The blind man crossed to the safe, and with the key upon his chain opened it, and, after fumbling in one of the long iron drawers revealed within, took out a big oblong envelope, orange-coloured, and secured with five black seals, now, however, broken.

This he handed to his friend, saying, “Read it again, to refresh your memory.  I know myself what it says pretty well by heart.”

Monsieur Goslin drew forth the paper within and read the lines of close, even writing.  It was in German.  He stood near the window as he read, while Sir Henry remained near the open safe.

Hill tapped at the bolted door, but his master replied that he did not wish to be disturbed.  “Yes,” the Frenchman said at last, “the copy they have in Athens is exact—­word for word.”

“They may have obtained it from Vienna.”

“No; it came from here.  There are some pencilled comments in your daughter’s handwriting.”

“They were dictated by me.”

“Exactly.  And they appear in the copy now in the hands of the people in Athens!  Thus it is doubly proved that it was this actual document which was copied.  But by whom?”

“Ah!” sighed the helpless man, his face drawn and paler than usual, “Gabrielle is the only person who has had sight of it.”

“Mademoiselle surely could not have copied it,” remarked the Frenchman.  “Has she a lover?”

“Yes; the son of a neighbour of mine, a very worthy young fellow.”

Goslin grunted dubiously.  It was apparent that he suspected her of trickery.  Information such as had been supplied to the Greek Government would, he knew, be paid for, and at a high price.  Had mademoiselle’s lover had a hand in that revelation?

“I would not suggest for a single moment, Sir Henry, that mademoiselle your daughter would act in any way against your personal interests; but—­”

“But what?” demanded the blind man fiercely, turning towards his visitor.

“Well, it is peculiar—­very peculiar—­to say the least.”

Sir Henry was silent.  Within himself he was compelled to admit that certain suspicion attached to Gabrielle.  And yet was she not his most devoted—­nay, his only—­friend?  “Some one has copied the report—­that’s evident,” he said in a low, hard voice, reflecting deeply.

“And by so doing has placed us in a position of grave peril, Sir Henry—­imminent peril,” remarked the visitor.  “I see in this an attempt to obtain further knowledge of our affairs.  We have a secret enemy, who, it seems, has found a vulnerable point in our armour.”

“Surely my own daughter cannot be my enemy?” cried the blind man in dismay.

“You say she has a lover,” remarked the Frenchman, speaking slowly and with deliberation.  “May not he be the instigator?”

“Walter Murie is upright and honourable,” replied the blind man.  “And yet—­” A long-drawn sigh prevented the conclusion of that sentence.