‘I am Wheatley. I have escaped from the house there,’ I went on; ‘and I have come here because there’s something I must tell you. You remember our last meeting?’
She looked at me still in amazed surprise, but with a gleam of recollection.
‘Yes, yes. You were—we went to watch you—yes, at the restaurant.’
‘You went to watch and to listen? Yes, I supposed so. But I’ve been near you since then. Do you remember the man who was on your verandah?’
‘That was you?’ she asked quickly.
‘Yes, it was. And while I was there I heard—’
‘But what are you doing here? This house is watched. Constantine may be here any moment, or Vlacho.’
‘I’m as safe here as I was down the hill. Now listen. Are you this man’s wife, as he called you that night?’
‘Am I his wife? Of course I’m his wife. How else should I be here?’ The indignation expressed in her answer was the best guarantee of its truth, and became her well. And she held her hand up to me, as she had to the man himself in the restaurant, adding, ‘There is his ring.’