" she said; "I have lost him."

"Who's Harry?" I naturally inquired.

"He is to be my husband."

"What's his other name?"

"I have forgotten," she said, spreading out her hands.

"Don't you know any one else in London?" I asked.

She shook her head mournfully. "And I am getting so hungry."

I suggested that there were restaurants in London.

"But I have no money," she objected. "No money and nothing at all but
this." She designated her dress. "Isn't it ugly?"

"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 de