Inch by inch the gate edged open. Warily he presented himself. The
furtive crack gave him an instant's glimpse of a dark form within
the shadows, then, in his face, it closed.

Ryder waited. In a moment it was opened wider, and he saw the
dark-shrouded head and the veiled face of the Turkish girl, and out
from the blackness the sparkle of young eyes.

"Is it--but who is it?" whispered a doubtful voice, and at his, "Why
it is I--the American," quickly drawing off his cap, a little hand
darted out of the darkness to pluck him swiftly within and the door
was closed to within an inch of its opening.

Then the black phantom, drawing him back among the shrubbery,
against the wall, turned with a muffled note of laughter.

"But the costume! Imagine that I--I was looking again for a Scottish
chieftain with red kilts and a feather in his cap!"

"And instead--" Ryder glanced down at his tweeds with humorous
recognition of his change of figure. Then his eyes returned to her.

"But you are the same," he murmured.

She was indeed the same. The same black street mantle, down to her
very brows. The same black veil, up to her very eyes. And the
eyes--! Their soft mysterious loveliness--the little winged tilt of
the brows!