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