Her father, however, knew nothing of what was in progress. She withheld the truth of her widowhood from him on account of his weak state of health.
“I am greatly annoyed at being constantly watched as I am,” Geoffrey declared frankly. “I am unable to continue my work at the wireless station because your friends fear that I may reveal the truth to somebody. The situation is most unpleasant.”
“Yes; I quite understand, M’sieur Falconer,” she said. “It was quite by accident that Boris admitted you. You thought to perform a friendly action towards me, and instead you stepped into our group. But I beg of you to have patience. I feared last night that they might kill you. They are all desperate persons, I assure you.”
“Did you form the complot?” asked the young radio-engineer.
“No. They did. They came to me and told me my husband had been tried by secret court-martial and executed, and then suggested revenge.”
Geoffrey reflected a moment.
“They came to you suggesting that you should bear the expenses of the plot?”
“Yes. I inherited a considerable fortune from my aunt, and they suggested that I should take this patriotic step, for by avenging the death of my poor husband I should rid Serbia of her enemies who are posing as her friends.”
Geoffrey pointed out that there could be no excuse for assassination, but she instantly became angry, declaring that she demanded blood for blood.
Two days passed. Wherever Falconer went the silent Vulkovitch watched him until it got upon his nerves. He scarcely dared to exchange words with Lane, who naturally grew curious as to his colleague’s change of manner, for he had suddenly become quite morose. And naturally, for were not the lives of several Serbian statesmen in his hands? He longed to warn the Serbian Premier of his peril. But how?