"She seemed to have suddenly become greatly interested in me, for she inquired my profession, and the reason I visited the East, to which I gave evasive, if not rather misleading replies, for I led her to believe that I was the representative of a firm of London railway contractors, and was in Sofia taking orders for steel rails. "It is not always judicious to tell people one's real profession. "When we reached the quay at Constantinople, and I had handed over my baggage to the dragoman of the Pera Palace Hotel, my pretty companion said in French: "`I lived here for quite a long time, you know, so I shall go and stay with friends out at Sarmaschik. I will call at your hotel at, say, eleven to-morrow morning. By that time you will have ascertained what is the next steamer to Naples.' "And so, in the dirty ill-lit custom-house at Galata, with its mud, its be-fezzed officials and slinking dogs, we parted, she entering a cab and driving away. "Next morning she kept her appointment and was, I saw, exceedingly well-dressed. "I told her when we met in the big vestibule of the hotel, that there was a steamer leaving for Marseilles at four that afternoon, and suggested that route as preferable to Naples. "`I think we will delay our departure until to-morrow,' she said. `My friends have a little family gathering to-night, and ask me to say that they would be delighted to meet you. They are not at all bigoted, and you will find them very hospitable.' "I bowed and accepted the invitation. "`You will not find the house alone, as Constantinople is so puzzling,' she said. `I will send their _kavass_ for you at eight o'clock.' "And a few moments later she drove away in the smart carriage that had brought her. "That day I idled about the Sultan's capital, looked in at St Sophia, paused and watched the phantasmagoria of life on the Galata Bridge, and strolled in the Grand Rue at Pera, merely killing time. Case-hardened bachelor that I am, my mind was now filled with that sweet-faced, beautiful woman of my dreams who had been so cruelly tortured in that abominable prison at Riga, and whom I was aiding to the safe refuge of England's shores. "Once, while turning a corner at the end of the Grand Rue, the busy shopping centre of the Turkish capital, a mysterious incident occurred. Among the many figures in frock-coats and fezes my eye caught one which caused me to start. It struck me curiously as that of my sallow-faced friend, Mehmed Zekki, of Sofia. Yet in a crowd of Turks all dressed alike, one is rather difficult to distinguish from another, so I quickly dismissed the suspicion that we had been followed. "I had already dined at the hotel and was sitting in the Turkish smoking-room, when there arrived a big Montenegrin _kavass_, in gorgeous scarlet and gold, and wearing an arsenal of weapons in his belt, as is their mode. "`Monsieur Martin?' he inquired. `Mademoiselle Olga. She send me for you. I take you to ze house.'