“Oh, yes, thank you,” he replied, in a genial voice. “It was a mere scratch, which the people chose to magnify into a serious wound. I shall be as right as ninepence pretty soon. It was my own fault for prying where I wasn’t wanted. I got into one of the caves on the other side of the mount, not knowing that it was the parlour of an Arab gentleman until he set on me and whipped out a knife. I wouldn’t have intruded if I had known it was his den. I guess I’ll keep to the township for the future, anyway.” “Have you been long in Syria?” asked the Princess, when they had both commented on the adventure. “I suppose you have visited Jerusalem and the neighbourhood?” He answered in the negative. “I came from Port Said to Jaffa, and from Jaffa to here,” he explained. “I am really _en route_ from Australia to England.” Raie wondered what business had brought him to Haifa, but she was too well-bred to ask. “I suppose England is your home?” she said gently, thinking that there was no harm in questioning so far. “I have no home, Miss Emanuel,” was his prompt reply. “The world is my home.” There was a touch of sadness in his words, as well as in his voice. The girl glanced up suddenly, and meeting the gaze from his deep eyes looked as suddenly away. She felt instinctively that this was a man who had been brought into contact with the rough side of life, but who yet retained his natural refinement of birth. He interested her strangely, and so strongly that she longed to find out more about him. If he were a Jew, how was it that he intended to go to England? Surely he must be aware of the expulsion of the Jews? She was so impressed by his personality that she could not help thinking of him, even after her departure from the hotel. She visited her people—who lived in one of the white houses in the suburbs—later in the day, and could scarcely refrain from mentioning him to them. She was glad, however, that she was able to check herself in time, for Mrs. Emanuel’s badinage was the last thing that she desired. In talking to her mother, however, a half-forgotten chord of remembrance was stirred in her brain—a psychological connection between Mr. Merryweather and a former conversation. She tried to fathom it out, but the solution escaped her. One thing she was certain about: she had seen something of the tourist before. CHAPTER II RAIE AND THE TOURIST