But still he sobbed.

His fez had fallen over his ears and his face was all smudged with tears.

It seemed impossible to stop him.

I looked about in vain from the little alcove of the hall of the Yildiz Kiosk where we were sitting on a Persian bench under a lemon-tree.  There was no one in sight.  I hardly knew what to do.

In the Yildiz Kiosk—­I think that was the name of the place—­I scarcely as yet knew my way about.  In fact, I had only been in it a few hours.  I had come there—­as I should have explained in commencing—­in order to try to pick up information as to the exact condition of things in Turkey.  For this purpose I had assumed the character and disguise of an English governess.  I had long since remarked that an English governess is able to go anywhere, see everything, penetrate the interior of any royal palace and move to and fro as she pleases without hindrance and without insult.  No barrier can stop her.  Every royal court, however splendid or however exclusive, is glad to get her.  She dines with the King or the Emperor as a matter of course.  All state secrets are freely confided to her and all military plans are submitted to her judgment.  Then, after a few weeks’ residence, she leaves the court and writes a book of disclosures.

This was now my plan.

And, up to the moment of which I speak, it had worked perfectly.

I had found my way through Turkey to the royal capital without difficulty.  The poke bonnet, the spectacles and the long black dress which I had assumed had proved an ample protection.  None of the rude Turkish soldiers among whom I had passed had offered to lay a hand on me.  This tribute I am compelled to pay to the splendid morality of the Turks.  They wouldn’t touch me.

Access to the Yildiz Kiosk and to the Sultan had proved equally easy.  I had merely to obtain an interview with Codfish Pasha, the Secretary of War, whom I found a charming man of great intelligence, a master of three or four languages (as he himself informed me), and able to count up to seventeen.

“You wish,” he said, “to be appointed as English, or rather Canadian governess to the Sultan?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And your object?”

“I propose to write a book of disclosures.”

“Excellent,” said Codfish.

An hour later I found myself, as I have said, in a flag-stoned hall of the Yildiz Kiosk, with the task of amusing and entertaining the Sultan.

Of the difficulty of this task I had formed no conception.  Here I was at the outset, with the unhappy Abdul bent and broken with sobs which I found no power to check or control.

Naturally, therefore, I found myself at a loss.  The little man as he sat on his cushions, in his queer costume and his long slippers with his fez fallen over his lemon-coloured face, presented such a pathetic object that I could not find the heart to be stern with him.