Well, Scheherazade," he said, smiling, "teller of marvellous tales, I
don't quite believe your stories, but they were extremely
entertaining. So I won't bowstring you or cut off your unusually
attractive head! No! On the contrary, I thank you for your
wonder-tales, and for not murdering me. And, furthermore, I bestow
upon you your liberty. Have you sufficient cash to take you where you
desire to waft yourself?"

All the time her dark, unsmiling eyes remained fixed on him, calmly
unresponsive to his badinage.

"I'm sorry I had to be rough with you, Scheherazade," he continued,
"but when a young lady sews her clothes full of papers which don't
belong to her, what, I ask you, is a modest young man to do?"

She said nothing.

"It becomes necessary for that modest young man to can his
modesty--and the young lady's. Is there anything else he could do?" he
repeated gaily.

"He had better return those papers," she replied in a low voice.

"I'm sorry, Scheherazade, but it isn't done in ultra-crooked circles.
Are you sure you have enough money to go where destiny and booty call
you?"

"I have what I require," she answered dryly.

"Then good-bye, Pearl of the Harem! Without rancour, I offer you the
hand that reluctantly chastened you."

They remained facing each other in silence for a moment; his
expression was mischievously amused; hers inscrutable. Then, as he
patiently and good-humouredly continued to offer her his hand, very
slowly she laid her own in it, still looking him directly in the
eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said in a low voice.

"For what? For not shooting me?"

"I'm sorry for _you_, Mr. Neeland.... You're only a boy, after all.
You know nothing. And you refuse to learn.... I'm sorry....
Good-bye."

"Could I take you anywhere? To the Hotel Orange? I've time. The
station is across the street."

"No," she said.

She walked leisurely along the poorly lighted street and turned the
first corner as though at hazard. The next moment her trim and
graceful figure had disappeared.

With his heart still gay from the night's excitement, and the drop of
Irish blood in him lively as champagne, he crossed the square briskly,
entered the stuffy station, bought a ticket, and went out to the
wooden platform beside the rails.

Placing box and suitcase side by side, he seated himself upon them and
lighted a cigarette.

Here was an adventure! Whether or not he understood it, here
certainly was a real, story-book adv