Ryder waited. In a moment it was opened wider, and he saw the dark-shrouded head and the veiled face of the Turkish girl, and out from the blackness the sparkle of young eyes.
"Is it—but who is it?" whispered a doubtful voice, and at his, "Why it is I—the American," quickly drawing off his cap, a little hand darted out of the darkness to pluck him swiftly within and the door was closed to within an inch of its opening.
Then the black phantom, drawing him back among the shrubbery, against the wall, turned with a muffled note of laughter.
"But the costume! Imagine that I—I was looking again for a Scottish chieftain with red kilts and a feather in his cap!"
"And instead—" Ryder glanced down at his tweeds with humorous recognition of his change of figure. Then his eyes returned to her.
"But you are the same," he murmured.
She was indeed the same. The same black street mantle, down to her very brows. The same black veil, up to her very eyes. And the eyes—! Their soft mysterious loveliness—the little winged tilt of the brows!
Apparently their effect was disconcertingly the same. He was conscious of a feeling that was far from a normal calm.
"So you were all right?" he half whispered. "Those steps, last night, you know, made me horribly afraid for you—"
"But, yes, I am all right."