THE CULPRIT.
Neither his personal sorrow nor his sleepless night could be allowed
to relieve Wylie from the pressure of his daily duties, and after less
than an hour’s rest he was presiding at an inquiry into the conduct of
one of his military police, who had quitted his post without leave on
the preceding evening. This was Logofet, who had awakened from deep
dreams of peace to find himself in durance, and could not imagine how
he had got there. The report of the man who had escorted Princess
Theophanis to the hospital made it clear that he and his mistress had
entered at the small door of the Konak by merely turning the handle,
and had found no one on guard within, and this rendered it probable
that Logofet’s remissness had permitted the entrance of the kidnapper
to whom the night’s misery was due. Nothing was said of this, however,
though as many of his comrades as could find any excuse to be present
crowded the room where the prisoner, alternately defiant and
lachrymose, confronted his Colonel.
“Drunk, lord! I have not been drunk for ten years,” he blustered,
happily unconscious that he had been found fast asleep, with the empty
bottle by his side.
“The witnesses will prove that you were drunk last night. Where did
you get the spirit from?”
Into Logofet’s bemuddled brain darted an idea and an impulse of
revenge. Witnesses? Then the girl Kalliopé had betrayed him. Very
well, then he would betray her.
“Do you really wish to know where the _raki_ came from, lord?” he
whined.
“Certainly.” Wylie expected to hear as usual the name of one of the
wretched Jewish spirit-sellers, duly licensed by the Therma
authorities, who were a thorn in the side of the rulers at Klaustra,
and seemed to have a special predilection for corrupting the police.
“Then don’t ask me, lord; ask little Kalliopé. Ask her who gave me a
bottle of _raki_ two evenings running, so that I should turn my back
while she slipped out at the little door.”
Ignorant as he was of the night’s excitement, Logofet was astonished
at the sensation produced by his words. Wylie pushed his chair back
abruptly, his face perfectly white, and the spectators exchanged
glances and whispers and exclamations of surprise. After his first
stunned silence, Wylie rose.
“I cannot inquire into this case; it must go before the Prince,” he
said. He was too much shaken to give the necessary orders, but an
eager messenger ran to bear the news to Maurice, and the scene of the
inquiry was quickly changed to the broad verandah before the Prince’s
house. Eirene sat beside her husband, with a curious watchful look on
her face, and Zoe, whom they had wished not to disturb, seemed to
divine in her restless sleep that there was news, and woke and came as
well. With an instinctive sense of drama, messengers and servants
alike had combined to prevent the news from reaching Danaë, and when
she was sent for she came unsuspiciously, expecting, indeed, further
cross-examination, but nothing worse. It was not the lowering
countenance of Logofet that first warned her of the crisis, but the
look on Armitage’s face as he leaned against the side of the doorway.
One glance he gave her--a quick inquiring glance, as though to assure
himself that she was unjustly accused--then he deliberately turned his
eyes away.
“I have sent for you, Kalliopé, because what Logofet has to tell
concerns you,” said Prince Theophanis. “Sit down beside your mistress,
and when he has spoken we will see what you have to say.”
Danaë sat down on the doorstep, conscious as she did so that Zoe, as
if mechanically, moved her chair a little farther away, and Maurice
signed to Logofet to speak. The prisoner had managed to learn the
state of affairs by this time from the conversation going on around
him, and was correspondingly elated. He spoke with a certain soldierly
bluffness, which left entirely out of sight the fact that he himself
was anything more than a witness.
“I am a plain man, lord, and cannot tell a long story. Two days ago I
met Kalliopé’s uncle in the town----”
“Wait; how did you know he was her uncle?” asked Maurice.
“Why, lord, he said so; besides, I saw him outside Therma the day that
this ill-omened girl first thrust herself into your house. He said he
wanted to speak to his niece, and asked me to let her pass out and
come in again. He had some good _raki_ with him, and I consented. That
evening she went in and out quite properly, though rather in a hurry,
so I thought little of it when he asked me to do the same for him
again the next night. She was an obstinate piece of goods, he said,
and wouldn’t do what she was told, but I was to tell her to bring the
brat this time, or it would be the worse for her----”
“You said ‘your brat.’ You know you did!” burst from Danaë.
“To bring _the_ brat, or it would be the worse for her,” corrected
Logofet, with the air of an honest man unjustly aspersed; “and
thinking that she was about to relieve you, lord, and the gracious
lady your sister, from the maintenance of herself and that foundling
she brought with her, I thought it an excellent deed. So he gave me
another glass of spirits--which I swear to you, lord, must have been
drugged, for after giving the message to the girl I fell down
insensible, and knew no more.”
“Now, Kalliopé, what have you to say?” asked Maurice. “You told the
Lord Glafko last night that you had not seen your uncle at all, except
at a distance, that the message you received merely told you he was
here, and that you went down into the great courtyard to look for him,
but could not find him.”
“And it is all true, lord,” cried Danaë desperately. “This man is
lying, having hated me since the day your kindness brought me to this
house. I have spoken no word to the man Petros, who calls himself my
uncle, and I went nowhere last night to look for him, save into the
great courtyard.”
“Lord,” said a voice from among the police on the steps, “I admitted
this girl Kalliopé by the small door last evening from the street.”
Maurice looked at Danaë.
“Lord, he also is lying,” she cried. “These Slavs of yours all hate
me, who am a Greek.”
Princess Theophanis leaned forward in her chair, and spoke slowly and
distinctly. “I saw Kalliopé hiding on the stairs near the small door
when I came in from the hospital,” she said. “She had a great bundle
in her arms, which might have been a child. I remember thinking at the
time that it looked like one.”
“Oh, Eirene, why didn’t you say this before?” cried Zoe, in agony. Her
brother raised his hand for silence.
“Kalliopé, you will do better to tell the truth. Two witnesses have
proved your story to be false. You were in the back courtyard, you
went out and in at the small door, you took out with you a bundle
resembling a child. Had she the bundle in her arms when she returned?”
he asked suddenly of the guard who had spoken.
“I could not see, lord; there was no light. She was very much wrapped
up, and she may have been carrying something.”
Before anything more could be said, Zoe tore her hand from her
husband’s, and flung herself on her knees before Danaë.
“Oh, Kalliopé,” she sobbed, “give him back to me! He was so sweet,
and he never did you any harm. I have tried to be kind to you--if I
was ever unkind, I ask you now for forgiveness. Only tell us what you
have done with him. You shall not be punished in any way--you shall
have anything you can ask, if you will only give him back.”
“Lady mine, I have done nothing with him,” sobbed the girl. “I call
the All-Holy Mother of God to witness that I had no hand in stealing
the Lord Harold. If I could tell you where he is at this moment, I
would do it gladly.”
Wylie raised his wife gently. “My dear Zoe, the girl is hardened. It
is no use appealing to her. Wouldn’t it be as well to continue this
inquiry in private?” he asked of Maurice, who replied by remanding
Logofet to the cells, and dismissing the police spectators. The hunted
look was in Danaë’s eyes again as she faced her judges, but Maurice
spoke with studious gentleness.
“Kalliopé, you have been in this house for some months. Don’t you
understand yet that your mistress has always meant kindly towards you,
and done everything in her power for your good? She can’t believe, and
I can’t believe, that you could repay her kindness in such a way. Tell
us the truth now, and I will pledge myself that as soon as the child
is recovered you shall be sent safely back to your own home, and no
punishment inflicted on you.”
“You will not believe me, lord, if I do tell you the exact truth,”
cried Danaë defiantly.
“If it is indeed the truth, we will,” he replied.
“Then hear the truth, lord. I did go out and speak to the man Petros
two nights ago, and I did pass through the back courtyard to speak to
him again last night, carrying a child in my arms. But he was not at
the place he had appointed, and the child was my own little lord, and
not the Lord Harold. When I did not find Petros, I carried my little
lord back into the house. I knew you would not believe me!” she cried
angrily, looking round at the faces of the rest.
“How can we believe you, Kalliopé?” asked Maurice. “You would have us
believe that you took little Janni out and brought him back again, and
that this had nothing to do with the Lord Harold’s disappearance. Now,
be honest. Did you hand over the Lord Harold to Petros by mistake for
Janni?”
He realised the futility of the question even before the dark cloud
gathered on Danaë’s brow. “I mistake another for my little lord!” she
cried, in supreme disdain.
“Then did you try to deceive Petros by giving him the wrong child,
hoping to keep Janni here?”
“No. I was going with him myself. But of course you will not believe
me. Do you believe me, lady?” she demanded suddenly of Zoe. For the
moment the impulse to tell the truth from the very beginning was upon
her.
“Oh, Kalliopé, how can I? You have told us so many falsehoods!”
moaned Zoe. Danaë cast upon the rest a look of mingled scorn and
reproach, and turned to go in at the door. But as she did so, Armitage
stepped forward and took her hand.
“Lady Kalliopé, I believe what you have told us to be true. Now be
brave, and you shall prove your truth to all. The Lady Zoe will
joyfully acknowledge that she was wrong when she receives her child
back. There must be more that you can tell us which would throw light
upon his loss and help us to find him. Don’t let your pride make our
grief deeper.”
Again Danaë wavered, with confession on her tongue, but a scandalised
whisper from Eirene, “Lady Kalliopé, indeed!” turned aside her
intention. She drew her hand away from Armitage. “I have told the
truth, lord, and it is not believed. Now therefore I will take my
little lord and depart from this place.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Wylie sharply. “You have shown
pretty plainly that you are not fit to have the charge of a child, and
Janni will remain in your mistress’s care. Remember that you are under
the very gravest suspicion. Go back to the nursery and try to redeem
your character.”
Danaë shot a furious glance at him, and swung through the doorway
with a swagger that would not have disgraced her father. This
unfortunate experiment in telling at any rate part of the truth had
left her absolutely convinced that she was an injured victim, and her
employers cruel oppressors, but she was not going to allow them to see
that their injustice could make her unhappy. When she was gone Wylie
turned to his brother-in-law.
“I am sorry to have taken the words out of your mouth,” he said, “but
that girl’s effrontery simply sickens me. You don’t think I was too
severe?”
“Not if she was really telling lies,” said Maurice, “and if she
wasn’t, she has only herself to thank for our not believing her. And
most certainly she must not be allowed to take the other child away.
In fact, I don’t know that it wouldn’t be wise to restrict her
movements a little--forbid her to leave the upper floor of your house,
for instance.”
“No, that wouldn’t do. Don’t you see, if there was any truth in the
story that Petros really wanted Janni, he will come back and try to
get him? He can’t very well do it without communicating with her, and
if she is regularly watched while she imagines herself to be going
about freely, we shall catch them both. Zoe, you had better come back
and lie down.”
Zoe obeyed submissively, and Armitage went with them, trying to imbue
Wylie with his own belief that Kalliopé had really told the truth at
last, and they had missed a great opportunity by not recognising the
fact and encouraging her to go further. When their voices had died
away, Maurice turned to his wife, who was gazing straight before her.
“Eirene, I cannot imagine why you said nothing last night of seeing
Kalliopé on the stairs. You can’t really mean that you thought at the
time she had a child in her arms.”
“Why not? I thought, as the man Logofet did, that she was going to
relieve us of her presence and that child’s, and I was not sorry.”
“But when you heard Harold was lost, it must have struck you----”
“Oh, my dear Maurice, don’t cross-examine me as you did that wretched
girl! It did strike me, of course.”
“Then why didn’t you tell us? I can’t understand why you should have
kept back a fact like that.”
“No, I suppose you could not understand. The reason is not one that
would enter a man’s mind, very likely. Oh, Maurice, does it really
want explaining? Zoe has her child, and I have lost mine; isn’t that
enough?”
“But she has not got hers--that’s just the trouble.”
“No, but she has had him, and I--I thought, ‘Why should she not know
for a little what I have to bear always?’”
“But, Eirene--Zoe has never done you any harm, has always been the
kindest of sisters to you.”
“I told you you would not understand. You can go and play with Harold,
and talk of adopting Janni. I can’t forget my own child.”
“Forget him--do you imagine I ever forget him? Eirene, why will you
always behave as if the loss was yours alone? God knows it was bad
enough for you, and I have tried never to make it worse by any word of
mine. But you can’t think anything will ever make up to me for Con.”
“It is different with you. You only think of him as the child you
played with, but to me he was the hope of the future, the heir of the
Empire, before whom that upstart Romanos would fall headlong. I should
have been content for your life and mine to be uneventful, even
unsuccessful, if it had meant that he would one day wear the diadem in
Hagion Pneuma. But now--what do you think it means to me to go through
this farce of empire-building in a country town, visiting hospitals
and schools and being gracious to a set of schismatics, with the
knowledge that even when Romanos is expelled, no child of yours and
mine will take his place? But you don’t see it. I tell you, that girl
Kalliopé would understand what I feel better than you do!”
“Ah, poor wretched girl!” said Maurice thoughtfully. “We must see that
the letter we were discussing last night is sent to Romanos, to say
that his son is probably here.”
Eirene sprang up from her chair, her eyes blazing. “That is you all
over, Maurice! You can think of the usurper even when you are blaming
your wife for not showing sufficient consideration for your sister.
You may be a saint, as Zoe thinks, but you are not the man for
Emathia. Do you imagine that if Romanos had been in your place,
Kalliopé would have left his presence without being made to tell what
she knows?”
“If I am not the man for Emathia, at least it was not my own choice
that took me there,” said Maurice. “But if you are right, Kalliopé at
any rate has reason to be thankful I am here.”
It was without any realisation of her good fortune in this respect
that Danaë repaired to the nursery on her dismissal from the inquiry.
She entered the room with a certain hesitation, which was immediately
justified, for Linton rose in defence of Janni like a ruffled hen.
“You dare to come back here, you wicked girl?” she cried. “Not a step
do you set in my nursery, or my name isn’t Sophia Linton. And as for
letting you lay a finger on the blessed lamb that’s left--why, I would
sooner trust one of the girls out of the kitchen! You be off, and
don’t show your face again this side of the door, or I’ll teach you
something!”
Danaë might have pleaded Wylie’s order as a reason for remaining, but
her fiery spirit was roused. She went straight to her own room, and
took up the bundle she had prepared the night before. She would go and
search for Harold herself, and when she brought him back, they would
be forced to acknowledge how unjustly they had judged her. She went
down the stairs, crossed the great courtyard, and would have passed
out at the gate, but the man on guard there barred her way with his
rifle.
“Not this way just yet, my dear,” he said with a grin. “The back-door
is more your style, isn’t it?”
“Let me pass!” said Danaë. He laughed in her face.
“Got another baby in that bundle, Lady Stealer-of-Children?”
“Will you let me pass?” she cried, furious.
He became serious. “No, my girl, I won’t. You’re not to be allowed to
leave the Konak. We are too fond of you to let you slip away like
this,” with a return to jocularity. “When we can exchange you for our
little lord, then you may go, and welcome. Back with you!”
She looked at him for a moment as though gauging the possibilities of
a struggle, and he bore the scrutiny with a display of white teeth and
a pleasing consciousness of the armoury of weapons in his belt. Then
she turned without a word, and marched in her stateliest manner across
the courtyard. Once back in her own room, she took off the good
clothes which she had bought out of her wages during her sojourn at
Klaustra and her coin-decorated cap, and put on the worn and dirty
garments in which she had come from Therma. Unfastening her hair, she
deliberately rearranged it in one long thick plait and one
ridiculously short one, and twisted a handkerchief round her head.
Then she walked down the stairs again and into the kitchen, and
presented herself before the astonished eyes of Artemisia and her
underlings.
“I am come to work here,” she said.
Amazement checked Artemisia’s utterance for a moment, but she made a
gallant attempt to rise to the occasion. “Well, this is an honour, and
an unexpected one!” she remarked slowly. “The gracious Lady Zoe did
not tell me she was going to give me more help, or I should have asked
her to send anyone rather than a child-stealer from the islands. Oh,
don’t eat me, please, Lady Kalliopé! I am not a baby, you know.” A
snigger from the underlings. “I suppose the Lady Zoe thought there
were no children to steal down here. And you have come to work, have
you? How sweetly kind of you, lady mine! But they don’t do any work in
the islands, do they--except robbing guests and murdering them?”
“Let the islands alone,” said Danaë gruffly. “If you were a guest
there, you would be safe even after saying that.”
“Until I had crossed the threshold, I suppose? Once I was outside I
might expect a knife in my back. What are you girls laughing at?” with
a change of subject disconcerting to the group of gigglers. “Don’t you
see that the Lady Kalliopé has come to show us all how to work? Give
her that bowl of onions, Sonya, and let us see how they peel them in
the islands.”
After that, Danaë would have suffered tortures rather than resign the
bowl of onions to anyone else. The tears ran down her cheeks, but she
persisted in the task, and when it was over received an ironical
compliment from Artemisia, and was set to clean saucepans. While this
was being done, Linton appeared at the kitchen door, with rather a
scared face.
“So that’s where you’ve got to, you naughty girl, giving me such a
turn, thinking you’d made away with yourself, as you well might!” she
cried, catching sight of Danaë. “What’s taken you down here I don’t
know, but you come straight away upstairs again. My Lady says you can
sit in your own room and have your meals there, and I’m to find you
some needlework.”
Danaë raised her black eyes, sombre enough now, and looked straight
at her. “I stay here,” she said.
“Oh, very well!” cried Linton, with suspicious readiness, “I’m sure
I’ve got no objection. If Kalliopé prefers your company to mine,
Artemisia, I hope you’re more flattered than I should be. You keep an
eye on her, that’s all. Don’t let her give you the slip.”
“Not I, my most beloved Sofia,” responded Artemisia. “She’ll get a
crack on the head with a rolling-pin if she tries it.”
“Ah, if only we had sent her straight down here when she first came,
what a lot of trouble it would have saved!” lamented Linton. “You know
how to manage her, you do.”
And she retired from the kitchen in a frame of mind that was almost
cheerful, to assure her mistress that that bad girl Kalliopé was now
where she belonged, and that it would do her a lot of good to be put
back in her place after having so much notice taken of her. Zoe,
discovering that the change was a voluntary one on Danaë’s part, was
puzzled. Was it a kind of penance the girl was imposing on herself for
her share in Harold’s disappearance, or was it more in the nature of
an act of moral suicide? Danaë herself afforded her no help in
deciding, for when they came across one another she met Zoe’s eager,
entreating look with one of blank stolidity. From whatever motive she
had chosen her present position, she was making full acquaintance with
its disadvantages, for all the heaviest and most unpleasant tasks were
by unanimous consent awarded to her. They were many, for the kitchen
arrangements at the Konak were patriarchal, dinner being provided
every day for the guards as well as for their superiors, and Artemisia
had a sarcastic tongue and a heavy hand if everything was not done to
her satisfaction. Danaë made no complaint, spoke to no one unless she
was asked a question, and went through her work with a silent contempt
for her surroundings which her associates found extremely galling. But
in her own room at night she was preparing a suit of boy’s clothes,
clad in which she might elude the vigilance of the guards and fulfil
her purpose of escape. For the shirt, loose jacket, and heavy outer
coat, her own clothes would do well enough, and the cap and long
leggings were easy of manufacture. To make the linen kilt she had
recourse to one of the sheets from her bed, cutting the other in two
so that Linton’s eagle eye might not see that anything was wrong, and
for a night or two she practised wearing the new garments, so as to
accustom herself to walking in them.