“The Europeans, French as well as British, must be goaded into making rash mistakes that will further inflame the populace.  It must be shouted from the house-tops that the Jews have blown up a Moslem sacred place, and that the British are protecting them.  There must be a true jihad* proclaimed against all non-Moslems almost simultaneously everywhere.  Do you understand now how swiftly you must travel to Damascus?” [Holy war.]

Grim nodded.  “Yet these foreigners are cunning,” he said doubtfully.  “Are you sure your plan is not suspected?”

“Quite sure.  There was one man—­a cursed interfering jackanapes of an American, whom they all call Jimgrim, of whom I was afraid.  He is clever.  He goes snooping here and there, and knows how to disguise himself.  But he fell downstairs this morning and broke his thigh in two places.  If anything could make me religious, that would!  If I were not a nationalist, I would say ’Glory to God, and blessed be His Prophet, who has smitten him whom we feared!"’

“That broken leg might be a trick to put you off your guard,” Grim suggested pleasantly.

“No.  I made secret enquiries.  He is in great pain.  He may lose the leg.  The doctor who has charge of the case is a Major Templeton, an irritable person and, like most of the English, too big a fool to deceive anybody.  No, luckily for Mister Jimgrim it is not a trick.  Otherwise he would have shared the fate today of Bedreddin Shah the constable.  The trap was all ready for him.  With the inquisitive and really clever out of the way there is nothing to be feared.  Now—­pardon me, Captain Ali Mirza, but that letter you received just now; would you like to show it to me?”

“Why?” Grim demanded, frowning, and bridling all over.

“Hee-hee!  For the sake of reciprocity.  I have told you my secret.  If it were not that I am more than usually circumspect, and accustomed to protect myself, one might say that my life is now in your hands, captain.  Besides—­hee-hee!—­I might add that Jerusalem is my particular domain.  I would have no difficulty in seeing that letter in any case.  But there should be no need for —­hee-hee!—­shall we call them measures?—­between friends.”

“I see you are a man of resource,” said Grim.

“Of great resource, with picked lieutenants.  May I see the letter now?”

Grim produced it.  Noureddin Ali took it between spidery fingers and examined it like a schoolmaster conning a boy’s composition.  But the expression of his face changed as he took in the contents, holding the paper so that alligator-eyes could read it, too.

“Who wrote this?” he asked.

“Can’t you read the signature?  Enver Eyub.”

“Who is he?”

“One of Mustapha Kemal’s staff.”

“So.  ’In pursuing your mission you will also take steps to ascertain whether or not Noureddin Ali Bey is a person worthy of confidence.’  Aha!  That is excellent!  So Mustapha Kemal Pasha has heard of me?”