The old valet, shaken with emotion, came forward as the others turned away.
“Listen, Fletcher. You will go back to England. Go to my wife—you will see Ada—tell my sister—say—”
His voice had become indistinct and the phrases ran together. Only fragmentary words could be distinguished: “Ada”—“my child”—“my sister”—“Hobhouse.” His speech flashed into coherence at last as he ended: “Now I have told you all.”
“My dear lord,” sobbed the valet, “I have not understood a word!”
Pitiful distress overspread Gordon’s features. “Not understood?” he said with an effort. “Then it is too late!” He sank back. Fletcher, blind with grief, left the room.
A subdued commotion rose unwontedly beneath the windows. Mavrocordato spoke hurriedly to an orderly who had just come to the door. “Have they not been told?” he whispered. “What is the matter?”
Through the closing darkness, Gordon’s ear caught a part of the low reply. “What did he say?” he asked.
Mavrocordato approached the couch. “Some one has come in a vessel bringing a vast fortune for Greece.”
The dimming eyes flared up with joyful exultation. The cause was not lost then. The armament could go on—the fleet be strengthened, the forces held together, till the loan came—till another might take his place.
A sound of footsteps fell on the stair—there was a soft knock. The orderly’s voice demanded the password.