"I imagine she"ll have heard of his escape with great regret," said I.
The Pasha knocked with the gold-headed cane which he carried. He waited and then repeated the blow. No answer came.
"Well," he said with a shrug, "we have given her fair warning. Let us enter. She knows you, my dear Wheatley, and will not be alarmed."
"But if Constantine"s here?" I suggested, with a mocking smile. "Your life is a valuable one. Run no risks; he"s a desperate man."
The Pasha shifted his cane to his left hand, smiled in answer to my smile, and produced a revolver.
"You"re wise," said I, and I took my revolver out of my pocket.
"We are ready for--anything--now," said Mouraki.
I think "anything" in that sentence was meant to include "one another."
The Pasha opened the door and pa.s.sed in. Nothing seemed changed since my last visit. The door of the room on the right was open, the table was again spread, for two this time; the left-hand door was shut.
"You see the fugitive is not in that room," observed the Pasha, waving his hand to the right. "Let us try the other," and he turned the door-handle of the room on the left, and preceded me into it.
At this point I am impelled to a little confession. The murderous impulse is, perhaps, not so uncommon as we a.s.sume. I daresay many respectable men and amiable women have felt it in all its attractive simplicity once or twice in their lives. It seems at such moments hardly sinful, merely too dangerous, and to be recognised as impossible to gratify only by reason of its danger. But I perceive that I am accusing the rest of the world in the hope of excusing myself; for at that moment, when the Pasha"s broad solid back was presented to me, a yard in front, I experienced a momentary but extremely strong temptation to raise my arm, move my finger and--transform the situation. I did not do it; but, on the other hand, I have never counted the desire to do it among the great sins of my life. Mouraki, I thought then and know now, deserved nothing better. Unhappily we have our own consciences to consider, and thus are often prevented from meting out to others the measure their deeds claim.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "WE ARE READY FOR--ANYTHING--NOW."]
"I see n.o.body," said the Pasha. "But then the room is dark. Shall I pull back the curtain?"
"You"d better be careful," said I, laughing. "That"s what Vlacho did."
"Ah, but you"re on the same side this time," he answered, and stepped across the room towards the curtain.
Suddenly I became, or seemed to become, vaguely, uncomfortably, even terribly conscious of something there. Yet I could see nothing in the dark room, and I heard nothing. I can hardly think Mouraki shared my strange oppressive feeling; yet the curtain was not immediately drawn back, his figure bulked motionless just in front of me, and he repeated in tones that betrayed uneasiness:
"I suppose I"d better draw back the curtain, hadn"t I?"
What was it? It must have been all fancy, born of the strain of excitement and the nervous tension in which I was living. I have had something of the feeling in the dark before and since, but never so strong, distinct and almost overpowering. I knew Constantine was not there. I had no fear of him if he were. Yet my forehead grew damp with sweat.
Mouraki"s hand was on the curtain. He drew it back. The dull evening light spread sluggishly through the room. Mouraki turned and looked at me. I returned his gaze. A moment pa.s.sed before either of us looked round.
"There"s n.o.body behind the curtain," said he, with a slight sigh which seemed to express relief. "Do you see any one anywhere?"
Then I pulled myself together, and looked round. The chairs near me were empty, the couch had no occupant. But away in the corner of the room, in the shadow of a projecting angle of wall, I saw a figure seated in front of a table. On the table were writing-materials. The figure was a woman"s. Her arms were spread on the table, and her head lay between them. I raised my hand and pointed to her. Mouraki"s eyes obeyed my direction but came quickly back to me in question, and he arched his brows.
I stepped across the room towards where the woman sat. I heard the Pasha following with hesitating tread, and I waited till he overtook me. Then I called her name softly; yet I knew that it was no use to call her name; it was only the protest my horror made. She would hear her name no more. Again I pointed with my right hand, catching Mouraki"s arm with my left at the same moment.
"There," I said, "there--between the shoulders! A knife!"
I felt his arm tremble. I must do him justice. I am convinced that he did not foresee or antic.i.p.ate this among the results of the letting loose of Constantine Stefanopoulos. I heard him clear his throat, I saw him lick his lips; his lids settled low over his cunning eyes. I turned from him to the motionless figure in the chair.
She was dead, had been dead some little while, and must have died instantly on that foul stroke. Why had the brute dealt it? Was it mere revenge and cruelty, persistently nursed wrath at her betrayal of him on St Tryphon"s day? Or had some new cause evoked pa.s.sion from him?
"Let us lay her here on the sofa," I said to Mouraki; "and you must send some one to look after her."
He seemed reluctant to help me. I leant forward alone, and putting my arm round her, raised her from the table, and set her upright in the chair. I rejoiced to find no trace of pain or horror on her face. As I looked at her I gave a sudden short sob. I was unstrung; the thing was so wantonly cruel and horrible.
"He has made good use of his liberty," I said in a low fierce tone, turning on Mouraki in a sudden burst of anger against the hand that had set the villain free. But the Pasha"s composure wrapped him like a cloak again. He knew what I meant and read the implied taunt in my words, but he answered calmly:
"We have no proof yet that it was her husband who killed her."
"Who else should?"
He shrugged his shoulders, remarking, "No proof, I said. Perhaps he did, perhaps not. We don"t know."
"Help me with her," said I brusquely.
Between us we lifted her and laid her on the couch, and spread over her a fur rug that draped one of the chairs. While this was done we did not exchange a word with one another. Mouraki uttered a sigh of relief when the task was finished.
"I"ll send a couple of women up as soon as we get back. Meanwhile the place is guarded and n.o.body can come in. Need we delay longer? It is not a pleasant place."
"I should think we might as well go," I answered, casting my eye again round the little room to the spot where Vlacho had fallen enveloped in the curtain which he dragged down with him, and to the writing-table that had supported the dead body of Francesca. Mouraki"s hand was on the door-handle. He stood there, impatient to be out of the place, waiting for me to accompany him. But my last glance had seen something new, and with a sudden low exclamation I darted across the room to the table. I had perceived a sheet of paper lying just where Francesca"s head had rested.
"What"s the matter?" asked Mouraki.
I made him no answer. I seized the piece of paper. A pen lay between it and the inkstand. On the paper was a line or two of writing. The characters were blurred, as though the dead woman"s hair had smeared them before the ink was dry. I held it up. Mouraki stepped briskly across to me.
"Give it to me," he said, holding out his hand. "It may be something I ought to see."
The first hint of action, of new light or a new development, restored their cool alertness to my faculties.
"Why not something which I ought to see, my dear Pasha?" I asked, holding the paper behind my back and facing him.
"You forget the position I hold, Lord Wheatley. You have no such position."
I did not argue that. I walked to the window, to get the best of the light. Mouraki followed me closely.
"I"ll read it to you," said I. "There isn"t much of it."
I held it to the light. The Pasha was close by my shoulder, his pale face leaning forward towards the paper. Straining my eyes on the blurred characters I read; and I read aloud, according to my promise, hearing Mouraki"s breathing which accompanied my words.
"My lord, take care. He is free. Mouraki has set--"
That was all: a blot followed the last word. At that word the pen must have fallen from her fingers as her husband"s dagger stole her life.
We had read her last words. The writing of that line saw the moment of her death. Did it also supply the cause? If so, not the old grudge, but rage at a fresh betrayal of a fresh villainy had impelled Constantine"s arm to his foul stroke. He had caught her in the act of writing it, taken his revenge, and secured his safety.
After I had read, there was silence. The Pasha"s face was still by my shoulder. I gazed, as if fascinated, on the fatal unfinished note. At last I turned and looked him in the face. His eyes met mine in unmoved steely composure.
"I think," said I, "that I had a right to read the note after all; for, as I guess, the writer was addressing it to me and not to you."
For a moment Mouraki hesitated; then he shrugged his shoulders, saying:
"My dear lord, I don"t know whom it is addressed to or what it means.