ch no white man ever did before. The Arabs let
him pass, for they thought him stark mad and argued that the hand of
Allah was heavy enough on him without their efforts. He's
blood-brother to every kind of Albanian bandit. Also he used to take a
hand in Turkish politics, and got a huge reputation. Some Englishman
was once complaining to old Mahmoud Shevkat about the scarcity of
statesmen in Western Europe, and Mahmoud broke in with, "Have you not
the Honourable Arbuthnot?" You say he's in your battalion. I was
wondering what had become of him, for we tried to get hold of him here,
but he had left no address. Ludovick Arbuthnot--yes, that's the man.
Buried deep in the commissioned ranks of the New Army? Well, we'll get
him out pretty quick!'

'I knew he had knocked about the East, but I didn't know he was that
kind of swell. Sandy's not the chap to buck about himself.'

'He wouldn't,' said Sir Walter. 'He had always a more than Oriental
reticence. I've got another colleague for you, if you like him.'

He looked at his watch. 'You can get to the Savoy Grill Room in five
minutes in a taxi-cab. Go in from the Strand, turn to your left, and
you will see in the alcove on the right-hand side a table with one
large American gentleman sitting at it. They know him there, so he
will have the table to himself. I want you to go and sit down beside
him. Say you come from me. His name is Mr John Scantlebury Blenkiron,
now a citizen of Boston, Mass., but born and raised in Indiana. Put
this envelope in your pocket, but don't read its contents till you have
talked to him. I want you to form your own opinion about Mr Blenkiron.'

I went out of the Foreign Office in as muddled a frame of mind as any
diplomatist who ever left its portals. I was most desperately
depressed. To begin with, I was in a complete funk. I had always
thought I was about as brave as the average man, but there's courage
and courage, and mine was certainly not the impassive kind. Stick me
down in a trench and I could stand being shot at as well as most
people, and my blood could get hot if it were given a chance. But I
think I had too much imagination. I couldn't shake off the beastly
forecasts that kept crowding my mind.

In about a fortnight, I calculated, I would be dead. Shot as a spy--a
rotten sort of ending! At the moment I was quite safe, looking for a
taxi in the middle of Whitehall, but the sweat broke on my forehead. I
felt as I