His recollections did not at all agree with what he had entered in his diary; but though Logotheti tried a second time two days later, Feist repeated the same story with absolute verbal accuracy.  The Greek asked him if he had known ‘that poor Miss Bamberger who died of shock.’  Feist blew out a cloud of drugged tobacco smoke before he answered, with one of his disagreeable smiles, that he had known her pretty well, for he had been her father’s private secretary.  He explained that he had given up the place because he had come into some money.  Mr. Bamberger was ‘a very pleasant gentleman,’ Feist declared, and poor Miss Bamberger had been a ’superb dresser and a first-class conversationalist, and was a severe loss to her friends and admirers.’  Though Logotheti, who was only a Greek, did not understand every word of this panegyric, he perceived that it was intended for the highest praise.  He said he should like to know Mr. Bamberger, and was sorry that he had not known Miss Bamberger, who had been engaged to marry Mr. Van Torp, as every one had heard.

He thought he saw a difference in Feist’s expression, but was not sure of it.  The pale, unhealthy, and yet absurdly youthful face was not naturally mobile, and the almost colourless eyes always had rather a fixed and staring look.  Logotheti was aware of a new meaning in them rather than of a distinct change.  He accordingly went on to say that he had heard poor Miss Bamberger spoken of as heartless, and he brought out the word so unexpectedly that Feist looked sharply at him.

‘Well,’ he said, ’some people certainly thought so.  I daresay she was.  It don’t matter much, now she’s dead, anyway.’

‘She paid for it, poor girl,’ answered Logotheti very deliberately.  ‘They say she was murdered.’

The change in Feist’s face was now unmistakable.  There was a drawing down of the corners of the mouth, and a lowering of the lids that meant something, and the unhealthy complexion took a greyish shade.  Logotheti was too wise to watch his intended victim, and leaned back in a careless attitude, gazing out of the window at the bright creeper on the opposite wall.

‘I’ve heard it suggested,’ said Mr. Feist rather thickly, out of a perfect storm of drugged smoke.

It came out of his ugly nostrils, it blew out of his mouth, it seemed to issue even from his ears and eyes.

‘I suppose we shall never know the truth,’ said Logotheti in an idle tone, and not seeming to look at his companion.  ’Mr. Griggs—­do you remember Mr. Griggs, the author, at the Turkish Embassy, where we first met?  Tall old fellow, sad-looking, bony, hard; you remember him, don’t you?’

‘Why, yes,’ drawled Feist, emitting more smoke, ’I know him quite well.’

’He found blood on his hands after he had carried her.  Had you not heard that?  I wondered whether you saw her that evening.  Did you?’

‘I saw her from a distance in the box with her friends,’ answered Feist steadily.