“And they would naturally not be sorry to see the brother’s descendants wiped out, you mean?” suggested Maurice.
“Hardly that. Prince Christodoridi would probably prefer to base his claim on the invalidity of the marriage of Alexius Theophanis with a foreigner and a member of another church, contrary to the law of the Imperial house.”
“If that’s true, he holds a pretty strong card,” said Maurice.
“The law was disregarded several times,” said Zoe quickly. “Gibbon says so.”
The Professor regarded her approvingly. “Quite so. But as we do not wish to incite the Christodoridis to take action, we will not bring your existence to their ears before it is necessary. In any case, Prince Christodoridi’s claims are unimportant. The Emperor John, your heroic ancestor, left another son and two daughters besides your progenitor Basil. Anna, the eldest daughter, married Boris, Grand Prince of Scythia, and carried the blood of the Cæsars into the Scythian Imperial house. Helena, the younger, married into the Dacian family of Gratianco, from which is descended the mother of Prince Timoleon Malasorte, the Neustrian Imperial claimant. But these claims through females are merely curious. The only person whose right at all approaches yours is the descendant of Leo, second son of John Theophanis. About forty years ago the officiousness of Scythian agents ferreted out in Dacia an obscure landed proprietor directly descended from Leo. He was invited to Pavelsburg, decorated, given the title of Royal Highness, with estates and a pension to support it, and complimented with the hope of being restored to his ancestor’s throne. Of course there was no thought of fulfilling the promises made him; the only intention was to keep him under surveillance. He wore out his life in fruitless attempts to get his cause adopted, and when I managed to approach him, as I have now approached you, he had not the energy to take the steps to which my advice and the detestation he had conceived for Scythia would have urged him. He left only a daughter, and it was this disappointment which sent me to England to make one more attempt to trace the descendants of Basil. A male heir in the male line is what we want. The work before us is not for women.”
“This man was a Theophanis, then?” asked Maurice.
“Prince Nicolai Andréivitch Féofan—so they call it in Scythia. It seems that his family had preserved the memory of their Imperial descent through the centuries, though fear of the Roumis kept them from disclosing it. When he was summoned to Pavelsburg, he thought it only an ante-room to Czarigrad, and when he found himself deceived, he wished to retire to Dacia again, but this was not permitted. At his death, he was little better than a State prisoner, and he left his daughter in the same position. No doubt a marriage will be arranged for her with one of the less important Grand Dukes, that her claim also may be safely vested in the Imperial family.”
“Poor thing!” said Zoe. Now that Maurice’s claim was incontestably established to be the strongest, she felt a curious pity for the girl who must believe herself to be what Maurice actually was, the rightful inheritor of the glories of the Empire of the East.
CHAPTER III.
THE ORIENT EXPRESS.
Not more than three weeks later, Maurice and Zoe stood on the platform of the Gare de l’Est, about to enter upon the second stage of their journey eastwards. Professor Panagiotis had urged that they should start as soon as possible, before the increasing heat should make railway travelling disagreeable, but he scouted Zoe’s suggestion that they should go when he did. Their visiting him at Kallimeri would attract quite sufficient attention, he said, and it was most important that no idea of their being connected in any way with his political schemes should get abroad. He had made the arrangements for their journey, procuring them passports as Maurice and Zoe Smith, and, at his suggestion, Maurice had requested his bankers to honour cheques bearing their signatures in these names. It was understood among their friends that Zoe had persuaded Maurice to take her to Eastern Europe that she might lay the scene of a novel there, and she gave colour to the opinion by the number of note-books of different sorts and sizes which made her luggage heavy, if not bulky. These were destined to cause endless trouble at the several frontiers, for the official mind, unable to understand why so many blank volumes should be needed, conceived the idea that they contained Anarchist literature written in invisible ink, and insisted on subjecting them to severe tests. But this was still in the future, and Zoe was rejoicing in the imminent prospect of romance, to be not only written but lived. During the few hours they spent in London, she had dragged Maurice to Westminster Abbey, that they might visit the obscure grave of “Mr Nicholas Thephany.” Maurice refused sternly to allow her to take a wreath for it, but she succeeded, behind his back, in dropping upon the stone the handful of carnations which had been tucked into her belt. Unfortunately, they were carefully gathered up and returned to her by a polite verger, which spoilt the significance of the act, and exposed her to Maurice’s sarcasms. But nothing could detract from the joy of having an ancestor buried in the Abbey, or of tracing one’s lineage back to the Cæsars.