"That is secret," he began, as soon as Mabel had dumped the contents of
the billy into a huge brown teapot. "I expect Narayan Singh here
presently. He'll have a letter with him, taken from the Syrian who
stabbed that man in the hospital."

"Whoa, hoss!" Jeremy interrupted. "You mean you've sent that Sikh to
get the shirt of Yussuf Dakmar?"

Grim nodded.

"That was my job," Jeremy objected.

"Whoa, hoss, yourself, Jeremy!" Grim answered. "You'd have gone down
into the bazaar like a bull into a china-shop. Narayan Singh knows
where to find him. If he shows fight, he'll be simply handed over to
the Sikh patrol for attacking a man in uniform, and by the time he
reaches the lock-up that letter will be here on the table between us."

"All the same, that's a lark you've done me out of," Jeremy insisted.
"That Yussuf Dakmar's a stinker. I know all about him. Two whole
squadrons had to eat lousy biscuit for a week because that swab sold the
same meat five times over. But I'll get him yet!"

"Well, as I was saying," Grim resumed, "there's a letter in Jerusalem
that's supposed to be from Feisul. But when Feisul writes anything he
signs his name to it, whereas a number is the signature on this. Now
that fellow Sidi bin Tagim in the hospital is an honest old kite in his
way. He's a great rooter for Feisul. And the only easy way to ditch a
man like Feisul, who's as honest as the day is long, and no man's fool,