“It is decidedly not becoming,” I admitted.

“Well, what must I do?  You tell me and I do it.  If you don’t tell me, I must die.”

She leaned back placidly, having thus put upon my shoulders the responsibility of her existence.  I did not know which to admire more, her cool assurance or the stoic fortitude with which she faced dissolution.

“I can give you some money to keep you going for a day or two,” said I, “but as for finding Harry, without knowing his name—­”

“After all I don’t want so very much to find him,” said this amazing young person.  “He made me stay in my cabin all the time I was in the steamer.  At first I was glad, for it went up and down, side to side, and I thought I would die, for I was so sick; but afterwards I got better—­”

“But where did you come from?” I asked.

“From Alexandretta.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I used to sit in a tree and look over the wall—­”

“What wall?”

“The wall of my house-my father’s house.  He was not my father, but he married my mother.  I am English.”  She announced the fact with a little air of finality.

“Indeed?” said I.

“Yes.  Father, mother—­both English.  He was Vice-Consul.  He died before I was born.  Then his friend Hamdi Effendi took my mother and married her.  You see?”

I confessed I did not.  “Where does Harry come in?” I inquired.

She looked puzzled.  “Come in?” she echoed.

I perceived her knowledge of the English vernacular was limited.  I turned my question differently.

“Oh,” she said with more animation.  “He used to pass by the wall, and I talked to him when there was no one looking.  He was so pretty—­prettier than you,” she paused.

“Is it possible?” I said, ironically.

“Oh, yes,” she replied with profound gravity.  “He had a moustache, but he was not so long.”

“Well?  You talked to Harry.  What then?”

In her artless way she told me.  A refreshing story, as old as the crusades, with the accessories of orthodox tradition; a European disguise, purchased at a slop dealer’s by the precious Harry, a rope, a midnight flitting, a passage taken on board an English ship; the anchor weighed; and the lovers were free on the bounding main.  A most refreshing story!  I put on a sudden air of sternness, and shot a question at her like a bullet.

“Are you making all this up, young woman?”

She started-looked quite scared.

“You mean I tell lies?  But no.  It is all true.  Why shouldn’t it be true?  How else could I have come here?”

The question was unanswerable.  Her story was as preposterous as her garments.  But her garments were real enough.  I looked long into her great innocent eyes.  Yes, she was telling me the truth.  She babbled on for a little.  I gathered that her step-father, Hamdi Effendi, was a Turkish official.  She had spent all her life in the harem from which she had eloped with this pretty young Englishman.