“To-morrow if you say so.  Meanwhile, let it rest in peace!” And I consigned it to the most sacred interstice of my pocket-book.  To say that I was disposed to humour the poor fellow would seem to be saying that I thought his request fantastic.  It was his situation, by no fault of his own, that was fantastic, and he was only trying to be natural.  He watched me put away the letter, and when it had disappeared gave a soft sigh of relief.  The sigh was natural, and yet it set me thinking.  His general recoil from an immediate responsibility imposed by others might be wholesome enough; but if there was an old grievance on one side, was there not possibly a new-born delusion on the other?  It would be unkind to withhold a reflection that might serve as a warning; so I told him, abruptly, that I had been an undiscovered spectator, the night before, of his exploits at roulette.

He blushed deeply, but he met my eyes with the same clear good-humour.

“Ah, then, you saw that wonderful lady?”

“Wonderful she was indeed.  I saw her afterwards, too, sitting on the terrace in the starlight.  I imagine she was not alone.”

“No, indeed, I was with her—­for nearly an hour.  Then I walked home with her.”

“Ah!  And did you go in?”

“No, she said it was too late to ask me; though she remarked that in a general way she did not stand upon ceremony.”

“She did herself injustice.  When it came to losing your money for you, she made you insist.”

“Ah, you noticed that too?” cried Pickering, still quite unconfused.  “I felt as if the whole table were staring at me; but her manner was so gracious and reassuring that I supposed she was doing nothing unusual.  She confessed, however, afterwards, that she is very eccentric.  The world began to call her so, she said, before she ever dreamed of it, and at last finding that she had the reputation, in spite of herself, she resolved to enjoy its privileges.  Now, she does what she chooses.”

“In other words, she is a lady with no reputation to lose!”

Pickering seemed puzzled; he smiled a little.  “Is not that what you say of bad women?”

“Of some—­of those who are found out.”

“Well,” he said, still smiling, “I have not yet found out Madame Blumenthal.”

“If that’s her name, I suppose she’s German.”

“Yes; but she speaks English so well that you wouldn’t know it.  She is very clever.  Her husband is dead.”

I laughed involuntarily at the conjunction of these facts, and Pickering’s clear glance seemed to question my mirth.  “You have been so bluntly frank with me,” I said, “that I too must be frank.  Tell me, if you can, whether this clever Madame Blumenthal, whose husband is dead, has given a point to your desire for a suspension of communication with Smyrna.”

He seemed to ponder my question, unshrinkingly.  “I think not,” he said, at last.  “I have had the desire for three months; I have known Madame Blumenthal for less than twenty-four hours.”