No, the more Edward Povey thought of the affair the more certain he became that the girl was being held prisoner by some one who suspected her identity. The lieutenant was, no doubt, acting under the orders of others, and she would be kept in captivity until Dasso, after the king's death, was secure on the throne. Her's was too valuable a life to dispose of, unless it were absolutely necessary.
All these things passed through Edward's mind as he made his way in the direction of Venta Villa. The boulevard was crowded with its usual throng of pleasure seekers. From the interior of the café came the clattering of dishes and the laughter of those who were drinking or supping. Each place, too, had its little orchestra, the uniforms showing hazily through the smoke-laden atmosphere.
As Povey passed the Café de l'Europe, the largest and most fashionable in Corbo, he ran his eyes over the people seated at the little tables. Gaily dressed women smoked cigarettes and drank tiny liqueurs as they joked with bored-looking men in evening attire. Here and there the gorgeous uniform of the King's Own Hussars splashed a note of barbaric colour over the scene.
With a little catch of the breath, Edward suddenly pulled up short and slipped back into the shadow of a newspaper kiosk. From behind this he peeped cautiously at the figure of an elderly gentleman who was seated alone before a table on which stood a stone tankard of Pilsener. Then he passed hastily up the little avenue between the crowded tables and entered the main body of the Café de l'Europe.
Here were blotters containing paper and envelopes, and he drew a sheet towards him and wrote a short note. Then, calling a waiter, he asked him to hand it to the gentleman in the tweed suit who was drinking beer outside. He also, ascertaining that this particular waiter spoke a little English, told the man to tell the gentleman in the tweed suit that the writer of the note would be glad of a word with him in private. Then he leaned back and watched through the large plate-glass windows.
*****
Mr. Jasper Jarman, as the waiter touched him on the shoulder and handed him the note, started violently. For him a touch on the shoulder meant but the one thing, in fact he had been dreaming night and day, ever since his arrival on the island, of touches upon the shoulder.
"Ze gentleman, sir, he speak with m'sieu."
"The devil he will." Jasper Jarman rose hastily and grabbed up his hat and umbrella. "I don't know a soul in the dam island, waiter, and I don't want to. You have made a mistake, my good man."
Jasper unfolded the note as he spoke, and his eye travelled to the signature. He gave a gasp and turned again to the waiter.