GREENMANTLEby JOHN BUCHAN

Chapter 2

The Gathering of the MissionariesI wrote out a wire to Sandy, asking him to come up by thetwo-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. Iknow 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 prettygirl's. I know his record, too. There's a good deal about him in thisoffice. He rode through Yemen, which no white man ever didbefore. The Arabs let him pass, for they thought him stark mad andargued that the hand of Allah was heavy enough on him withouttheir efforts. He's blood-brother to every kind of Albanian bandit.Also he used to take a hand in Turkish politics, and got a hugereputation. Some Englishman was once complaining to old MahmoudShevkat about the scarcity of statesmen in Western Europe,and Mahmoud broke in with, "Have you not the HonourableArbuthnot?" You say he's in your battalion. I was wondering whathad become of him, for we tried to get hold of him here, but hehad 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 hewas that kind of swell. Sandy's not the chap to buck about himself.''He wouldn't,' said Sir Walter. 'He had always a more thanOriental reticence. I've got another colleague for you, if you likehim.'

He looked at his watch. 'You can get to the Savoy Grill Room infive 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 withone 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 downbeside him. Say you come from me. His name is Mr JohnScantlebury Blenkiron, now a citizen of Boston, Mass., but bornand raised in Indiana. Put this envelope in your pocket, but don'tread its contents till you have talked to him. I want you to formyour own opinion about Mr Blenkiron.'

I went out of the Foreign Office in as muddled a frame of mindas any diplomatist who ever left its portals. I was most desperatelydepressed. To begin with, I was in a complete funk. I had alwaysthought I was about as brave as the average man, but there'scourage and courage, and mine was certainly not the impassivekind. Stick me down in a trench and I could stand being shot at aswell as most people, and my blood could get hot if it were given achance. But I think I had too much imagination. I couldn't shakeoff 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, lookingfor a taxi in the middle of Whitehall, but the sweat broke on myforehead. I felt as I had felt in my adventure before the war. Butthis was far worse, for it was more cold-blooded and premeditated,and I didn't seem to have even a sporting chance. I watched thefigures in khaki passing on the pavement, and thought what a nicesafe prospect they had compared to mine. 

Yes, even if next week

they were in the Hohenzollern, or the Hairpin trench at theQuarries, or that ugly angle at Hooge. I wondered why I had notbeen happier that morning before I got that infernal wire. Suddenlyall the trivialities of English life seemed to me inexpressibly dearand terribly far away. I was very angry with Bullivant, till Iremembered how fair he had been. My fate was my own choosing.When I was hunting the Black Stone the interest of the problemhad helped to keep me going. But now I could see no problem. Mymind had nothing to work on but three words of gibberish on asheet of paper and a mystery of which Sir Walter had beenconvinced, but to which he couldn't give a name.

 It was like the story

I had read of Saint Teresa setting off at the age of ten with her smallbrother to convert the Moors. I sat huddled in the taxi with mychin on my breast, wishing that I had lost a leg at Loos and beencomfortably tucked away for the rest of the war.