‘Dear Charley,’ it ran, ‘I don’t know what your game is, but it’s pretty slow for us. So we’re off fishing. Old Mouraki has been uncommon civil, and sent a fellow with us to show us the best place. If the weather is decent we shall stay out a couple of nights, so you may look for us the day after to-morrow. I knew it was no good asking you to come. Be a good boy, and don’t get into mischief while I’m away. Of course Mouraki will bottle Constantine again in no time. He told us he had no doubt of it, unless the fellow had found a boat. I’ll run up to the house, as soon as we get back. Yours ever, D. P. S.--As you said you didn’t want Watkins up at the house, I’ve taken him along to cook.’ _Beati innocentes!_ Denny was very innocent, and so, I suppose, very blessed; and my friend the Pasha had got rid of him in the easiest manner possible. Indeed it was ‘uncommon civil’ of Mouraki! They would be back the day after to-morrow, and Denny would ‘run up to the house.’ The thing was almost ludicrous in the pitiful unconsciousness of it. I tore the note that I had written into small pieces, put Denny’s in my pocket, and started to mount the hill again. But I turned once and looked on the face of the sea. To my anxious mind it seemed not to smile at me as was its wont. It was not now my refuge and my safety, but the prison-bars that confined me--me and her whom I had to serve and save. And he had taken Watkins along to cook; for I did not want him at the house! I would have given every farthing I had in the world for any honest brave man, Watkins or another. And I was not to ‘get into mischief.’ I knew very well what Denny meant by that. Well, he might be reassured. It did not appear likely that I should enjoy much leisure for dalliance of the sort he blamed. ‘Really, you know, I shall have something else to do,’ I said to myself. Slowly I walked up the hill, too deep in reflection even to hasten my steps; and I started like a man roused from sleep when I heard, from the side of the street, a soft cry of ‘My lord!’ I looked round. I was directly opposite the door of Vlacho’s inn. On the the threshold stood the girl Panayiota, who was Demetri’s sweetheart, and had held in her lap the head of Constantine’s wife whom Demetri could not kill. She cast cautious glances up and down the street, and withdrew swiftly into the shadow of the house, beckoning to me to follow her. In a strait like mine no chance, however small, is to be missed or refused. I followed her. Her cheek glowed with colour; she was under the influence of some excitement whose cause I could not fathom. ‘I have a message for you, my lord,’ she whispered. ‘I must tell it you quickly. We must not be seen.’ She shrank back farther into the shelter of the doorway. ‘As quickly as you like, Panayiota,’ said I. ‘I have little time to lose.’ ‘You have a friend more than you know of,’ said she, setting her lips close to my ear.