She saw nobody, and easily let herself into the flat. It had been recently aired and dusted. Every piece of furniture stood just as she remembered it. “Oh, Princey, it’s _home_!” she whispered. “This is our real, real home! I—I loved ’em all at The Corners; but it wasn’t like _this_ there!” Prince perhaps agreed, but he was too deeply interested in snuffing at the package of meat scraps she had purchased for his supper to reply. “Well, well, Prince,” she said, “you shall have it at once.” Dropping the bag in the private hall, she went into the kitchen and stood on tiptoe to open the door of the closet above the dresser. Securing a plate, she emptied the contents of the paper into it, and set the plate down on the floor. In spreading out the paper she saw some big-type headlines on the front page: ROMANCE OF THE GREAT WAR _The Experiences of This Newspaper Man like Those of a Character in a Novel—Lost for Eight Months in the Desert—At the Mercy of Semi-savage Tribes, Man and Wife Escape at Last to Return in Safety and Health._ _His Story Told to Beacon Reporter at Quarantine._ Carolyn May read no further. It did not particularly interest a little girl. Besides, she was very tired—too tired to think of her own supper. Had she read on, however, even her simple mind might have been startled by the following paragraphs printed below the heading of this startling story: “Their wonderful good fortune in escaping from the disaster that overtook the steamer on which they travelled and which was caught between the gunfire of a French battleship and two of a Turkish squadron can only be equalled by the chance which followed. Naturally, as a journalist himself, Mr. Cameron is prepared to tell the details of his remarkable adventure in the columns of the _Beacon_ at a later date. “The boat in which they left the sinking _Dunraven_ was separated in the night and fog from that of the other refugees and was carried by the current far to the south. In fact, they were enveloped by fog until they landed upon a stretch of deserted beach. “There was no town near, nor even an encampment of Arabs. But soon after their disembarkation and before the officer in command could take means to communicate with any civilised, or semi-civilised, place a party of mounted and armed tribesmen swooped down on the castaways. “These people, being Mohammedans, and having seen the battle the day before between the French and the Turks, considered the castaways enemies and swept them away with them into the desert to a certain oasis, where for nearly eight months Mr. John Lewis Cameron and his wife and the other refugees from the _Dunraven_ were kept without being allowed to communicate with their friends.