would give me.

"No; that's why, sometimes, I wish I was like one of the white gulls
that fly over the water."

"I don't understand."

"I would be out at sea with my mate--that's what I mean."

"Have you a mate?"

"I had. She is lost."

"Dead?"

"Worse."

I kept at work. White clouds sailed over the mosque; a flurry of
pigeons swept by; the air blew fresh. With the exception of my
companion and myself the street was deserted. I dared not go any
further in my inquiries. If I betrayed any more interest or previous
knowledge he might think I was in league against him.

"The girl, then, suffers equally with the man?" I said, tightening one
of the legs of my easel.

"More. He can keep his body clean; she must often barter hers in
exchange for her life. A woman doesn't count much in Turkey. This is
one of the things we young men who have seen something of the outside
world--I lived a year in Paris--will improve when we get the power,"
and his eyes flashed.

"And yet it is dangerous to help one of them to escape, is it not?"

"Yes."

The hour was nearly up. Joe, I knew, had fixed it, consulting his watch
and comparing it with mine so that I might know the coast was clear
during that brief period should anything happen.

"I was tempted to help one yesterday," I answered. "I saw a woman's
face that has haunted me ever since. She may not have been in trouble,
but she looked so." Then quietly, and as if it was only one of the many
incidents that cross a painter's path, I described in minute detail the
gate, the sliding panel, the veiled face and wondrous eyes, the
approach of the officer, the smothered cry of terror, the black finger
and thumb that reached out, and the noiseless closing of the panel.
What I omitted was all reference to Joe or his knowledge of the girl.

Mahmoud was staring into my eyes now.

"Where was this?"

"Just behind you. Lift your head--that seam marks the sliding panel.
She may come again when she sees the top of my umbrella over the wall.
Listen! That's her step. She has some one with her--crouch down close.
There's only room for her head. You may see her then without her
attendant knowing you are here. Quick! she is sliding the panel!"

Outside of Paris, overlooking the Seine, high up on a hill, stands the
Bellevue--a restaurant known to half the world. Sweeping down from the
perfectly appointed tables lining the rail of the broad piazza;
skimming the tree-tops, the plain below,