“A THOUSAND PARDONS, MY LORD!”
“A THOUSAND PARDONS, MY LORD!”
‘Caught that time, I’m afraid, eh? Well, I meant to tell you soon.’
I had certainly succeeded in astonishing Mouraki this time. Kortes added to his wonder by springing nimbly up the ladder, and pulling it up after him.
‘I thought you were in bed,’ said I. ‘And when the cat’s away the mice will play, you know. Well, we’re caught!’
‘We?’ asked the Pasha.
‘Well, do you suppose I was alone? Is it the sort of night a man chooses to spend alone on a roof?’
‘Who was with you then?’ he asked, suspicion alive in his crafty eyes.
I took him by the arm and led him into the house, through the kitchen, till we reached the hall, when I said:
‘Am I not a man of taste? Who should it be?’
He sat down in the great armchair, and a heavy frown gathered on his brow. I cannot quite explain why, but I was radiant. The spirit of the game had entered into me; I forgot the reality that was so full of pain; I was as merry as though what I told him had been the happy truth, instead of a tantalising impossible vision.
‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me,’ I laughed, standingopposite to him, swaying on my feet, and burying my hands in my pockets. ‘Don’t wrong me, my dear Pasha. It’s all just as it should be. There’s nothing going on that should not go on under your Excellency’s roof. It is all on the most honourable footing.’
‘I don’t understand your riddles or your mirth,’ said Mouraki.
‘Ah! Now once I didn’t quite appreciate yours. The wheel goes round, my dear Pasha. Every dog has his day. Forgive me, I am naturally elated. I meant to tell you at breakfast to-morrow, but since you surprised our tender meeting, why, I’ll tell you now. Congratulate me. That charming girl has owned that her avowal of love for me was nothing but bare truth, and has consented to make me happy.’
‘To marry you?’
‘My dear Pasha! What else could I mean?’ I took my hands out of my pockets, lit a cigarette and puffed the smoke luxuriously. Mouraki sat motionless in his chair, his eyes cold and sharp on me, his brow puckered. At last he spoke.
‘And Miss Hipgrave?’ he asked sneeringly.
‘Is there a breach of promise of marriage law in Neopalia?’ said I. ‘In truth, my dear Pasha, I am a little to blame there; but you mustn’tbe hard on me. I had a moment of conscientious qualms. I confess it. But she’s too lovely, she really is. And she’s so fond of me—oh, I couldn’t resist it!’ I was simpering like any affected young lady-killer.
Mouraki was a clever fellow, but the blow had been a sudden one. It strains the control even of clever fellows when a formidable obstacle springs up, at a moment’s notice, on a path that they have carefully prepared and levelled for their steps. The Pasha’s rage mastered him.
‘You’ve changed your mind rapidly, Lord Wheatley,’ said he.
‘I know nothing,’ I rejoined, ‘that does change a man’s mind so quickly as a pretty girl.’
‘Yet some men hold to their promises,’ said he with a savage sneer.
‘Oh, a few, perhaps; very few in these days.’
‘And you don’t aspire to be one?’
‘Oh, I aspired,’ said I with a laugh; ‘but my aspirations have not stood out against Phroso’s charms.’
Then I took a step nearer to him, and, veiling impertinence under a thin show of sympathy, I said:
‘I hope you’re not really annoyed? You weren’t serious in the hint you gave of yourown intentions? I thought you were only joking, you know. If you were serious, believe me I am grieved. But it must be every man for himself in these little matters, mustn’t it?’
He had borne as much as he could. He rose suddenly to his feet and an oath escaped from between his teeth.
‘You sha’n’t have her!’ said he. ‘You think you can laugh at me: men who think that find out their mistake.’
I laughed again. I did not shrink from exasperating him to the uttermost. He would be no more dangerous; he might be less discreet.
‘Pardon me,’ said I, ‘but I don’t perceive how we need your permission, glad as we should, of course, be of your felicitations.’
‘I have some power in Neopalia,’ he reminded me, with a threatening gleam in his eye.
‘No doubt, but the power has to be carefully exercised when British subjects are in question—men, if I may add so much, of some position. I can’t be considered an islander of Neopalia for all purposes, my dear Pasha.’
He seemed not to hear or not to heed what I said; but he both heard and heeded, or I mistook my man.
‘I don’t give up what I have resolved upon,’ said he.
‘You describe my own temper to a nicety,’ said I. ‘Now I have resolved to marry Phroso.’
‘No,’ said Mouraki. I greeted the word with a scornful shrug.
‘You understand?’ he continued. ‘It shall not be.’
‘We shall see,’ said I.
‘You don’t know the risk you’re running.’
‘Come, come, isn’t this rather near boasting?’ I asked contemptuously. ‘Your Excellency is a great man, no doubt, but you can’t afford to carry out these dark designs against a man of my position.’ Then I changed to a more friendly tone, saying, ‘My dear Pasha, had you defeated me I should have taken it quietly. Won’t you best consult your dignity by doing the same?’
A long silence followed. I watched his face. Very gradually his brow cleared, his lips relaxed into a smile. He, in his turn, shrugged his shoulders. He took a step towards me; he held out his hand.
‘Wheatley,’ said he, ‘it is true, I am a fool. A man is a fool in such matters. You must make allowances for me. I was honestly in love with her. I thought myself safe from you. I allowed my temper to get the better of me. Will you shake hands?’
‘Ah, now you’re like yourself, my dear friend,’ said I, grasping his hand.
‘We’ll speak again about it to-morrow. But my anger is over. Fear nothing. I will be reasonable.’
I murmured grateful thanks and appreciation of his generosity.
‘Good-night, good-night,’ said he. ‘I wish I hadn’t found you to-night. I should not have lost my composure like this at any other time. You’re sure you forgive my hasty words?’
‘From the bottom of my heart,’ said I earnestly; and we pressed one another’s hands. Mouraki passed on to the stairs and began to mount them slowly. He turned his head over his shoulders and said:
‘How will you settle with Miss Hipgrave?’
‘I must beg her forgiveness, as I must yours,’ said I.
‘I hope you’ll be equally successful,’ said he, and his smile was in working order by now. It was the last I saw of him as he disappeared up the stairs.
‘Now,’ said I, sitting down, ‘he’s gone to think how he can get my throat cut without a scandal.’
In fact, Mouraki and I were beginning to understand one another.
Yes, Mouraki was dangerous, very dangerous: now that he had regained his self-control, most dangerous. His designs against me would be limited only by the bounds which I had taken the opportunity of recalling to his mind. I was a known man. I could not disappear without excuse. But the fever of the island might be at the disposal of the Governor no less than of Constantine Stefanopoulos. I must avoid the infection. I congratulated myself that the best antidote I had yet found—a revolver and cartridges—was again in my possession. These, and open eyes, were the treatment for the sudden fatal disease that threatened inconvenient lives in Neopalia.
I thought that I had seen the Pasha safely and finally to bed when he left me in the hall after our interview. I myself had gone to bed almost immediately, and, tired out with the various emotions I had passed through, had slept soundly.But now, looking back, I wonder whether the Governor spent much of the night on his back. I doubt it, very much I doubt it; nay, I incline to think that he had a very active night of goings to and fro, of strange meetings, of schemes and bargainings; and I fancy he had not been back in his room long before I rose for my morning walk. However of that I knew nothing at the time, and I met him at breakfast, prepared to resume our discussion as he had promised. But, behold, he was surrounded by officers. There was a stir in the hall. Orders were being given; romance and the affairs of love seemed forgotten.
‘My dear lord,’ cried Mouraki, turning towards me with every sign of discomposure and vexation on his face, ‘I am terribly annoyed. These careless fellows of mine—alas, I am too good-natured and they presume on it!—have let your friend Constantine slip through their fingers.’
‘Constantine escaped!’ I exclaimed in genuine surprise and vexation.
‘Alas, yes! The sentry fell asleep. It seems that the prisoner had friends, and they got him out by the window. The news came to me at dawn, and I have been having the island scoured for him; but he’s not to be found, and we think he must have had a boat in readiness.’
‘Have you looked in the cottage where his wife is?’
‘The very first thought that struck me, my dear friend! Yes, it has been searched. In vain! It is now so closely guarded that nobody can get in. If he ventures there we shall have him to a certainty. But go on with your breakfast; we needn’t spoil that for you. I have one or two more orders to give.’
In obedience to the Pasha I sat down and began my breakfast; but as I ate, while Mouraki conferred with his officers in a corner of the hall, I became very thoughtful concerning this escape of Constantine. Sentries do sleep—sometimes; zealous friends do open windows—sometimes; fugitives do find boats ready—sometimes. It was all possible: there was nothing even exactly improbable. Yet—yet—! Whether Mouraki’s account were the whole truth, or something lay below and unrevealed, at least I knew that the escape meant that another enemy, and a bitter one, was loosed against me. I had fought Constantine, I had touched Mouraki’s shield in challenge the night before: was I to have them both against me? And would it be two against one, or, as boys say, all against all? If the former, the chances of my catching the fever were considerably increased; and somehow Ihad a presentiment that the former was nearer the truth than the latter. I had no real evidence. Mouraki’s visible chagrin seemed to contradict my theory. But was not Mouraki’s chagrin just a little too visible? It was such a very obvious, hearty, genuine, honest, uncontrollable chagrin; it demanded belief in itself the least bit too loudly.
The Pasha joined me over my cigarette. If Constantine were in the island, said the Pasha, with a blow of his fist on the table, he would be laid by the heels before evening came; not a mole—let alone a man—could escape the soldiers’ search; not a bird could enter the cottage (he seemed to repeat this very often) unobserved, nor escape from it without a bullet in its plumage. And when Constantine was caught he should pay for this defiance. For the Pasha had delayed the punishment of his crimes too long. This insolent escape was a proper penalty on the Pasha’s weak remissness. The Pasha blamed himself very much. His honour was directly engaged in the recapture; he would not sleep till it was accomplished. In a word, the Pasha’s zeal beggared comparison and outran adequate description. It filled his mind; it drove out last night’s topic. He waved that trifle away; it must wait, for now there was business afoot.It could be discussed only when Constantine was once more a prisoner in the hands of justice, a suppliant for the mercy of the Governor.
I escaped at length from the torrent of sincerity with which Mouraki insisted on deluging me, and went into the open air. There were no signs of Phroso. Kortes was not to be seen either. I saw the yacht in the harbour, and thought of strolling down; but Denny had, no doubt, heard the great news, and I was reluctant to be out of the way, even for an hour. Events came quick in Neopalia. People appeared and disappeared in no time, escaped and—were not recaptured. But I told myself that I would send a message to the yacht soon; for I wanted Denny and the others to know what I—what I was strangely inclined to suspect regarding this occurrence.
The storm which had swept over the island the evening before was gone. It was a bright hot day; the waves danced blue in the sun, while a light breeze blew from off the side of the land on which the house stood and was carrying fishing-boats merrily out of the harbour. If Constantine had found a boat, the wind was fair to carry him away to safety. But had he? I glanced up at the cottage in the woods above me. A thought struck me. I could run up there and down again in a few moments.
I made my way quickly back to the house and into the compound behind. Here, to my delight, I found Kortes. A word shewed me that he had heard the news. Phroso also had heard it. It was known to every one.
‘I’m going to see if I can get a look into the cottage,’ said I.
‘I’m told it is guarded, my lord.’
‘Kortes, speak plainly. What do you say about this affair?’
‘I don’t know; I don’t know what to think. If they won’t let you in—’
‘Yes, I meant that. How is she, Kortes?’
‘Well, my sister says. I haven’t seen her. Run no risks, my lord. She has only you and me.’
‘And my friends. I’m going to send them word to be on the look-out for any summons from me.’
‘Then send it at once,’ he counselled. ‘You may delay, Mouraki will not.’
I was struck with his advice; but I was also bent on carrying out my reconnaissance of the cottage.
‘I’ll send it directly I come back,’ said I, and I ran to the angle of the wall, climbed up, and started at a quick walk through the wood. I met nobody till I was almost at the cottage. Then I came suddenly on a sentry; another I saw to theright, a third to the left. The cottage seemed ringed round with watchful figures. The man barred my way.
‘But I am going to see the lady—Madame Stefanopoulos,’ I protested.
‘I have orders to let nobody pass,’ he answered. ‘I will call the officer.’
The officer came. He was full of infinite regrets, but his Excellency’s orders were absolute. Nay, did I not think they were wise? This man was so desperate a criminal, and he had so many friends. He would, of course, try to communicate with his wife.
‘But he can’t expect his wife to help him,’ I exclaimed. ‘He wanted to murder her.’
‘But women are forgiving. He might well persuade her to help him in his escape; or he might intimidate her.’
‘So I’m not to pass?’
‘I’m afraid not, my lord. If his Excellency gives you a pass it will be another matter.’
‘The lady is there still?’
‘Oh, I believe so. I have not myself been inside the cottage. That is not part of my duty.’
‘Is anyone stationed in the cottage?’
The officer smiled and answered, with an apologetic shrug, ‘Would not you ask his Excellency anything you desire to know, my lord?’
‘Well, I daresay you’re right,’ I admitted, and I fixed a long glance on the windows of the cottage.
‘Even to allow anybody to linger about here is contrary to my orders,’ suggested the officer, still civil, still apologetic.
‘Even to look?’
‘His Excellency said to linger.’
‘Is it the same thing?’
‘His Excellency would answer that also, my lord.’
The barrier round the place was impregnable. That seemed plain. To loiter near the cottage was forbidden, to look at it a matter of suspicion. Yet looking at the cottage would not help the escape of Constantine.
There seemed nothing to be done. Slowly and reluctantly, with a conviction that I was turning away baffled from the heart of the mystery, that the clue lay there were I but allowed to take it in my fingers, I retraced my steps down the hill through the wood. I believed that the strict guard was to prevent my intrusion and mine alone; that the Pasha’s search for Constantine was a pretence; in fine, that Constantine was at that moment in the cottage, with the knowledge of Mouraki and under his protection. But I could not prove my suspicions, and I could not unravelthe plan which the Pasha was pursuing. I had a strange uneasy sense of fighting in the dark. My eyes were blindfolded, while my antagonist could make full use of his. In that case the odds were against me.
I passed through the house. All was quiet, nobody was about. It was now the middle of the afternoon, and, having accomplished my useless inspection of the cottage, I sat down and wrote a note to Denny, bidding him be on the alert day and night. He or Hogvardt must always be on watch, the yacht ready to start at a moment’s notice. I begged him to ask no questions, only to be ready; for life or death might hang on a moment. Thus I paved the way for carrying out my resolution; and my resolution was no other than to make a bold dash for the yacht with Phroso and Kortes, under cover of night. If we reached it and got clear of the harbour, I believed that we could show a clean pair of heels to the gunboat. Moreover I did not think that the wary Mouraki would dare to sink us in open sea with his guns. The one point I held against him was his fear of publicity. We should be safer in the yacht than among the hidden dangers of Neopalia. I finished my note, sealed it, and strolled out in front of the house, looking for somebody to act as my messenger.
Standing there, I raised my eyes and looked down to the harbour and the sea. At what I saw, forgetting Kortes’s reproof, I again uttered an oath of surprise and dismay. Smoke poured from the funnel of the yacht. See, she moved! She made for the mouth of the harbour. She set her course for the sea. Where was she going? I did not care to answer that. She must not go. It was vital that she should stay ready for me by the jetty. My scruples about leaving the house vanished before this more pressing necessity. Without an instant’s delay, with hardly an instant’s thought, I put my best foot foremost and ran, as a man runs for his life, along the road towards the town. As I started I thought I heard Mouraki’s voice from the window above my head beginning in its polite wondering tones, ‘Why in the world, my dear Wheatley—?’ Ah, did he not know why? I would not stop for him. On I went. I reached the main road. I darted down the steep street. Women started in surprise at me, children scurried hastily out of my way. I was a very John Gilpin without a horse. I did not think myself able to run so far or so fast; but apprehension gave me legs, excitement breath, and love—yes, love—why deny it now?—love speed; I neither halted nor turned nor failed till I reached the jetty. But there Isank exhausted against the wooden fencing, for the yacht was hard on a mile out to sea and putting yards and yards between herself and me at every moment. Again I sprang up and waved my handkerchief. Two or three of Mouraki’s soldiers who were lounging about stared at me stolidly; a fisherman laughed mockingly; the children had flocked after me down the street and made a gaping circle round me. The note to Denny was in my hand. Denny was far out of my reach. What possessed the boy? Hard were the names that I called myself for having neglected Kortes’s advice. What were the cottage and the whereabouts of Constantine compared with the presence of my friends and the yacht?
A hope ran through me. Perhaps they were only passing an hour and would turn homewards soon. I strained my eager eyes after them. The yacht held on her course, straight, swift, relentless. She seemed to be carrying with her Phroso’s hopes of rescue, mine of safety; her buoyant leap embodied Mouraki’s triumph. I turned from watching, sick at heart, half-beaten and discouraged; and, as I turned, a boy ran up to me and thrust a letter into my hand, saying:
‘The gentleman on the yacht left this for my lord. I was about to carry it up when I sawmy lord run through the street, and I followed him back.’
The letter bore Denny’s handwriting. I tore it open with eager fingers.
‘Dear Charley,’ it ran, ‘I don’t know what your game is, but it’s pretty slow for us. So we’re off fishing. Old Mouraki has been uncommon civil, and sent a fellow with us to show us the best place. If the weather is decent we shall stay out a couple of nights, so you may look for us the day after to-morrow. I knew it was no good asking you to come. Be a good boy, and don’t get into mischief while I’m away. Of course Mouraki will bottle Constantine again in no time. He told us he had no doubt of it, unless the fellow had found a boat. I’ll run up to the house, as soon as we get back. Yours ever, D.P. S.—As you said you didn’t want Watkins up at the house, I’ve taken him along to cook.’
‘Dear Charley,’ it ran, ‘I don’t know what your game is, but it’s pretty slow for us. So we’re off fishing. Old Mouraki has been uncommon civil, and sent a fellow with us to show us the best place. If the weather is decent we shall stay out a couple of nights, so you may look for us the day after to-morrow. I knew it was no good asking you to come. Be a good boy, and don’t get into mischief while I’m away. Of course Mouraki will bottle Constantine again in no time. He told us he had no doubt of it, unless the fellow had found a boat. I’ll run up to the house, as soon as we get back. Yours ever, D.
P. S.—As you said you didn’t want Watkins up at the house, I’ve taken him along to cook.’
Beati innocentes!Denny was very innocent, and so, I suppose, very blessed; and my friend the Pasha had got rid of him in the easiest manner possible. Indeed it was ‘uncommon civil’ of Mouraki! They would be back the day after to-morrow, and Denny would ‘run up to the house.’ The thing was almost ludicrous in the pitiful unconsciousness of it. I tore the note that I had written into small pieces, putDenny’s in my pocket, and started to mount the hill again. But I turned once and looked on the face of the sea. To my anxious mind it seemed not to smile at me as was its wont. It was not now my refuge and my safety, but the prison-bars that confined me—me and her whom I had to serve and save.
And he had taken Watkins along to cook; for I did not want him at the house! I would have given every farthing I had in the world for any honest brave man, Watkins or another. And I was not to ‘get into mischief.’ I knew very well what Denny meant by that. Well, he might be reassured. It did not appear likely that I should enjoy much leisure for dalliance of the sort he blamed.
‘Really, you know, I shall have something else to do,’ I said to myself.
Slowly I walked up the hill, too deep in reflection even to hasten my steps; and I started like a man roused from sleep when I heard, from the side of the street, a soft cry of ‘My lord!’ I looked round. I was directly opposite the door of Vlacho’s inn. On the the threshold stood the girl Panayiota, who was Demetri’s sweetheart, and had held in her lap the head of Constantine’s wife whom Demetri could not kill. She cast cautious glances up and down the street, andwithdrew swiftly into the shadow of the house, beckoning to me to follow her. In a strait like mine no chance, however small, is to be missed or refused. I followed her. Her cheek glowed with colour; she was under the influence of some excitement whose cause I could not fathom.
‘I have a message for you, my lord,’ she whispered. ‘I must tell it you quickly. We must not be seen.’ She shrank back farther into the shelter of the doorway.
‘As quickly as you like, Panayiota,’ said I. ‘I have little time to lose.’
‘You have a friend more than you know of,’ said she, setting her lips close to my ear.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said I. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, that’s all—a friend more than you know of, my lord. Take courage, my lord.’
I bent my eyes on her face in question. She understood that I was asking for a plainer message.
‘I can tell you no more,’ she said. ‘I was told to say that—a friend more than you know of. I have said it. Don’t linger, my lord. I can say no more, and there is danger.’
‘I’m much obliged to you. I hope he will prove of value.’
‘He will,’ she replied quickly, and she wavedaside the piece of money which I had offered her, and motioned me to be gone. But again she detained me for a moment.
‘The lady—the wife of the Lord Constantine—what of her?’ she asked in low hurried tones.
‘I know nothing of her,’ said I. ‘I believe she’s at the cottage.’
‘And he’s loose again?’
‘Yes.’ And I added, searching her face, ‘But the Governor will hunt him down.’
I had my answer: a plain explicit answer. It came not in words, but in a scornful smile, a lift of the brows, a shrug. I nodded in understanding. Panayiota whispered again, ‘Courage—a friend more than you know of—courage, my lord,’ and, turning, fairly ran away from me down the passage towards the yard behind the inn.
Who was this friend? By what means did he seek to help me? I could not tell. One suspicion I had, and I fought a little fight with myself as I walked back to the house. I recollected the armed man I had met in the night, whom I had rebuked and threatened. Was he the friend, and was it my duty to tell Mouraki of my suspicions? I say I had a struggle. Did I win or lose? I do not know; for even now I cannot make up my mind. But I was exasperated at the trick Mouraki had played on me, I was fearful for Phroso, I felt thatI was contending against a man who would laugh at the chivalry which warned him. I hardened my heart and shut my eyes. I owed nothing, less than nothing, to Mouraki Pasha. He had, as I verily believed, loosed a desperate treacherous foe on me. He had, as I knew now, deluded my friends into forsaking me. Let him guard his own head and his own skin. I had enough to do with Phroso and myself. So I reasoned, seeking to justify my silence. I have often since thought that the question raised a nice enough point of casuistry. Men who have nothing else to do may amuse themselves with the answering of it. I answered it by the time I reached the threshold of the house. And I held my tongue.
Mouraki was waiting for me in the doorway. He was smiling as he had smiled before my bold declaration of love for Phroso had spoilt his temper.
‘My dear lord,’ he cried, ‘I could have spared you a tiresome walk. I thought your friends would certainly have told you of their intention, or I would have mentioned it myself.’
‘My dear Pasha,’ I rejoined, no less cordially, ‘to tell the truth, I knew their intention, but it struck me suddenly that I would go with them, and I ran down to try and catch them. Unfortunately I was too late.’
The extravagance of my lying served its turn; Mouraki understood, not that I was trying to deceive him, but that I was informing him politely that he had not succeeded in deceiving me.
‘You wished to accompany them?’ he asked, with a broadening smile. ‘You—a lover!’
‘A man can’t always be making love,’ said I carelessly—though truly enough.
Mouraki took a step toward me.
‘It is safer not to do it at all,’ said he in a lower tone.
The man had a great gift of expression. His eyes could put a world of meaning into a few simple words. In this little sentence, which sounded like a trite remark, I discovered a last offer, an invitation to surrender, a threat in case of obstinacy. I answered it after its own kind.’
‘Safer, perhaps, but deplorably dull,’ said I.
‘Ah, well, you know best,’ remarked the Pasha. ‘If you like to take the rough with the smooth—’ He broke off with a shrug, resuming a moment later. ‘You expect to see them back the day after to-morrow, don’t you?’
I was not sure whether the particular form of this question was intentional or not. In the literal meaning of his words Mouraki asked me, not whether they would be back, but whether Ithought I should witness their return—possibly a different thing.
‘Denny says they’ll be back then,’ I answered cautiously. The Pasha stroked his beard. This time he was, I think, hiding a smile at my understanding and evasion of his question.
‘I hear,’ he observed with a laugh, ‘that you have been trying to pass my sentries and look for our runaway on your own account. You really shouldn’t expose yourself to such risks. The man might kill you. I’m glad my officer obeyed his orders.’
‘Then Constantine is at the cottage?’ I cried quickly, for I thought he had betrayed himself into an admission. His composed air and amused smile smothered my hopes.
‘At the cottage? Oh, dear, no. Of course I have searched that. I had that searched first of all.’
‘And the guard—’
‘Is only to prevent him from going there.’
I had not that perfect facial control which distinguished the Governor. I suppose I appeared unconvinced, for Mouraki caught me by the arm, and, giving me an affectionate squeeze, cried, ‘What an unbeliever! Come, you shall go with me and see for yourself.’
If he took me, of course I should find nothing.The bird, if it had ever alighted on that stone, would be flown by now. His specious offer was worthless.
‘My dear Pasha, of course I take your word for it.’
‘No, I won’t be trusted! I positively won’t be believed! You shall come. We two will go together.’ And he still clung to my arm with the pressure of friendly compulsion.
I did not see how to avoid doing what he suggested without coming to an open quarrel with him, and that I did not desire. He had every motive for wishing to force me into open enmity; a hasty word or gesture might serve him as a plausible excuse for putting me under arrest. He would have a case if he could prove me to have been disrespectful to the Governor. My only chance lay in seeming submission up to the last possible moment. And Kortes was guarding Phroso, so that I could go without uneasiness.
‘Well, let’s walk up the hill then,’ said I carelessly. ‘Though I assure you you’re giving yourself needless trouble.’
He would not listen, and we turned, still arm-in-arm, to pass through the house. Mouraki had caused a ladder to be placed against the bank of rock, for he did not enjoy clambering up by thesteps cut in the side of it. He set his foot now on the lowest rung of this ladder; but he paused there an instant and turned round, facing me, and asked, as though the thought had suddenly occurred to his mind:
‘Have you had any conversation with our fair friend this afternoon?’
‘The Lady Phroso? No. She has not made an appearance. Perhaps I wrong you, Pasha, but I fancied you were not over-anxious that I should have a conversation with her.’
‘You wrong me,’ he said earnestly. ‘Indeed you wrong me. To prove it, you shall have atête-à-têtewith her the moment we return. Oh, I don’t fight with weapons like that! I wouldn’t use my authority like that. I am going to search again for this Constantine myself this evening with a strong party; then you shall be at perfect liberty to talk with her.’
‘I’m infinitely obliged; you’re too generous.’
‘I trust we’re gentlemen still, though unhappily we have become rivals,’ and he let go of the ladder for an instant in order to press my hand.
Then he began to climb up and I followed him, asking of my puzzled brain, ‘Now, what does he mean by that?’
For it seemed to me that a man needed cat’s eyes to follow the schemes of Mouraki Pasha, eyesthat darkness could not blind. This last generous offer of his was beyond the piercing of my vision. I did not know whether it were merely a bit of courtesy, safe to offer, or if it hid some new design. Well, it was little use wondering. At least I should see Phroso. Perhaps—a sudden thought seized me, and I—.
‘What makes you look so excited?’ asked the Pasha. His eyes were on my face, his lips curved in a smile.
‘I’m not excited,’ said I. But the blood was leaping in my veins. I had an idea.
I havelearnt on my way through the world how dangerous a thing is a conceit of a man’s own cleverness; and among the most striking lessons of this truth stands one which Mouraki Pasha taught me in Neopalia. My game was against a past master in the art of intrigue; yet I made sure I had caught him napping, sure that my wits were quicker than his and that he missed what was plain to my mind. In vain, they say, is the net spread in the sight of any bird. Aye, of any bird that has eyes and knows how to use them. But if the bird has no eyes, or employs them in admiring its own plumage, there is a chance for the fowler after all.
These reflections occur to my mind when I recollect the hope and exultation in my heart as I followed the Governor’s leisurely upward march through the wood to the cottage. Mouraki, I said to myself, thought that he was allaying my suspicions and lulling my watchfulness to sleep bythe courtesy with which he arranged an interview between Phroso and myself. Was that what he was really doing? No, I declared triumphantly. He was putting in my way the one sovereign chance which fate hitherto had denied. He was to be away, and most of his men with him. Phroso, Kortes, and I would be alone together at the house, alone for an hour, perhaps for two. At the moment I felt that I asked no more of fortune. Had the Pasha never heard of the secret of the Stefanopouloi? It almost seemed so; but I myself had told him of it, and Denny’s information had preceded mine. Yet he was leaving us alone by the hidden door. Had he remembered it? Had he stopped it? My ardour was cooled; my face fell. He knew; he could not have forgotten; and if he knew and remembered, of a surety the passage would be blocked or watched.
‘By the way,’ said Mouraki, turning to me, ‘I want you to show me that passage you told me of some time to-morrow. I’ve never found time to go down there yet, and I have a taste for these mediæval curiosities.’
‘I shall be proud to be your guide, Pasha. You would trust yourself there with me?’
‘Oh, my dear Wheatley, such things are not done now,’ smiled the Pasha. ‘You and I willsettle our little difference another way. Have you been down since I came?’
‘No. I’ve had about enough of the passage,’ said I carelessly. ‘I should be glad never to see it again; but I must strain a point and go with you.’
‘Yes, you must do that,’ he answered. ‘How steep this hill is! Really I must be growing old, as Phroso is cruel enough to think!’
This conversation, seeming to fall in so pat with my musings, and indicating, if it did not state, that Mouraki treated the passage as a trifle of no moment, brought us to the outskirts of the wood. The cottage was close in front of us. We had passed only one sentry: the cordon was gone. This change struck me at once, and I remarked on it to Mouraki.
‘Yes, I thought it safe to send most of them away; there are one or two more than you see though. But he won’t venture back now.’
I smiled to myself. I was pleased again at my penetration; and in this instance, unlike the other at which I have hinted, I do not think I was wrong. The cordon had been here, then Constantine had; the cordon was gone, and I made no doubt that Constantine was gone also.
The front of the cottage was dark, and the curtains of the windows drawn, as they had been when I came before, on the night I killed Vlachothe innkeeper and fell into the hands of Kortes and Demetri. The whirligig had turned since then; for then this man Mouraki had been my far-off much-desired deliverer, Kortes and Demetri open enemies. Now Mouraki was my peril, Kortes my best friend, Demetri—well, what and whom had Panayiota meant?
‘Shall we go in?’ asked Mouraki, as we came to the house. ‘Stay, though, I’ll knock on the door with my stick. Madame Stefanopoulos is, no doubt, within. I think she will probably not have joined her husband.’
‘I imagine she’ll have heard of his escape with great regret,’ said I.
The Pasha knocked with the gold-headed cane which he carried. He waited and then repeated the blow. No answer came.
‘Well,’ he said with a shrug, ‘we have given her fair warning. Let us enter. She knows you, my dear Wheatley, and will not be alarmed.’
‘But if Constantine’s here?’ I suggested, with a mocking smile. ‘Your life is a valuable one. Run no risks; he’s a desperate man.’
The Pasha shifted his cane to his left hand, smiled in answer to my smile, and produced a revolver.
‘You’re wise,’ said I, and I took my revolver out of my pocket.
‘We are ready for—anything—now,’ said Mouraki.
I think ‘anything’ in that sentence was meant to include ‘one another.’
The Pasha opened the door and passed in. Nothing seemed changed since my last visit. The door of the room on the right was open, the table was again spread, for two this time; the left-hand door was shut.
‘You see the fugitive is not in that room,’ observed the Pasha, waving his hand to the right. ‘Let us try the other,’ and he turned the door-handle of the room on the left, and preceded me into it.
At this point I am impelled to a little confession. The murderous impulse is, perhaps, not so uncommon as we assume. I daresay many respectable men and amiable women have felt it in all its attractive simplicity once or twice in their lives. It seems at such moments hardly sinful, merely too dangerous, and to be recognised as impossible to gratify only by reason of its danger. But I perceive that I am accusing the rest of the world in the hope of excusing myself; for at that moment, when the Pasha’s broad solid back was presented to me, a yard in front, I experienced a momentary but extremely strong temptation to raise my arm, move my finger and—transform the situation. I did not do it; but, on the other hand, I have never counted the desire to do it among the great sins of my life. Mouraki, I thought then and know now, deserved nothing better. Unhappily we have our own consciences to consider, and thus are often prevented from meting out to others the measure their deeds claim.
“WE ARE READY FOR—ANYTHING—NOW.”
“WE ARE READY FOR—ANYTHING—NOW.”
‘I see nobody,’ said the Pasha. ‘But then the room is dark. Shall I pull back the curtain?’
‘You’d better be careful,’ said I, laughing. ‘That’s what Vlacho did.’
‘Ah, but you’re on the same side this time,’ he answered, and stepped across the room towards the curtain.
Suddenly I became, or seemed to become, vaguely, uncomfortably, even terribly conscious of something there. Yet I could see nothing in the dark room, and I heard nothing. I can hardly think Mouraki shared my strange oppressive feeling; yet the curtain was not immediately drawn back, his figure bulked motionless just in front of me, and he repeated in tones that betrayed uneasiness:
‘I suppose I’d better draw back the curtain, hadn’t I?’
What was it? It must have been all fancy, born of the strain of excitement and the nervous tension in which I was living. I have had somethingof the feeling in the dark before and since, but never so strong, distinct and almost overpowering. I knew Constantine was not there. I had no fear of him if he were. Yet my forehead grew damp with sweat.
Mouraki’s hand was on the curtain. He drew it back. The dull evening light spread sluggishly through the room. Mouraki turned and looked at me. I returned his gaze. A moment passed before either of us looked round.
‘There’s nobody behind the curtain,’ said he, with a slight sigh which seemed to express relief. ‘Do you see any one anywhere?’
Then I pulled myself together, and looked round. The chairs near me were empty, the couch had no occupant. But away in the corner of the room, in the shadow of a projecting angle of wall, I saw a figure seated in front of a table. On the table were writing-materials. The figure was a woman’s. Her arms were spread on the table, and her head lay between them. I raised my hand and pointed to her. Mouraki’s eyes obeyed my direction but came quickly back to me in question, and he arched his brows.
I stepped across the room towards where the woman sat. I heard the Pasha following with hesitating tread, and I waited till he overtook me. Then I called her name softly; yet I knew thatit was no use to call her name; it was only the protest my horror made. She would hear her name no more. Again I pointed with my right hand, catching Mouraki’s arm with my left at the same moment.
‘There,’ I said, ‘there—between the shoulders! A knife!’
I felt his arm tremble. I must do him justice. I am convinced that he did not foresee or anticipate this among the results of the letting loose of Constantine Stefanopoulos. I heard him clear his throat, I saw him lick his lips; his lids settled low over his cunning eyes. I turned from him to the motionless figure in the chair.
She was dead, had been dead some little while, and must have died instantly on that foul stroke. Why had the brute dealt it? Was it mere revenge and cruelty, persistently nursed wrath at her betrayal of him on St Tryphon’s day? Or had some new cause evoked passion from him?
‘Let us lay her here on the sofa,’ I said to Mouraki; ‘and you must send some one to look after her.’
He seemed reluctant to help me. I leant forward alone, and putting my arm round her, raised her from the table, and set her upright in the chair. I rejoiced to find no trace of pain or horror on her face. As I looked at her I gave asudden short sob. I was unstrung; the thing was so wantonly cruel and horrible.
‘He has made good use of his liberty,’ I said in a low fierce tone, turning on Mouraki in a sudden burst of anger against the hand that had set the villain free. But the Pasha’s composure wrapped him like a cloak again. He knew what I meant and read the implied taunt in my words, but he answered calmly:
‘We have no proof yet that it was her husband who killed her.’
‘Who else should?’
He shrugged his shoulders, remarking, ‘No proof, I said. Perhaps he did, perhaps not. We don’t know.’
‘Help me with her,’ said I brusquely.
Between us we lifted her and laid her on the couch, and spread over her a fur rug that draped one of the chairs. While this was done we did not exchange a word with one another. Mouraki uttered a sigh of relief when the task was finished.
‘I’ll send a couple of women up as soon as we get back. Meanwhile the place is guarded and nobody can come in. Need we delay longer? It is not a pleasant place.’
‘I should think we might as well go,’ I answered, casting my eye again round the little room to the spot where Vlacho had fallenenveloped in the curtain which he dragged down with him, and to the writing-table that had supported the dead body of Francesca. Mouraki’s hand was on the door-handle. He stood there, impatient to be out of the place, waiting for me to accompany him. But my last glance had seen something new, and with a sudden low exclamation I darted across the room to the table. I had perceived a sheet of paper lying just where Francesca’s head had rested.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mouraki.
I made him no answer. I seized the piece of paper. A pen lay between it and the inkstand. On the paper was a line or two of writing. The characters were blurred, as though the dead woman’s hair had smeared them before the ink was dry. I held it up. Mouraki stepped briskly across to me.
‘Give it to me,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘It may be something I ought to see.’
The first hint of action, of new light or a new development, restored their cool alertness to my faculties.
‘Why not something which I ought to see, my dear Pasha?’ I asked, holding the paper behind my back and facing him.
‘You forget the position I hold, Lord Wheatley. You have no such position.’
I did not argue that. I walked to the window, to get the best of the light. Mouraki followed me closely.
‘I’ll read it to you,’ said I. ‘There isn’t much of it.’
I held it to the light. The Pasha was close by my shoulder, his pale face leaning forward towards the paper. Straining my eyes on the blurred characters I read; and I read aloud, according to my promise, hearing Mouraki’s breathing which accompanied my words.
‘My lord, take care. He is free. Mouraki has set—’
That was all: a blot followed the last word. At that word the pen must have fallen from her fingers as her husband’s dagger stole her life. We had read her last words. The writing of that line saw the moment of her death. Did it also supply the cause? If so, not the old grudge, but rage at a fresh betrayal of a fresh villainy had impelled Constantine’s arm to his foul stroke. He had caught her in the act of writing it, taken his revenge, and secured his safety.
After I had read, there was silence. The Pasha’s face was still by my shoulder. I gazed, as if fascinated, on the fatal unfinished note. At last I turned and looked him in the face. His eyes met mine in unmoved steely composure.
‘I think,’ said I, ‘that I had a right to read the note after all; for, as I guess, the writer was addressing it to me and not to you.’
For a moment Mouraki hesitated; then he shrugged his shoulders, saying:
‘My dear lord, I don’t know whom it is addressed to or what it means. Had the unfortunate lady been allowed to finish it—’
‘We should know more than we do now,’ I interrupted.
‘I was about to say as much. I see she introduced my name; she can, however, have known nothing of any course I might be pursuing.’
‘Unless some one who knew told her.’
‘Who could?’
‘Well, her husband.’
‘Who was killing her?’ he asked, with a scornful smile.
‘He may have told her before, and she may have been trying to forward the information to me.’
‘It is all the purest conjecture,’ shrugged the Governor.
I looked him in the face, and I think my eyes told him pretty plainly my views of the meaning of the note. He answered my glance at first with a carefully inexpressive gaze; but presently a meaning came into his eyes. He seemed to confessto me and to challenge me to make what use I could of the confession. But the next instant the momentary candour of his regard passed, and blankness spread over his face again.
Desperately I struggled with myself, clinging to self-control. To this day I believe that, had my life and my life only been in question, I should then and there have compelled Mouraki to fight me, man to man, in the little gloomy room where the dead woman lay on the sofa. We should not have disturbed her; and I think also that Mouraki, who did not want for courage, would have caught at my challenge and cried content to a proposal that we should, there and then, put our quarrel to an issue, and that one only of us should go alive down the hill. I read such a mood in his eyes in the moment of their candour. I saw the courage to act on it in his resolute lips and his tense still attitude.
Well, we could neither of us afford the luxury. If I killed him, I should bring grave suspicion on Phroso. She and her islanders would be held accomplices; and, though this was a secondary matter to hot rage, I myself should stand in a position of great danger. And he could not kill me; for all his schemes against me were still controlled and limited by the necessities of his position. Had I been an islander, or even an unknown man concerning whom no questions would be asked, his work would have been simple, and, as I believed, would have been carried out before now. But it was not so. He would be held responsible for a satisfactory account of how I met my death. It would tax his invention to give it if he killed me himself, with his own hand, and in a secret encounter. In fact, the finding of the note left us where we were, so far as action was concerned, but it tore away the last shreds of the veil, the last pretences of good faith and friendliness which had been kept up between us. In that swift, full, open glance which we had exchanged, our undisguised quarrel, the great issue between us, was legibly written and plainly read. Yet not a word passed our lips concerning it. Mouraki and I began to need words no more than lovers do. For hate matches love in penetration.
I put the note in my pocket. Mouraki blinked eyes now utterly free from expression. I gave a final glance at the dead woman. I felt a touch of shame at having for a moment forgotten her fate for my quarrel.
‘Shall we go down, Pasha?’ said I.
‘As soon as you please, Lord Wheatley,’ he answered. This formal mode of address was perhaps an acknowledgment that the time for hypocrisy and the hollow show of friendship betweenus was over. The change was just in his way, slight, subtle, but sufficient.
I followed Mouraki out of the house. He walked in his usual slow deliberate manner. He beckoned to the sentry as we passed him, told him that two women, who would shortly come up, were to be admitted, but nobody else, until an officer came bearing further orders. Having made these arrangements, he resumed his way down, taking his place in front of me and maintaining absolute silence. I did not care to talk. I had enough to think about. But already, now I was out in the fresh air, the feeling of sick horror with which the little room had affected me began to pass away. I felt braced up again. I was better prepared for the great effort which loomed before me now as a present and urgent necessity. Mouraki had found an instrument. He had set Constantine free, that Constantine might do against me what Mouraki himself could not do openly. My friends were away. The hour of the stroke must even now be upon me. Well, the hour of my counter-stroke was come also, the counter-stroke for which my interview with Phroso and Mouraki’s absence opened the way. For he thought the passage no more than a mediæval curiosity.
We reached the house and entered the hall together. As we passed through the compoundI had seen an alert sentinel. Looking out from the front door, I perceived two men on guard. A party of ten or a dozen more was drawn up, an officer at its head; these were the men who waited to attend Mouraki on his evening expedition. The Pasha seated himself and wrote a note. He looked up as he finished it, saying:
‘I am informing the Lady Euphrosyne that you will await her here in half-an-hour’s time, and that she is at liberty to spend what time she pleases with you. Is that what you wish?’
‘Precisely, your Excellency. I am much obliged to you.’
His only answer was a dignified bow; but he turned to a sub-officer who stood by him at attention and said, ‘On no account allow Lord Wheatley to be interrupted this evening. You will, of course, keep the sentries on guard behind and in front of the house, but do not let them intrude here.’
After giving his orders, the Pasha sat silent for some minutes. He had lighted his cigarette, and smoked it slowly. Then he let it out—a thing I had never seen him do before—lit another, and resumed his slow inhalings. I knew that he would speak before long, and after a few more moments he gave me the result of his meditations. We were now alone together.
‘It would have been much better,’ said he, ‘if that poor woman—whose fate I sincerely regret—had been let alone and this girl had died instead of her,’ and he nodded at me with convinced emphasis.
‘If Phroso had died!’ leapt from my lips in astonishment.
‘Yes, if Phroso had died. We would have hanged Constantine together, wept together over her grave, and each of us gone home with a sweet memory—you to yourfiancée, I to my work. And we should have forgiven one another any little causes of reproach.’
To this speculation in might-have-beens I made no answer. The feelings with which I received it shewed me, had I still needed shewing, what Phroso was to me. I had been shocked and grieved at Francesca’s fate; but rather that a thousand times than the thing on which Mouraki coolly mused!
‘It would have been much better, so much better,’ he repeated, with a curiously regretful intonation.
‘The only thing that would be better, to my thinking,’ I said, ‘is that you should behave as an honourable man and leave this lady free to do as she wishes.’
‘And another thing, surely?’ he asked, smilingnow. ‘That you should behave as an honourable man and go back to Miss Hipgrave?’ A low laugh marked the point he had scored. Then he added, with his usual shrug, ‘We are slaves, we men, slaves all.’
He rose from his chair and completed his preparations for going out, flinging a long military cloak over his shoulders. His momentary irresolution, or remorse, or what you will, had passed. His speech became terse and resolute again.
‘We shall meet early to-morrow, I expect,’ he said, ‘and then we must settle this matter. Do I understand that you are resolved not to yield.’
‘I am absolutely resolved,’ said I, and at the sight of his calm sneering face my temper suddenly got the better of me. ‘Yes, I’m resolved. You can do what you like. You can bribe ruffians to assassinate me, as I believe you’ve bribed Constantine.’
He started at that, as a man will at plain speech, even though the plain speech tells him nothing that he did not know of the speaker’s mind.
‘The blood of that unhappy woman is on your head,’ I cried vehemently. ‘Through your act she lies dead. If a like fate befalls me, the blame of that will be on your head also. It is you, and not your tool, who will be responsible.’
‘Responsible!’ he echoed. His voice was mockingand easy, though his face was paler even than it was wont to be. ‘Responsible! What does that mean? Responsible to whom?’
‘To God,’ said I.
He laughed a low derisive laugh.
‘Come, that’s better,’ he said. ‘I expected you to say public opinion. Your sentiment is more respectable than that clap-trap of public opinion. So be it. I shall be responsible. Where will you be?’ He paused, smiling, and ended, ‘And where Phroso?’
My self-restraint was exhausted. I sprang up. In another moment my hands would have been on his throat; the next, I suppose, I should have been a prisoner in the hands of his guard. But that was not his wish. He had shewn me too much now to be content with less than my life, and he was not to be turned from his scheme either by his own temper or by mine. He had moved towards the door while he had been speaking to me; as I sprang at him, a quick dexterous movement of his hand opened it, a rapid twist of his body removed him from my reach. He eluded me. The door was shut in my face. The Pasha’s low laugh reached me as I sank back again in my chair, still raging that I had not got him by the throat, but in an instant glad also that my rashness had been foiled.
I heard the tramp of his party on their orderly march along the road from the house. Their steps died away, and all was very still. I looked round the hall; there was nobody but myself. I rose and looked into the kitchen; it was empty. Mouraki had kept his word: we were alone. In front there were sentries, behind there were sentries, but the house was mine. Hope rose again, strong and urgent, in my heart, as my eyes fell on the spot under the staircase, where lay the entrance to the secret passage. I looked at my watch; it was eleven o’clock. The wind blew softly, the night was fine, a crescent moon was just visible through the narrow windows. The time was come, the time left free by Mouraki’s strange oversight.
It was then, and then only, that a sudden gleam of enlightenment, a sudden chilling suspicion, fell upon me, transforming my hope to fear, my triumph to doubt and misgiving. Was Mouraki Pasha the man to be guilty of an oversight, of so plain an oversight? When an enemy leaves open an obvious retreat, is it always by oversight? When he seems to indicate a way of safety, is the way safe? These disturbing thoughts crowded on me as I sat, and I looked now at the entrance to the secret passage with new eyes.
The sentries were behind the house, the sentrieswere in front of the house; in neither direction was there any chance of escape. One way was open—the passage—and that one way only. And I asked the question of myself, framing the words in an inarticulate low whisper, ‘Is this way a trap?’
‘You fool—you fool—you fool!’ I cried, beating my fist on the wooden table.
For if that way were a trap, then there was no way of safety, and the last hope was gone. Had Mouraki indeed thought of the passage only as a mediæval curiosity? Well, were notoubliettes, down which a man went and was seen no more, also a mediæval curiosity?