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I relented and laughed.
"If you are a good girl and do as I tell you," said I.
"Seer Marcous is my lord and I am his slave," was her astounding
reply.
Then I realised that she had been brought up by Hamdi Effendi.
There is something salutary, after all, in the training of the
harem.
"I'm very glad to hear it," I said.
She closed her eyes. I saw now she was very tired. I thought
she had gone to sleep and I looked in front of me puzzling out
the problem. Presently the cab-doors were thrust violently open,
and if I had net held her back, she would have jumped out of the
vehicle.
"Look!" she cried, in great excitement. "There! There's Harry's
name!"
She pointed to a butcher's cart immediately in front of us,
bearing, in large letters, the name of "E. Robinson."
"We must stop," she went on. "He will tell us about Harry."
It took me from Oxford Circus to Portman Square to convince her
that there were many thousands of Robinsons in London and that
the probability of the butcher's cart being a clue to Harry's
whereabouts was exceedingly remote.


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