The two men stood looking at one another in silence for quite a minute, Crispin cool and composed, the Greek fuming with anger. At length Caliphronas burst out laughing, and Maurice, seeing he was now master of his actions, let him go, whereon he flung himself into a chair, with a cynical smile on his handsome face.

“So this dear Creespeen has told you who I am, and what I am,” he said, looking insolently at Maurice. “Well, and what do you think of me?”

“You would hardly feel flattered if I told you,” retorted Roylands, lighting his cigarette once more.

“Ah, bah! Praise or blame is all the same to me. Oh, I know your dull English respectability which shudders at the truth. Yet I dare say, with my little excursions with Alcibiades, my assuming of a false name, my philosophy of enjoying myself at the expense of others, I am no worse than many of your holy people, who go to church, and, under the guise of self-denial, enjoy all that life can give. I may be what you call bad, but I am at least not a hypocrite.”

“By which remark I presume you infer I am one.”

“No, I do not. You have not enough character to make you either bad or good. You lead a dull, respectable life, because you like dull respectability. If you had leanings in the other direction, I will do you the justice to say that I have no doubt you would not have concealed them from the world.”

“Thank you,” replied Maurice dryly; “your opinion of my character is most gratifying.”

“As to you, Creespeen,” said Caliphronas, turning to the poet with an evil smile, “I knew you were prudish in many ways, a milksop as Justinian called you, and a man afraid of going against the opinion of the world, but I did not know you were an oath-breaker nor a tale-bearer.”

“Nor am I,” answered Crispin, keeping his temper wonderfully under the insults of the Greek, for, after all, it would have been worse than useless to quarrel with him.

“I did not tell about Justinian, or of anything connected with your visit to England. All I revealed was my own life and your real character, which it is only right my friend should know.”

“As for that,” retorted Caliphronas carelessly, “I do not mind. Mask on, mask off, it is all the same to me; but, as regards what I told you in confidence, I am glad you were wise enough not to reveal it, as you would have to settle accounts with Justinian, not with me.”

“I am not afraid of Justinian,” said Crispin, with supreme contempt.

“What is this secret?” asked Maurice quickly; “if it refers to me, I have a right to know it.”

“It does not refer to you,” replied Caliphronas mendaciously; “it concerns Justinian, and what it is you will learn before you are many days on Melnos.”

“I do not generally boast about myself,” said Maurice quickly, “but if you and your precious Justinian are up to any tricks, you will find me an awkward customer to deal with.”

“No harm is intended, Mr. Maurice.”

“Upon my word, sir, your insolence is unbounded,” said Roylands, sitting upright in his indignation. “I am going to make a tour of the Greek islands, yet you talk as if I were coming on a visit to you—being decoyed, as it were, into a robber’s cave. I don’t care two straws about your ‘no harm is intended,’ and you may be certain if there is any trouble it will be for you, not for me. Really,” continued Maurice, laughing at the comicality of the situation, “one would think we lived in the days of filibusters and buccaneers the way you talk.”

Caliphronas was not put out in the least by this speech, and, leaning back in his chair, looked at Maurice with a lazy smile.

“There is no pleasure without an element of danger,” he said coolly, placing his hands behind his head, “and you may have adventures before you leave Melnos.”

Struck by the significance of his tone, Maurice looked keenly at him, and then turned to Crispin with a puzzled air.

“My dear fellow, will you explain this riddle?”

“There is nothing to explain,” said Crispin, with a yawn; “you know the way Caliphronas exaggerates. I suppose he wants to make out that Melnos is a barbaric place, and that this cruise partakes of the nature of a journey into Darkest Africa.”

“I have heard more nonsense to-night than I ever heard before in my life,” said Maurice, still ruffled. “Pseudo-counts, patriarchal knights, islands of fantasy, hintings of dangers. It is like a novel of adventure.”

Caliphronas laughed, but said nothing, while Crispin knocked the ashes out of his pipe and refilled it finally for a last smoke before turning in.

“I suppose you are very shocked at Creespeen’s flattering description of me,” remarked the Count calmly.

“Hm! I hardly know. You are a picturesque scamp, but only a scamp for all that.”

“This candor is delightful.”

“Caliphronas,” observed Crispin, settling himself into a more comfortable attitude, “is a gentleman who believes that Number One is the greatest number.”

“Every one in the world does that, my dear Creespeen.”

“Probably, but they don’t show it so openly as you do.”

“Hypocrites!”

“I dare say, but a certain amount of hypocrisy is necessary in this world of shams.”

Maurice looked at Count Constantine with an amused smile.

“Caliphronas, you are a most unique person, and I would like to know your views of life.”

“Make money honestly if you can—but make money.”

“I thought you were a child of Nature, who cared nothing for money.”

“You are right in one way, Mr. Maurice. For money as money I care nothing, but I like luxuries which only money can buy, and therefore desire money.”

“Epigrammatic, decidedly! but your free, open-air life—your love of mountains, waves, winds, skies?”

“Certainly I love all those things very much. Still, I go to Athens sometimes for amusement, and amusement requires money.”

“You are certainly candid.”

“I am; when I have nothing to gain, I am always candid.”

“And you have nothing to gain now?”

“No. I paid a visit to England—out of curiosity,” said Caliphronas, hesitating over the last words. “I met there my dear old friend Creespeen, and also yourself. Both of you are returning with me to the land I love—so, what with your company and my home-coming, I have absolutely nothing to wish for.”

“So you are that rara avis, a thoroughly satisfied man?”

“I suppose so,” replied Caliphronas coolly. “No—stay—I do desire one thing which I hope to obtain.”

“I can guess what that one thing is.”

“Indeed! pray tell me.”

“Well, it is not your mythical Fanariot at Constantinople.”

“Mythical?”

“Yes. Oh, don’t be angry, Count Caliphronas! I now know the reason you were so angry over that photograph.”

“If you do,” said the Greek, restraining himself with difficulty, “you will know how to act wisely.”

“Possibly; I have already arranged my plan of action.”

“Really?”

Caliphronas had a fleeting smile on his lips as he said this, but looked so dangerous that Crispin touched Maurice on the arm.

“Do not irritate him any more; remember he is my guest, and I cannot be impolite.”

Maurice took the hint, and addressed himself to the Count with an air of elaborate politeness.

“Don’t let us talk any more about possibilities, Count,” he said, laughing. “After all, I have some right to be angry, considering how you masqueraded as a count in England.”

“And now I am a wolf, eh?” said Caliphronas, showing his white teeth; “bah! a wolf may be a very pleasant animal.”

“Maybe, but from all accounts he is not.”

“That is as you take him; but then I know Creespeen has prejudiced you against me.”

“I have done nothing of the sort,” protested the poet quietly; “I only told him how you were accustomed to associate with Alcibiades.”

“Eh, and why not? My friend Alcibiades is not a bad man,—a good honest trader who sails about among the islands of the Ægean. I will introduce you to him, Mr. Maurice, and I am sure you will like him. After all, our little piratical excursions are very innocent—no bloodshed—no violence—no burning of houses; we—we only levy toll, so to speak.”

“What a pleasant way of putting it!”

“What does it matter if you take openly or take secretly? the thing is the same, but only the mode of doing it is different. What we do in Greece, you do in England, but, simply because the latter is done under the rose and the former is not, your robbers of London are good, honest men, whereas we poor Greeks of the islands are scamps. Never mind, when we become as civilized as you, we also will mask our wickedness under the cloak of sanctity.”

“Oh,” cried Crispin, suddenly rising to his feet, “I am tired of this discussion! it is all aimless—about no one and no thing. I am going to turn in.”

“And I—am not,” added Caliphronas, springing to his feet; “fancy going down to a close cabin with such glories as this outside!”

He waved his arms aloft, where the brilliant sky smiled down on the still waters. Indeed, so placid was the sea that the stars, moon, and clouds were all reflected therein as in a mirror, and the yacht seemed to hang passive in the centre of a scintillating, hollow ball.

“When do we reach Melnos?” asked Maurice abruptly, as Caliphronas strolled away to the other end of the ship.

“To-morrow evening,” replied Crispin, pausing at the door of the cabin. “We will sleep on board, and visit Justinian in the morning.”

“Crispin, is there anything in those veiled threats of Caliphronas?”

“Perhaps,” replied the poet vaguely. “Caliphronas is a dangerous man, and is, as I have told you, a favorite of Justinian’s. However, I would not be surprised if Justinian dismissed Andros and put you in his place.”

“Thank you,” said Maurice in haughty surprise, “but I have no ambition to occupy such a position.”

“Maurice,” said Crispin suddenly, “I wish I could tell you all I know, but, unfortunately, I gave my word to Caliphronas not to do so as long as you were not harmed in any way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot tell you, but only this, which may perhaps serve as a warning,—Caliphronas came to Roylands on purpose to get you to journey to Melnos.”

“And his reason?”

“I know it, but I cannot tell you. However, if you should be in any danger,—and I will not conceal from you that there may be danger,—I will consider my promise void and tell you all.”

“All what?”

“All about Caliphronas, Justinian, and Helena.”

“Is she in this plot also?”

“Plot! yes, it is a plot, the reason of which I know not. Helena is to a certain extent mixed up in it, but innocently, you may be sure.”

“I cannot understand all this.”

“Never mind, as long as I understand it you will not suffer. Caliphronas, as I have told you, is a scamp, and will pause at nothing to gratify his own desire. He lured you to Melnos for a purpose, but he did not count on my presence. Listen! he thinks we have gone below, and is telling his secrets to the stars.”

And at this moment, as if Caliphronas knew the subject-matter of their conversation, in the far distance he broke out into a rich burst of song, the gist of which Crispin rapidly translated to Maurice.

“You see,” said Crispin significantly, after translating this, “he talks in parables, but you can guess his meaning; but do not be afraid. You trust me, do you not?”

“Yes, I trust you,” replied Maurice, grasping the hand held out to him.

“That is right, my friend—good-night.”

When Crispin disappeared, Maurice went to the stern of the ship, and, leaning over the taffrail, fell into deep meditation over the strange circumstances in which he was environed. Caliphronas, sitting by the bowsprit, was swaying up and down with the pitching of the yacht, singing songs, now soft, now loud, but this was the only sound of humanity heard. The sough of the wind through the rigging, the dreary wash of the sea, as the ship cut her way through the glittering plain; the rustle of the cordage, the beating of the screw,—he could hear all these blending with the fitful voice of the Greek. The moon had retired behind a thick bank of black clouds, which foreboded storm, and the moonlit world was now shadowy, vast, vague, and strange,—a world of shadows and ghosts, with the swift steamer gliding onward into the unknown seas—into the unknown future.

Maurice Roylands was not what one might call a strong-minded man, for, as a matter of fact, he had that subtle touch of indecision which is often found in artistic natures. He was very impressionable, and surrounding circumstances had a great effect on his temperament—still, when he saw his way clearly before him, he was quite capable of making up his mind, and carrying out his determination to the end. But he could never make up his mind promptly, as he wavered this way, that way, according as he was biassed by circumstances. Had he been of a firm, decisive nature, he would never have yielded to that pitiable melancholia which seized him in London, and would thus have been spared much suffering. Still, in spite of this latent weakness of character, which always developed itself in time of trouble, he was a brave man, with plenty of pluck. In England, notwithstanding his Bohemian existence, his life had gone on too smoothly to call his moral characteristics into any special prominence, but now, surrounded as he was by vague mysteries, he felt doubtful.

Hitherto his existence had been but prosaic, but now the element of romance had entered into it, and he felt that he was being passively drawn into a series of strange adventures, the subsequent termination of which, either for good or evil, lay not in his own hands. Caliphronas had come to England with the deliberate intention of luring him to Melnos; but what was his reason for this strange conduct? Certainly Crispin knew, but Crispin, fettered by his promise of secrecy, was unable to solve the problem. The strangest thing of all was that Caliphronas had made use of the picture of a girl he loved, to decoy Maurice to the East, which line of conduct struck the young man as most unaccountable.

If Caliphronas was in love with Helena, it was foolish of him to encourage, as he had undoubtedly done, the love of a rival; and the result of two men loving one woman must be unsatisfactory to one of them. Of course, Maurice saw that Caliphronas, confident in his beauty of person and powers of fascination, never for a moment doubted the final result; still, what was the reason of his taking a trip to England especially to bring a rival into the presence of the woman? The more Maurice thought about this, the more extraordinary did it seem, and, as the whole was a decided enigma, his doubts arose as to what was the best course to pursue under these very extraordinary circumstances.

True, Crispin, being in possession of the true facts of the case, would help him, for the poet was an honest man, and would not stand idly by in time of trouble; still, there was something in the affair of which even Crispin was ignorant, as he had confessed, and this mysterious something was connected in some way with Justinian. Maurice, after long pondering, came to the conclusion that with Justinian lay the whole solution of the matter, and, as he could decide on no course of action until he had seen Justinian himself, all he could do was to remain passive and trust to Providence.

“One thing is certain,” he said to himself, as he watched the gray waters swirling past, “I can depend on Crispin, and as he knows Caliphronas thoroughly, that consummate scamp will hesitate before he takes any action adverse to my interests. But Justinian seems so mixed up in the affair, and apparently without any reason whatsoever. He has lived in this Greek island all his life, Englishman though he is, so why he should desire to see a complete stranger like myself I do not know. Well, the only thing I can do is to trust blindly in Crispin, for I am sure he will not fail me. Apart from his friendship for me, it would be against his own interests to play false, as he would then never be able to marry Eunice. Time alone will unravel all this perplexity, so to time will I trust. After all, I am young and strong, so can defend myself if necessary. And then there is Helena; whatever happens I shall see her—I will see Helena, and”—

“Eh, Mr. Maurice,” said the voice of Caliphronas behind him, “you have not gone to bed.”

“No, I am thinking.”

“I can guess your thoughts.”

Maurice made no reply to this invitation to argue, but, with a curt “Good-night,” went below, while in his ears rang the cruel, mocking laugh of the Greek, as he repeated rapidly in a singing tone the name of his mistress,—

“Helena, Helena, Helena!”