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.
[CHAPTER XVI]
AN UNFINISHED LETTER
I have learnt 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 by the 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.’