'Here I am,' said Euphrosyne, with an air that added, 'I've not moved.

What are you shouting for?'

'Yes, but you weren't there a minute ago,' I observed, reaching the hall and walking across to her.

She looked disturbed and embarra.s.sed.

'Where have you been?' I asked.

'Must I give an account of every movement?' said she, trying to cover her confusion with a show of haughty offence.

The coincidence was really a remarkable one; it was as hard to account for Euphrosyne's disappearance and reappearance as for the vanished head and body of old Stefan. I had a conviction, based on a sudden intuition, that one explanation must lie at the root of both these curious things, that the secret of which Alexander spoke was a secret still hidden--hidden from my eyes, but known to the girl before me, the daughter of the Stefanopouloi.

'I won't ask you where you've been, if you don't wish to tell me,'

said I carelessly.

She bowed her head in recognition of my indulgence.

'But there is one question I should like to ask you,' I pursued, 'if you'll be so kind as to answer it.'

'Well, what is it?' She was still on the defensive.

'Where was Stefan Stefanopoulos killed, and what became of his body?'

As I put the question I flung One-Eyed Alexander's book open on the table beside her.

She started visibly, crying, 'Where did you get that?'

I told her how Denny had found it, and I added:

'Now, what does "beneath the earth" mean? You're one of the house and you must know.'

'Yes, I know, but I must not tell you. We are all bound by the most sacred oath to tell no one.'

'Who told you?'

'My uncle. The boys of our house are told when they are fifteen, the girls when they are sixteen. No one else knows.'

'Why is that?'

She hesitated, fearing, perhaps, that her answer itself would tend to betray the secret.

'I dare tell you nothing,' she said. 'The oath binds me; and it binds every one of my kindred to kill me if I break it.'

'But you've no kindred left except Constantine,' I objected.

'He is enough. He would kill me.'

'Sooner than marry you?' I suggested rather maliciously.

'Yes, if I broke the oath.'

'Hang the oath!' said I impatiently. 'The thing might help us. Did they bury Stefan somewhere under the house?'

'No, he was not buried,' she answered.

'Then they brought him up and got rid of his body when the islanders had gone?'

'You must think what you will.'

'I'll find it out,' said I. 'If I pull the house down, I'll find it.

Is it a secret door or--?

She had coloured at the question. I put the latter part in a low eager voice, for hope had come to me.

'Is it a way out?' I asked, leaning over to her.

She sat mute, but irresolute, embarra.s.sed and fretful.

'Heavens,' I cried impatiently, 'it may mean life or death to all of us, and you boggle over your oath!'

My rude impatience met with a rebuke that it perhaps deserved. With a glance of the utmost scorn, Euphrosyne asked coldly,

'What are the lives of all of you to me?'

'True, I forgot,' said I, with a bitter politeness. 'I beg your pardon. I did you all the service I could last night, and now--I and my friends may as well die as live! But, by G.o.d, I'll pull this place to ruins, but I'll find your secret.'

I was walking up and down now in a state of some excitement. My brain was fired with the thought of stealing a march on Constantine through the discovery of his own family secret.

Suddenly Euphrosyne gave a little soft clap with her hands. It was over in a minute, and she sat blushing, confused, trying to look as if she had not moved at all.

'What did you do that for?' I asked, stopping in front of her.

'Nothing,' said Euphrosyne.

'Oh, I don't believe that,' said I.

She looked at me. 'I didn't mean to do it,' she said. 'But can't you guess why?'

'There's too much guessing to be done here,' said I impatiently; and I started walking again. But presently I heard a voice say softly, and in a tone that seemed to address n.o.body in particular--me least of all:

'We Neopalians like a man who can be angry, and I began to think you never would.'

'I am not the least angry,' said I with great indignation. I hate being told that I am angry when I am merely showing firmness.

Now at this protest of mine Euphrosyne saw fit to laugh--the most hearty laugh she had given since I had known her. The mirthfulness of it undermined my wrath. I stood still opposite her, biting the end of my moustache.

'You may laugh,' said I, 'but I'm not angry; and I shall pull this house down, or dig it up, in cold blood, in perfectly cold blood.'

'You are angry,' said Euphrosyne, 'and you say you're not. You are like my father. He would stamp his foot furiously like that, and say, "I am not angry, I am not angry, Phroso."'