“You are giving me a captivating evening,” she said, with a smile.

“Whom are you captivating?” I asked, idly jesting.  “Pasquale?”

“You are cruel,” whispered Judith, with a flicker of her eyelids.

I flushed, ashamed, not having weighed the significance of my words.  All I could say was:  “I beg your pardon,” whereat Judith laughed mirthlessly.  I relapsed into silence.  Turn followed turn on the stage.  While the curtain was lowered Carlotta sank back with a little sigh of enjoyment, and nodded brightly at me.

“Do you remember,” she said, turning to me, at a fresh fall of the curtain, “when you brought me first?  I said I should like to live here.  Wasn’t I silly?”

She turned again, then suddenly rose to her feet and staggered back to the back of the box, pointing outward, with an expression of wild terror on her face.

“Hamdi—­he’s down there—­he saw me.”

I sprang to her assistance and put my arm around her.

“Nonsense, dear,” said I.

But Pasquale, looking around the house, cried: 

“By Jove! she’s right.  I would recognise the old villain a thousand years hence in Tartarus.  There he is.”

I left Carlotta, and the first person my eyes rested upon in the stalls was my obese but suave Oriental, regarding the box with an impassive countenance.

“That’s Hamdi Effendi, all right,” said Pasquale.

Carlotta clutched my arms as I joined her at the back of the box.

“Oh, take me away, Seer Marcous, take me away,” she moaned piteously.  My poor child was white and shaken with fear.  I again put my arm round her.

“No harm can happen to you, dear,” I said, soothingly.

“Oh, darling Seer Marcous, take me home,” cried Carlotta.

“Very well,” said I. I helped her on with her wrap, and apologising to the two others, begged them to remain.

“We’ll all go together,” said Judith quietly.

“And form a body-guard,” laughed Pasquale.

Carlotta clinging to my arm we left the box and slipped through the promenade and down the stairs.

Hamdi Effendi, having anticipated our intention, cut off our retreat in the vestibule.  Carlotta shrank nearer to me.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but may I have the pleasure of a few words with you about this young lady?” said he in the urbanest manner and the most execrable French.

“I hardly see the necessity,” said I.

“Pardon me, but this young lady is a Turkish subject and my daughter.  My name is Hamdi Effendi, Prefect of Police at Aleppo, and my address in London is the Hotel Metropole.”

“I am charmed to make your acquaintance,” said I.  “I have often heard of you from Mademoiselle—­but I believe both her father and mother were English, so she is neither your daughter nor a Turkish subject.”

“Ah, that we will see,” rejoined the polite Oriental.  He addressed some words rapidly in Turkish to Carlotta, who shudderingly replied in the same language.