"He has sent one of his tribe, dressed as a fakir, into the hills to preach a new Jehad. Already the _mullahs_ (priests) are gathering about him. This fakir calls himself Abd-ul-Islam, but he is a Feringhi, no true believer, and no true friend to the religion. Yet he is leading many astray, for he deludes them with a false magic. You will see for yourself. You remember the magic pictures you saw at Karachi?" "I remember, _Sahib_." "It is such magic as that. There is none but Muhammed Din I might safely trust to close the mouth of such a rogue; therefore, Muhammed Din"--the eyes of white _sahib_ and Moslem fakir again looked into each other--"I am sending you on the mission. I asked you to come as a fakir because I judged that to be your best disguise. You have come as a _Haj_, which is even better. I do not want this impostor killed, if it can be helped. I want him exposed, discredited. I send you, Muhammed Din." He looked at him with significance as he added: "You may find an old acquaintance." The fakir stroked his long beard. "He shall be brought to you riding backwards upon an ass, and the women shall mock at him' _Sahib_. I swear it." The Political Officer smiled. "None can if you cannot, Muhammed Din. Now I will explain these things to you more fully." The Political Officer spread a map across the table and pointed out the route of the German agent across the Persian frontier and among the hills. His present abiding-place was fairly accurately known. The pseudo-fakir attentively considered the ways to it. Then he drew himself erect. "It is well, _Sahib_. I will now go." "You have a plan, Muhammed?" The fakir smiled grimly. "This dog has his false magic, _Sahib_, but Muhammed Din knows many magics that are not false. I have sworn." "Go, then. Allah be with you!" "And with you, _Sahib_!" Muhammed Din salaamed once more, lifted the curtain, and passed out. The Political Officer watched him go across the compound, and then bent down to his work again with a little outbreathing of satisfaction. The Secret Service had no more reliable man than Muhammed Din. * * * * * The squalid little village high up in a cleft of the brown and barren hills, that gleamed golden aloft where they cut sharply across the intense blue of the sky, was filled with an uncommon concourse of tribesmen. And yet more were arriving. Down the stony paths which led to the village from the heights, up the boulder-strewn, dried-up stream-bed which afforded the easiest passage from below, the hillmen hurried in little groups--a bearded _khan_, a modern rifle on his shoulder, his cummerbund stuck full of knives, followed by a ragged rabble of retainers, variously armed. Their weapons were mementoes of generations of rifle-stealing and gun-running. Lee-Enfields, Lee-Metfords, Martinis, Sniders--all were represented. Not a few carried the old-fashioned _jezail_, the long-barrelled gun with inlaid, curved stock. All had knives.