One evening there was a telephone call. On taking up the receiver I heard Sykes’ voice telling me that he had just arrived in Paris, and was staying as usual at the Hôtel Lotti opposite us. I invited him at once to dinner, and he came. He was the same lovable fellow, full of life and humour, but now frightfully thin. He had lived the whole time on “German sausages” and had suffered much from digestive troubles. It only transpired later, that he had spent sixteen hours a day in Aleppo working under almost impossible conditions on behalf of the Arabs and Armenians. He was himself never in the habit of talking about his work. It was two hours after midnight when he left us,――he had so much to tell about the ordinary incapacity for proper administration of the local Syrian population and their marked capacity in that direction under suitable guidance, about the prospects for Palestine, about the steps he had taken against anti-Zionist intrigues in Syria and other matters. From that time forward we saw each other every day. Some days later he went to London to see his family and returned in three days with Lady Sykes. Immediately upon his arrival he was in touch with us. He had a thousand ideas, and had brought reports and instructions from Syria that had to be elaborated. Our days were filled with appointments for visits, interviews, etc. Then Lady Sykes was attacked by influenza, which caused a little dislocation and the postponement of an accepted invitation, but gave no cause for alarm. On the 13th of February, Sir Mark hastily entered my room, and on finding me indisposed, he shouted, “There’s no time now for being ill.” The following morning he sent word to me that Lady Sykes was better, but that he himself was taken ill. “I have got it,” he said to Serjeant Wilson when he went to bed. On the 15th Lady Sykes sent for me, and told me that her husband would have to remain in bed for a few days, that afterwards she intended to go to England for a week or so to recuperate. “To Sledmore?” I asked. “No,” said Lady Sykes, “it is too cold there. I think the South will be better. And my chief reason for troubling you,” she added, “is because my husband wants to know how Zionist matters went yesterday.” I gave full details to Lady Sykes. In the afternoon of the 16th Sir Mark died. He died on the threshold of the Peace Conference which was destined to make his dream a living thing, died in a hotel in the midst of us, bound up with our deepest affections, a radiant form full of love and sincerity. His life was as a song, almost as a Psalm. He was a man who has won a monument in the future Pantheon of the Jewish people and of whom legends will be told in Palestine, Arabia and Armenia. Just returned from a difficult task in the service of humanity in the service of the idea of nationality, and about to perform great things for the Jewish people, he fell as a hero at our side.