A faint smile showed itself on Maurice’s face. George, who, a moment before, had glowered with indignation, for Rostopchin had tied his hands behind him, now grinned broadly. The scene was peaceful. Hostilities had ceased: Giulika and his men leant disconsolate against the wall of their house; the half-dozen neighbours lolled at their doors, idly watching; and the intruders from Elbasan stood beside their horses, looking on with silent curiosity.
The Count rapidly pencilled, with the aid of his key, the translation of the despatch. After a word or two a look of puzzlement stole upon his face. He knit his brows, compared the words before him with the key, and summoned Rostopchin to his side. The two spoke in whispers inaudible to Maurice, who had lighted a cigarette, and was pacing up and down unconcernedly.
“It is clearly correct,” said Rostopchin. “Finish it; we shall get the explanation by-and-by.”
The Count proceeded with his task. In twenty minutes he had finished. His puzzlement had but increased. With a frown of irritation he pored over what he had written with Rostopchin.
“There must be a secret within a secret,” said the secretary.
The Count strode towards Maurice.
“Zis, is it correct?” he asked in English curtly, spreading his transliteration.
Maurice glanced over it.
“Quite correct, Monsieur le Comte,” he said.
“Zen vill you tell me vat zis mean? I do not understand it:—