Greenmantle | Page 8

ten
bullet holes in him and a knife slash on his forehead. He mumbled his name, but beyond
that and the fact that there was a Something coming from the West he told them nothing.
He died in ten minutes. They found this paper on him, and since he cried out the word
"Kasredin" in his last moments, it must have had something to do with his quest. It is for
you to find out if it has any meaning.'
I folded it up and placed it in my pocket-book.
'What a great fellow! What was his name?' I asked.
Sir Walter did not answer at once. He was looking out of the window. 'His name,' he said
at last, 'was Harry Bullivant. He was my son. God rest his brave soul!'




CHAPTER TWO
The Gathering of the Missionaries
I wrote out a wire to Sandy, asking him to come up by the two-fifteen train and meet me
at my flat.
'I have chosen my colleague,' I said.
'Billy Arbuthnot's boy? His father was at Harrow with me. I know the fellow - Harry used
to bring him down to fish - tallish, with a lean, high-boned face and a pair of brown eyes

like a pretty girl's. I know his record, too. There's a good deal about him in this office. He
rode through Yemen, which 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 had felt in my adventure before the war. But this
was far worse, for it was more cold-blooded and premeditated, and I didn't seem to have
even a sporting chance. I watched the figures in khaki passing on the pavement, and
thought what a nice safe prospect they had compared to mine. Yes, even if next week
they were in the Hohenzollern, or the Hairpin trench at the Quarries, or that ugly angle at
Hooge. I wondered why I had not been happier that morning before I got that infernal
wire. Suddenly all the trivialities of English life seemed to me inexpressibly dear