“With friends, I trust, Miss Dorothy,” says Craig.
They pass an electric arc—she bends her eyes upon his face, and an exclamation announces that she has recognized him.
“You? I thought it was that terrible Turk. What have you done this for, Mr. Craig?” and he is delighted to discover a tremulous undertone to her voice—it tells of anxiety.
“I see you fail to understand the situation, Miss Dorothy. Compose yourself. You are now on the way home. My friend and I chanced along just in time to put the Turk and his followers to flight, to the amusement of the crowd. We knew no other course to pursue than to engage a carriage and take you both home.”
“And Mrs. Merrick—was she injured?” eagerly.
“I am here, my dear, and unhurt,” purrs the companion, her manner reminding Craig of the house cat that has sheathed her claws.
“Oh, it has been indeed fortunate! Then again we owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Craig. How strange!”
“How delightful!” he echoes cheerily, desiring to arouse her to something like her old self.
“You are very kind. What could it all mean? I am so puzzled. That odious Turk with the eyes that make me think of a rattlesnake—what did he mean to do with me?”
“I can only hazard a guess, Miss Dorothy. In his country they have strange customs, you know. Wives are bought, not wooed. Sometimes they are stolen and the settlement made later on. Perhaps this pasha has imagined he can bring his heathen habits over to America. He has evidently fallen in love with you, and desires you for his wife.”