‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said I. ‘Is that all?’ ‘Yes, that’s all--a friend more than you know of, my lord. Take courage, my lord.’ I bent my eyes on her face in question. She understood that I was asking for a plainer message. ‘I can tell you no more,’ she said. ‘I was told to say that--a friend more than you know of. I have said it. Don’t linger, my lord. I can say no more, and there is danger.’ ‘I’m much obliged to you. I hope he will prove of value.’ ‘He will,’ she replied quickly, and she waved aside the piece of money which I had offered her, and motioned me to be gone. But again she detained me for a moment. ‘The lady--the wife of the Lord Constantine--what of her?’ she asked in low hurried tones. ‘I know nothing of her,’ said I. ‘I believe she’s at the cottage.’ ‘And he’s loose again?’ ‘Yes.’ And I added, searching her face, ‘But the Governor will hunt him down.’ I had my answer: a plain explicit answer. It came not in words, but in a scornful smile, a lift of the brows, a shrug. I nodded in understanding. Panayiota whispered again, ‘Courage--a friend more than you know of--courage, my lord,’ and, turning, fairly ran away from me down the passage towards the yard behind the inn. Who was this friend? By what means did he seek to help me? I could not tell. One suspicion I had, and I fought a little fight with myself as I walked back to the house. I recollected the armed man I had met in the night, whom I had rebuked and threatened. Was he the friend, and was it my duty to tell Mouraki of my suspicions? I say I had a struggle. Did I win or lose? I do not know; for even now I cannot make up my mind. But I was exasperated at the trick Mouraki had played on me, I was fearful for Phroso, I felt that I was contending against a man who would laugh at the chivalry which warned him. I hardened my heart and shut my eyes. I owed nothing, less than nothing, to Mouraki Pasha. He had, as I verily believed, loosed a desperate treacherous foe on me. He had, as I knew now, deluded my friends into forsaking me. Let him guard his own head and his own skin. I had enough to do with Phroso and myself. So I reasoned, seeking to justify my silence. I have often since thought that the question raised a nice enough point of casuistry. Men who have nothing else to do may amuse themselves with the answering of it. I answered it by the time I reached the threshold of the house. And I held my tongue. Mouraki was waiting for me in the doorway. He was smiling as he had smiled before my bold declaration of love for Phroso had spoilt his temper. ‘My dear lord,’ he cried, ‘I could have spared you a tiresome walk. I thought your friends would certainly have told you of their intention, or I would have mentioned it myself.’ ‘My dear Pasha,’ I rejoined, no less cordially, ‘to tell the truth, I knew their intention, but it struck me suddenly that I would go with them, and I ran down to try and catch them. Unfortunately I was too late.’