led alone in it--and she had meekly obeyed. She
had wandered out of the station and across a bridge and had eventually
found herself in the Embankment Gardens. Then she had asked me how to
find Harry. Really she was ridiculously like Thomas a Becket's Saracen
mother crying in London for Gilbert. And the most ludicrous part of the
resemblance was that she did not know the creature's surname.

"By the way," said I, "what is your name?"

"Carlotta."

"Carlotta what?" I asked.

"I have no other name."

"Your father--the Vice-Consul--had one."

She wrinkled her young forehead in profound mental effort.

"Ramsbotham," she said at last, triumphantly.

"Now look here, Miss Ramsbotham--no," I broke off. "Such an appellation
is anachronistic, incongruous, and infinitely absurd. I can't use it. I
must take the liberty of addressing you as Carlotta."

"But I've told you that Carlotta is my name," she said, in
uncomprehending innocence.

"And mine is Sir Marcus Ordeyne. People call me 'Sir Marcus.'"

"Seer Marcous," said Carlotta.

She did not seem at all impressed with the fact that she was talking to
a member of the baronetage.

"Quite so," said I. "Now, Carlotta," I resumed, "our first plan is
to set out in search of Harry. He may have missed his train, and have
followed by a later one, and be even now rampaging about Waterloo
station. If we hear nothing of him, I will drive you to the Turkish
Consulate, give you in charge there, and they will see you safely home
to Alexandretta. The good Hamdi Effendi is doubtless distracted, and
will welcome you back with open arms."

I meant to be urbane and friendly.

She rose to her feet, grew as white as paper, opened her great eyes,
opened her baby mouth, and in the middle of the Embankment Gardens
plumped on her knees before me and clasped her hands above her head.

"For God's sake get up!" I shrieked, wrenching her back acrobatically to
the bench beside me. "You mustn't do things like that. You'll have the
whole of London running to look at us."

Indeed the sight had so far roused the pale young man from his
lethargy that he laid his dirty pink paper on his knees. I kept hold of
Carlotta's wrists. She began to moan incoherently.

"You mustn't send me back--Hamdi will kill me--oh please don't send me
back--he will make me marry his friend Mustapha--Mustapha has only two
teeth--and he is seventy years old--and he has a wife already--I only
went with Harry to avoid Mu