Their eyes met. Each was trying to fathom the mind of the other. For a minute she was silent, then in a decisive tone of voice she replied, “You are right. I arrived here a week ago from abroad.” “From where--abroad?” “That is asking questions.” She was fencing for time. “Oh, come on.” “What’s that?” frowning. “You misunderstand me. I mean tell me where you came from. England?” “Do I look English?” “No. Not at all.” Admiring her gift of quick and thoughtful repartee, he supplemented, “No, you are neither English nor French.” “But England and France are not the only countries, although they like to think so when they do not require the help of other countries,” she answered sarcastically. Their walk had by this time brought them to the bridge terminal. “Would you mind calling a taxi?” she asked. “With pleasure,” he replied, and called a passing car. It was with a heart that sank at the answer, that he asked, at the parting, “May I see you again?” A smile curved her exquisitely carven lips and seemed to brighten her face and lend added luster to her eyes as she slowly shook her head in the negative. Carl stepped forward to help her into the taxi, but before he could realize it, she had gathered her skirts, revealing a dainty pair of ankles and entered the machine. A moment later the door was closed and the car sped away, leaving Carl standing at the curb, watching it with charmed eyes. Hat still in hand, and entirely oblivious of the curious eyes of those who had witnessed the incident, he pondered over her lithe and graceful form, the large fathomless eyes and the subtle charm of her musical voice. But his heart would have pulsed with added vigor had he heard, as the taxi started, her scarcely audible “Auf Wiedersehen.” A final look at the parting car gave him a pleasing view of her smiling face, as she gave him a gracious nod. He bowed and waved his hand in return, murmuring half aloud, “Some girl!” Suddenly his musing was rudely broken into by the passing of a truck and the growled warning from its driver to get away from the curb. Brought thus back to the stern world of reality and the commonplace, he gave his cane a vicious twirl and muttered beneath his breath, “Damn it! That’s what I call hard luck”--throwing away his cigarette. Having given vent to this expletive, he turned and went his way, seeing nothing but that beautiful smiling face which was the center and pivot of his confused mind. At the Claza, Sana, for that was the name of this strange girl, alighted from the taxi, and after paying and dismissing the driver, stepped quickly into the hotel. She took the elevator to the eighth floor. But a change had come over her. Her face was pale and she was visibly perturbed, as she went down the corridor.