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