“You call them strangers, madame. I am to understand they were unknown to you at the time you undertook your—pilgrimage?”
“At the time I undertook my—pilgrimage,” replied Eirene, with an intonation which brought an involuntary smile to Zoe’s lips, “I was as absolutely ignorant of the existence of Mr and Miss Smith as they were of my identity when chance threw us together on our journey.”
“Chance? Ah, yes, the meeting was casual on your part, no doubt, madame. But the ignorance of the brother and sister Smith exists only in your mind, so guileless, so unsuspicious of treachery.”
“I assure you, monsieur, I am by no means unsuspicious by nature,” said Eirene, with distinct resentment. “So determined was I to preserve my incognito that I communicated the route and object of my—pilgrimage to no one but the lady who attended me, and who is since dead. It was impossible for any one else to be acquainted with it.”
Zoe waited eagerly for the answer. The artistic way in which M. Kirileff was leading up to his dénouement appealed to her critical faculty. From a purely literary point of view she could have applauded the unblushing lie with which he countered Eirene’s declaration.
“Ah, madame, these things leak out somehow. If we were acquainted with your intention—I speak of the office I have the honour to represent—and were watching over your safety without your knowledge, if it was known also to the plotter Panagiotis, why should it be unknown to these tools of his?”
“If you were watching over my safety, monsieur, I can only say that your measures left something to be desired,” said Eirene smartly. “I will remind you that you have just applied a very offensive term to a lady and gentleman whom the events of the past month have taught me to hold in the highest esteem.”
“I could wish, madame, that they had betrayed themselves in their true colours, since that would have released me from the sad duty of acquainting you with their worthlessness. They are the creatures of the arch-conspirator Panagiotis in an attempt to deprive you of the rights bequeathed to you by your imperial ancestors.”
“Monsieur, you speak in riddles. The thing is too absurd.”
“Precisely, madame. It is too absurd. But if you ask this man, this woman”—he pointed an accusing finger at Maurice, who was laboriously endeavouring to follow the rapidly spoken French, and succeeding at intervals, and at the deeply interested Zoe—“who they really are, they will assure you that their true name is not Smith, but Teffany, and that they are descended from Basil, the elder brother of your ancestor Leo, son of the Emperor John Theophanis.”