In brief, that sweet champion spoke so prettily and smoothed things so cleverly that I was "forgiven," and later on in the evening allowed to escort Polly back to her hotel. "And oh!" she said, in her charmingly enthusiastic way when we were saying goodnight, "you shall write a book about that extraordinary story you told me just now. Only you must promise me one thing." "What is it?" "To leave out all about Heru--I don't like that part at all." This with the prettiest little pout. "But, Polly dear, see how important she was to the narrative. I cannot quite do that." "Then you will say as little as you can about her?" "No more than the story compels me to." "And you are quite sure you like me much the best, and will not go after her again?" "Quite sure." The compact was sealed in the most approved fashion; and here, indulgent reader, is the artless narrative that resulted--an incident so incredible in this prosaic latter-day world that I dare not ask you to believe, and must humbly content myself with hoping that if I fail to convince yet I may at least claim the consolation of having amused you.