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 I had 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 the right, 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 unravel the 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 I sank 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 saw my 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.’

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, put Denny’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, and withdrew 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 waved aside 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 that I 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 I thought 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 the steps 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 a tÊte-À-tÊte with 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, eyes that 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.