Barndale read aloud.
‘My very dear Friend,—At what time you was at
Constantinople, when trouble came, you made promise that you
would not forget me if my poor Demetri should trouble about
you. When you last wrote to me this was made again—the
promise. My life for not one moment is safe. My aunt is dead
and my possessions are now mine, but there is no friend in
all the world. Demetri is mad. Of him I know not when I am
safe. I fly then to London, where all is safe. But there it
is not possible that I should be alone. If there is any
lady in the circle of your knowledge who would be kind with
me, and permit that I should live with her, it will have for
ever my gratitude. I shall go as of old to the Palace Hotel
at Westminster. Two days beyond this letter I shall be
there.
‘Always your friend,
‘Thecla Perzio.’
After the reading of this epistle, the friends sat in silence, regarding each other with grave looks. In the silence they could hear the river lapping against the bank, and the rustling of the boughs on the roof, and the moaning and sighing of the wind. But they could not hear the suppressed breathing of Demetri Agryopoulo where he stood knee-deep in water below the house-boat window, listening to their talk. Yet there he stood, not knowing that he was not on dry land; drunk with rage and jealousy; with murder plainly written in his heart and eyes, and all his blood on fire. He threw his soul into his ears, and listened.
‘This letter has been a long time on its way, surely,’ said Barndale, referring to the date. ‘It can’t take three weeks to bring a letter from Constantinople.’
‘Where’s the envelope?’ asked. Leland. ‘Look at that, and see what the London date is.’
The home stamp made it clear that the letter had reached England ten days back.
‘My man brought it down this afternoon, the lazy scamp!’ said Leland. ‘He has never been near those blessed chambers since I left till now. A pile of letters came together, but I took no notice.’
‘Listen to me,’ said Barndale. ‘You have done harm enough in this matter already, Jimmy, and you must do no more. You must keep clear of her. I will send her down to my sister for a time. Sophy is a good girl, and will be glad to have a companion whilst I am away. I will go up to town to-morrow and see Miss Perzio. You stay here. I shall either wire to you or come back in the evening.’
The weather had been hot and clear for weeks together, and the traditions of English summer were preparing to enforce themselves by the common thunderstorm. The wind moaned in swift and sudden gusts, and the distant thunder rumbled threateningly. The listener outside misheard this speech thus:
‘You will be glad of a companion whilst I am away. I will go up to town to-morrow and see Miss Perzio.’