“In that case, I know where you are going,” said Crispin, carefully shaking the ashes out of his pipe; “your destination is the Island of Melnos.” “It is,” replied Maurice in some surprise. “Do you know Melnos?” “Very well. I also know the woman you are going to see.” “Helena? How do you know that? I have told you nothing about it.” “No; but Caliphronas mentioned something about your spiritual passion for that picture.” This was mere guess-work, as Caliphronas had mentioned nothing of the sort; but Crispin was so well aware of the deep game which the Greek was playing, that he had no difficulty in arriving at a fair conclusion concerning his tactics. Maurice was, however, ignorant of Crispin’s knowledge, and at once assumed that Caliphronas had been discussing his passion for this pictured Helena with the poet, perhaps laughing at it, and his pride was up in arms at once. “Caliphronas has no right to speak to you about my private affairs,” he said angrily. “I intended to tell you myself, but now he has forestalled me. I did not know he was such a gossip.” “Nor is he. I said he told me, and so he did, indirectly; but if I did not know Caliphronas, Helena, and Melnos, I would still be in the dark concerning your projected journey.” “Where is this Island of Fantasy?” Crispin looked up with a quick smile. “Oh, he told you the name Justinian calls it! The Island of Fantasy in imagination, and Melnos in reality, is situated in the southern portion of the Ægean Sea, beyond Paros, beyond Amorgos, nay, even beyond Anapli. As a matter of fact, it is a little-known island, hidden, to speak exactly, in the Cretan Sea, between Telos and Crete.” “I thought I was rather good at geography, but I never heard of the Island of Melnos before. Has it anything to do with the Island of Melos?” “No; that is more to the north. But I do not wonder at your ignorance, as Melnos is known only to the sailors and shepherds who are thoroughly acquainted with that portion of the Archipelago.” “What kind of an island is it?” “A mountain—a volcanic mountain, extinct of course for the present, though I would not be surprised if it blew up one day and sent Justinian flying in the air with all his subjects.” “Is this Justinian a king, that you talk about his subjects?” “Well, a kind of minor king, such as Odysseus might have been. I know him very well.” “And Helena?” “Is his daughter.” “His daughter!” repeated Maurice gravely. “Is she as beautiful as this portrait shows her to be?” “I should say more so,” replied Crispin, taking the photograph. “Here you only get absolute stillness; the great charm of Helena lies in the changeful expression of her face, and in her bright manner. Yes, she is altogether charming, and I do not wonder you have fallen in love with her face, even though this photograph fails to do justice to the original.”