“Do not come. A painful scene may be impending.”
“What my husband can hear, that can I,” was her retort. “Ah! but why do you look thus dreadfully on Glaucon?”
“I have warned you, lady. Do not blame me if you hear the worst,” rejoined Democrates, barring the door. A single swinging lamp shed a fitful light on the scene—the whimpering prisoner, the others all amazed, the orator’s face, tense and white. Democrates’s voice seemed metallic as he continued:—
“Now, Seuthes, we must search you. Produce first the letter from Glaucon.”
The fat florid little Corinthian was dressed as a traveller, a gray chalmys to his hips, a brimmed brown hat, and high black boots. His hands were now untied. He tugged from his belt a bit of papyrus which Democrates handed to Themistocles, enjoining “Open.”
Glaucon flushed.
“Are you mad, Democrates, to violate my private correspondence thus?”
“The weal of Athens outweighs even the pleasure of Glaucon,” returned the orator, harshly, “and you, Themistocles, note that Glaucon does not deny that the seal here is his own.”
“I do not deny,” cried the angry athlete. “Open, Themistocles, and let this stupid comedy end.”
“And may it never change to tragedy!” proclaimed Democrates. “What do you read, Themistocles?”