our surrender and spare our lives

for the time being; and by that time the smell in the cave had nearly

overcome our party, so they all marched out.

And Lord! The French captain was spiteful when he discovered that

Jeremy wasn't Feisul after all. He swore like a wet cat, accused Mabel

of being a spy, took away our basket of provisions, and I think would

have shot Jeremy out of hand if Jeremy hadn't started clowning and made

the other Frenchmen laugh.

Laughter and murder no more mix than oil and water. He did what he

called a harem dance for them, misusing his stomach outrageously, and

the incongruity of that by a descendant of the Prophet took all the

sting out of the situation. But they burned our abandoned car in sheer

ill temper before crowding us into their own. And they shot the good

horse.

The joy-ride that followed was rather like the kind they give pigs on

the way to the sausage shop--hurried and not intended to be mirthful.

"What's the use of losing tempers?" I asked Captain Jacques Daudet, who

had captured us.

He sat on my knees, with his pistol pressed against my chest. "Why not

regard the whole thing as a joke? You've done your best and nobody can

blame you. Besides, what can possibly happen? What do you suppose

they'll do to us?"

He shrugged his shoulders and his little cold blue eyes met mine.

"You will all be shot, of course," he answered. "After that..."

He shrugged his shoulders again. But he cast no gloom; for Jeremy kept

the lot of us, French too, excepting Daudet, in roars of laughter for

ten miles until we reached temporary headquarters, where a born

gentleman in a peaked red cap with gold on it sat on a camp-stool

directing things.

He recognized Grim at the first glance and knew him for an American in

British service. He looked Grim in the eye and smiled. We told our

story in turns, interrupting one another and being interrupted by Rene.

The officer turned on the banker savagely, ordered him sent to the rear,

and smiled at Grim again.

Then he picked up the banker's belongings, including the two packages,

and tossed them after him with an air of utter contempt.

Whereat he smiled at all of us.

"And you are quite sure that the Emir Feisul has escaped?" he asked.

"Well, there are those whom the news will annoy, which is too bad, but

can't be helped. For myself, I cannot say that I shall shed tears.

Madame..." He looked straight at Mabel. "Major..." He met Grim's eyes

and smiled. "Messieurs ..." It was my turn, and Narayan Singh's; his

steady stare was good and made you feel like shaking hands with him.

"Monsieur Scapin (Clown)..." That was meant for Jeremy, and they both

laughed. "You have been adroit, but do you think I could depend on your

discretion?"

We did our best to look discreet.

"You see, Madame et Messieurs, this is not warfare. We desire to

accomplish a definite object with as little unpleasantness as possible.

I shall regret the necessity of sending you to Beirut, but that is for

your safety. An additional and very sound precaution which you

yourselves might take would be to preserve complete silence regarding

the events of the last two days. Subject to that condition, you will be

given facilities for leaving Beirut by sea in any direction you may

wish. Do we understand one another? Good! Now, let me see whether I

have your names correctly."

He carefully wrote them down all wrong, described us as noncombatants,

who should be allowed to leave the country, warned Jeremy that in a

king's clothes he looked too "intriguing," provided plain clothes for

him, returned our belongings (except the basket of provisions, which he

kept) and sent us off in an ambulance on the first leg of the journey to

Beirut, whence we got away in a coastwise steamer within the week. "Not

all the French are swabs!" said Jeremy grievously as we took our leave

of him.

Grim agreed.

"Not all of 'em. Let's see--there was the Marne, the Aisne, the Somme,

Verdun..."

The End