He couldn't doubt that his own arrangements with traitors on the staff to kidnap Feisul had gone amiss, else how should I be aware of them at all--I, who had only arrived that evening in Damascus?
But it puzzled him to know why I should make him write the letter, or, since his plan must have failed, why I should let him share in the kidnapping.
He smelt the obvious rat.

Why didn't I sign the letter myself, and get all the credit afterward, as any other spy would do?
"You sign it," he said, pushing the letter toward me; and I got one of those sudden inspirations that there is no explaining--the right idea for handling fox Rene the banker.
"So you're afraid to sign that, are you?
All right; give it here, I'll sign it; pass me your pen.

But you'll come along with me tonight, my lad, and make your explanations to the French in the morning!" Looking back, I can see how the accusation worked, although it was an arrow shot at a venture.

His greasy, sly, fox face with its touch of bold impudence betrayed him for a man who would habitually hedge his bets.

Feisul's safe-conduct had protected him from official interference, but it had needed more than that to preserve him from unofficial murder, and beyond a doubt he had betrayed the French in minor ways whenever that course looked profitable.