“My dear, my dear!” said Wylie brokenly, and as he put his arms round her Danaë, who had been watching through the half-open door, fled away in tears. The words she could not understand, but she knew the meaning of the tones, and no amount of arguing with her conscience could assure her that she had nothing to do with the scene. She had at first entertained wild hopes that Petros might be intercepted and killed, without being able to compromise her by anything he said, but then she remembered that unless he was able to return to Therma and produce Janni, or a child representing him, her brother had declared that he would be irretrievably ruined. He must be allowed to reach the city, then, but as soon as sufficient time had elapsed for Prince Romanos to be secured from whatever danger was threatening him, Danaë would declare her charge’s true parentage to her mistress. Then everything would be set right, but in the meantime the sorrow around cut her to the heart, and she and Linton mingled their tears over Janni’s solitary breakfast and his irrepressible inquiries for “Aa-aa.”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CULPRIT.
Neither his personal sorrow nor his sleepless night could be allowed to relieve Wylie from the pressure of his daily duties, and after less than an hour’s rest he was presiding at an inquiry into the conduct of one of his military police, who had quitted his post without leave on the preceding evening. This was Logofet, who had awakened from deep dreams of peace to find himself in durance, and could not imagine how he had got there. The report of the man who had escorted Princess Theophanis to the hospital made it clear that he and his mistress had entered at the small door of the Konak by merely turning the handle, and had found no one on guard within, and this rendered it probable that Logofet’s remissness had permitted the entrance of the kidnapper to whom the night’s misery was due. Nothing was said of this, however, though as many of his comrades as could find any excuse to be present crowded the room where the prisoner, alternately defiant and lachrymose, confronted his Colonel.
“Drunk, lord! I have not been drunk for ten years,” he blustered, happily unconscious that he had been found fast asleep, with the empty bottle by his side.
“The witnesses will prove that you were drunk last night. Where did you get the spirit from?”
Into Logofet’s bemuddled brain darted an idea and an impulse of revenge. Witnesses? Then the girl Kalliopé had betrayed him. Very well, then he would betray her.
“Do you really wish to know where the raki came from, lord?” he whined.
“Certainly.” Wylie expected to hear as usual the name of one of the wretched Jewish spirit-sellers, duly licensed by the Therma authorities, who were a thorn in the side of the rulers at Klaustra, and seemed to have a special predilection for corrupting the police.
“Then don’t ask me, lord; ask little Kalliopé. Ask her who gave me a bottle of raki two evenings running, so that I should turn my back while she slipped out at the little door.”
Ignorant as he was of the night’s excitement, Logofet was astonished at the sensation produced by his words. Wylie pushed his chair back abruptly, his face perfectly white, and the spectators exchanged glances and whispers and exclamations of surprise. After his first stunned silence, Wylie rose.