ly looked at Vane, and
said:

"Come."

CHAPTER II

In the morning Mrs. Clarke sent a messenger to Hughes's Hotel asking
Dion to meet her at the landing-place on the right of the Galata Bridge
at a quarter to eleven.

"We will go to Eyub by caique," she wrote, "and lunch at a Turkish cafe
I know close to the mosque."

She drove to the bridge. When she came in sight of it she saw Dion
standing on it alone, looking down on the crowded water-way. He was
leaning on the railing, and his right cheek rested on the palm of his
brown hand. Mrs. Clarke smiled faintly as she realized that this man who
was waiting for her had evidently forgotten all about her.

She dismissed the carriage, paid the toll and walked on to the bridge.
As usual there was a crowd of pedestrians passing to and fro from Galata
to Stamboul and from Stamboul to Galata. She mingled with it, went up to
Dion and stood near him without uttering a word. For perhaps two minutes
she stood thus before he noticed her. Then he turned and sent her a
hard, almost defiant glance before he recognized who his companion was.

"Oh, I didn't know it was----Why didn't you speak? Is it time to go? I
meant to be at the landing."

He spoke like a man who had been a long way off, and who returned weary
and almost dazed from that distance. He looked at his watch.

"Please forgive me for putting you to the trouble of coming to find me."

"You needn't ever ask me to forgive you for anything. Don't let us
bother each other with all the silly little things that worry the fools.
We've got beyond all that long ago. There's my caique."

She made a signal with her hand. Two Albanians below saluted her.

"Shall we go at once? Or would you rather stay here a little longer?"

"Let us go. I was only looking at the water."

He turned and sent a long glance to Stamboul.

"Your city!" he said.

"I shall take you."

For the first time that day he looked at her intimately, and his look
said:

"Why do you trouble about me?"

They went down, got into the caique, and were taken by the turmoil of
the Golden Horn. Among the innumerable caiques, the steamboats, the
craft of all kinds, they went out into the strong sunshine, guarded
on the one hand by the crowding, discolored houses of Galata rising to
Pera, on the other hand by the wooden dwellings and the enormous mosques
of Stamboul. The voices of life pursued them over the water and they sat
in silence side by side. Dion ma