At the very first he had been one mouthpiece of the news. For some hours the packet containing it had hung in the dressing-room of a London Turkish bath.
His act had recoiled upon himself, for when Gortre found him in the chambers he was spiritually dying.
Could this suspicion of Schuabe and Llwellyn possibly be true? It had seemed both plausible and probable in Sir Michael's study in London. But out here in the Jaffa roadstead, when he realised—or tried to realise—that on him might depend the salvation of the world.... He laughed aloud at that monstrous grandiloquent phrase. He was in the nineteenth century, not the tenth.
He doubted more and more. Had it been any one else it might have been possible to believe. But he could not see himself in this stupendous rôle.
The mental processes became insupportable; he dismissed thought with a great effort of will and got up from his seat.
At least there was some action, something definite to do waiting for him. Speculation only blurred everything. He would be true to the trust his friends in England reposed in him and leave the rest to happen as it was fated.
There was a relief in that attitude—the Arab attitude. Kismet!
Griggs, the fruit merchant, came up from the saloon wiping his lips.
"Bit orf," he said, "waiting like this. But the sea will go down soon. Last spring I had to go on to Beyrout, the weather was that rough. Ever tried that Vin de Rishon le Zion? It's a treat. Made from Bordeaux vines transplanted to Palestine—you'll pass the fields on the way up—just had a half bottle. Hallo!—look, there's the boat at last—old Francis Karane's boat. Must go and look after my traps."
A long boat was creeping out from behind the reef. Spence went to his cabin to see after his light kit. It was better to move and work than to think.