Enver made all kinds of excuses; he was busy, he had appointments scheduled for the whole day. “I presume you want to see me about the English and French,” he said. “If that is so, I can tell you now that it will be useless. Our minds are made up. Orders have been issued to the police to gather them all by to-night and to ship them down to-morrow morning.” I still insisted that I must see him that afternoon and he still attempted to dodge the interview. “My time is all taken,” he said. “The Council of Ministers sits at four o’clock and the meeting is to be a very important one. I can’t absent myself.” Emboldened by the thought of the crowds of women that were flooding the whole Embassy I decided on an altogether unprecedented move. “I shall not be denied an interview,” I replied. “I shall come up to the cabinet room at four o’clock. If you refuse to receive me then, I shall insist on going into the council room and discussing the matter with the whole Cabinet. I shall be interested to learn whether the Turkish Cabinet will refuse to receive the American Ambassador.” It seemed to me that I could almost hear Enver gasp over the telephone. I presume few responsible ministers of any country have ever had such an astounding proposition made to them. “If you will meet me at the Sublime Porte at 3:30,” he answered, after a considerable pause, “I shall arrange to see you.” When I reached the Sublime Porte I was told that the Bulgarian Minister was having a protracted conference with Enver. Naturally I was willing to wait, for I knew what the two men were discussing. Presently M. Koloucheff came out; his face was tense and anxious, clearly revealing the ordeal through which he had just passed. “It is perfectly hopeless,” he said to me. “Nothing will move Enver: he is absolutely determined that this thing shall go through. I cannot wish you good luck, for you will have none.” The meeting which followed between Enver and myself was the most momentous I had had up to that time. We discussed the fate of the foreigners for nearly an hour. I found Enver in one of his most polite but most unyielding moods. He told me before I began that it was useless to talk--that the matter was a closed issue. But I insisted on telling him what a splendid impression Turkey’s treatment of her enemies had made on the outside world. “Your record in this matter is better than that of any other belligerent country,” I said. “You have not put them into concentration camps, you have let them stay here and continue their ordinary business, just as before. You have done this in spite of strong pressure to act otherwise. Why do you destroy all the good effect this has produced by now making such a fatal mistake as you propose?” But Enver insisted that the Allied fleets were bombarding unfortified towns, killing women, children, and wounded men. “We have warned them through you that they must not do this,” he said, “but they don’t stop.”