"What did Sir Robert Llwellyn give you?—how much?" he said suddenly.
Again the look of ashen fear came over the Greek's face. He struggled with it before he spoke.
"I am sorry that your meaning is not plain to me, sir. I do not know of whom you speak."
"I speak of him whom you served secretly. It was with your aid that the 'new' tomb was found. But before it was found you and Sir Robert Llwellyn were at work there. I have come to obtain from you a detailed confession of how the thing was done, who cut the inscription?—I must know everything. If not, I tell you with perfect truth, your life is not safe. The Governor has sent men with me and you will be made to speak."
He spoke with a deep menace in his tone, and at the same time drew his revolver from the hip pocket of his riding-breeches and held it on his knee.
He had begun to realise the awful nature of this man's deed more and more poignantly in his presence. True, he was the tool of greater intelligences, and his guilt was not so heavy as theirs. Nevertheless, the Greek was no fool, he had something of an education, he had not done this thing blindly.
The man crouched against the wall, desperate and hopeless.
One of the soldiers outside the door moved, and his sabre clanked.
The sound was decisive. With a broken, husky voice Ionides began his miserable confession.
How simple it was! Wild astonishment at the ease with which the whole thing had been done filled the journalist's brain.