I went out to meet Jakoub at the door, Bates following me like a dog bristling with distrust of some instinctive foe.
As soon as he opened the door a man stepped quickly inside, in spite of a protesting movement from Bates.
For a moment my heart misgave me, for in this cloth-capped stranger, clad in cheap but respectable brown tweed, I failed to recognise Jakoub. But a flash from his eyes reassured me, and there was no mistaking his greeting. “All raight, effendi!” he said in his old mocking tone, “it is I, Jakoub.”
I think his quick intuition was disconcerted at my manifest pleasure in welcoming him! No doubt he had calculated on meeting fear or anger.
“Come in,” I said cordially. “I am very glad to see you again, Jakoub. It is quite right, Bates, just go and tell Mr. Edmund he will find an old friend with us in the study.”
Bates went upstairs distrustfully, and I led Jakoub into the study.
“Bishop, this is Jakoub,” I said with a happy smile; “Jakoub, this is my sheikh.”
The bishop nodded pleasantly and Jakoub instinctively salaamed, touching his forehead and breast.
He stood with his hands folded before him looking uneasily from one to the other of us. He was evidently nonplussed and suspicious, and doubtless felt at a disadvantage in the strange ugly clothes which vulgarised and robbed him of all his natural dignity.
“I came to speak with you private,” he said sullenly.