"Yes."

The hour was nearly up. Joe, I knew, had fixed
it, consulting his watch and comparing it with mine
so that I might know the coast was clear during that
brief period should anything happen.

"I was tempted to help one yesterday," I answered.
"I saw a woman's face that has haunted me
ever since. She may not have been in trouble, but
she looked so." Then quietly, and as if it was only
one of the many incidents that cross a painter's path,
I described in minute detail the gate, the sliding
panel, the veiled face and wondrous eyes, the approach
of the officer, the smothered cry of terror, the
black finger and thumb that reached out, and the
noiseless closing of the panel. What I omitted was
all reference to Joe or his knowledge of the girl.

Mahmoud was staring into my eyes now.

"Where was this?"

"Just behind you. Lift your head--that seam
marks the sliding panel. She may come again when
she sees the top of my umbrella over the wall.
Listen! That's her step. She has some one with her
--crouch down close. There's only room for her head.
You may see her then without her attendant knowing