"I don't feel I have the right to any other name, for surely as he has a wife I'm not truly married."
"Well?" asked Monny, as she saw me finish and fold up the letter. "You were horrid about her at first, but just at the last minute on the ship, you were good, and kept Wretched Bey talking, so I might have my chance with Mabel. If you hadn't, I shouldn't like you as much as I do. And I'm sure even you'll be anxious to do something now."
"Yet we don't wish Ernest or Antoun Effendi to run into danger, do we, dear?" Biddy suggested, coaxingly. "When you wanted to show the letter, I said yes, but—"
Monny listened no longer. Her eyes were sparkling, as they looked straight into mine. "Antoun Effendi!" she repeated. "Tell me first —because, you know, you are his friend—what would he think about a case like this? Whatever he is, he's not a Mussulman, I'm sure. Still, he's not one of us—"
"You're sure he's not a Mussulman?" I echoed. "What makes you sure, when you know he's been to Mecca, unless somebody has put the idea into your head?" "His own head put it there," she answered. "I saw it without his turban, the night of the alarm in camp. It wasn't shaved, as I've read the heads of Moslem men are. It was a head like—like the head of every Christian man I know, except that it was a better shape than most! So, as he isn't Mussulman, he might not mind our trying to help this poor deceived girl?"
"Shall I ask his advice?" I inquired, rather drily perhaps.
She hesitated for an instant, then said "Yes!"
"You seem certain that whatever he thinks, he won't betray your plan."
"I am certain," she replied, looking rapt. "He's not the kind of man who betrays."
"You're right," I said. "He's not the kind of man who betrays. He's the kind that helps. Though in such a case as this—you know, the very meani`or "forbidden." Still—we shall see!"