How beautiful she was in her indignation!

“Slavery is put down, you imagine, perhaps?  You do not believe that to-day—­to-day—­twenty-five English sovereigns will buy a Galla girl, who is brown, and”—­whisper—­“two hundred and fifty a Circassian, who is white.  No, there is no slavery!  So!  Then what am I?”

She threw open her cloak, and it is a literal fact that I rubbed my eyes, half believing that I dreamed.  For beneath, she was arrayed in gossamer silk which more than indicated the perfect lines of her slim shape; wore a jeweled girdle and barbaric ornaments; was a figure fit for the walled gardens of Stamboul—­a figure amazing, incomprehensible, in the prosaic setting of my rooms.

“To-night I had no time to make myself an English miss,” she said, wrapping her cloak quickly about her.  “You see me as I am.”  Her garments exhaled a faint perfume, and it reminded me of another meeting I had had with her.  I looked into the challenging eyes.

“Your request is but a pretense,” I said.  “Why do you keep the secrets of that man, when they mean death to so many?”

“Death!  I have seen my own sister die of fever in the desert—­ seen her thrown like carrion into a hole in the sand.  I have seen men flogged until they prayed for death as a boon.  I have known the lash myself.  Death!  What does it matter?”

She shocked me inexpressibly.  Enveloped in her cloak again, and with only her slight accent to betray her, it was dreadful to hear such words from a girl who, save for her singular type of beauty, might have been a cultured European.

“Prove, then, that you really wish to leave this man’s service.  Tell me what killed Strozza and the Chinaman,” I said.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I do not know that.  But if you will carry me off”—­she clutched me nervously—­“so that I am helpless, lock me up so that I cannot escape, beat me, if you like, I will tell you all I do know.  While he is my master I will never betray him.  Tear me from him—­by force, do you understand, by force, and my lips will be sealed no longer.  Ah! but you do not understand, with your `proper authorities’—­ your police.  Police!  Ah, I have said enough.”

A clock across the common began to strike.  The girl started and laid her hands upon my shoulders again.  There were tears glittering among the curved black lashes.

“You do not understand,” she whispered.  “Oh, will you never understand and release me from him!  I must go.  Already I have remained too long.  Listen.  Go out without delay.  Remain out—­at a hotel, where you will, but do not stay here.”

“And Nayland Smith?”

“What is he to me, this Nayland Smith?  Ah, why will you not unseal my lips?  You are in danger—­you hear me, in danger!  Go away from here to-night.”

She dropped her hands and ran from the room.  In the open doorway she turned, stamping her foot passionately.