Damascus."

"And this lady? Is she your wife?"

I laughed aloud--couldn't help it. All the Old Testament stories keep
forcing themselves on your memory in that land, and the legend of
Abraham trying to pass his wife off as his sister and the three-cornered
drama that came of it cropped up as fresh as yesterday. There was no
need that I could see to repeat the patriarch's mistake, any more than
there was reasonable basis for the Frenchman's impertinence.

"Is that your business?" I asked him.

"Because," he went on, smiling meanly, "you speak with an American
accent. It is against the law to carry gold across the border, and
Americans have to submit to personal search, because they always carry
it."

"Show me your authority!" I retorted angrily.

"Oh, as for that, there is a customs official here who has full
authority. He is a Syrian. It occurred to me that you might prefer to
be searched by a European."

"Call his bluff!" Grim whispered behind his sleeve, but I intended to do
that, anyway.

"Bring along your Syrian," said I, and off he went to do it, treating me
to a backward glance over his shoulder that conveyed more than words
could have done.