Now, I thought that I understood most of this conversation, and I was very sorry that Euphrosyne was not by my side to listen to it.  But I had heard about enough for my purpose, and I had turned to crawl away stealthily—­it is not well to try fortune too far—­when I heard the sound of a door opening in the house.  Constantine’s voice followed directly on the sound.

“Ah, my darling, my sweet wife,” he cried, “not sleeping yet?  Where will your beauty be.  Vlacho and I must plot and plan for your sake, but you need not spoil your eyes with sleeplessness.”

Constantine did it uncommonly well.  His manner was a pattern for husbands.  I was guilty of a quiet laugh all to myself, in the veranda.

“For me?  You’re sure it’s for me?” came in that Greek tongue with a strange accent which had first fallen on my ears in the Optimum restaurant.

“She’s jealous, she’s most charmingly jealous!” cried Constantine, in playful rapture.  “Does your wife pay you such compliments, Vlacho?”

“She has not cause, my lord.  Now my Lady Francesca thinks she has cause to be jealous of the Lady Euphrosyne.”

Constantine laughed scornfully at the suggestion.

“Where is she now?” came swift and sharp from the woman.  “Where is Euphrosyne?”

“Why, she’s a prisoner to that Englishman,” answered Constantine.

I suppose explanations passed on this point, for the voices fell to a lower level, as is apt to happen in the telling of a long story, and I could not catch what passed till Constantine’s tones rose again, as he said: 

“Oh, yes, we must have a try at getting her out, just to satisfy the people.  For me, she might stay there as long as she likes, for I care for her just as little as, between ourselves, I believe she cares for me.”

Really, this fellow was a very tidy villain; as a pair, Vlacho and he would be hard to beat—­in England, at all events.  About Neopalia I had learned to reserve my opinion.  Such were my reflections as I turned to resume my interrupted crawl to safety.  But in an instant I was still again—­still, and crouching close under the wall, motionless as an insect that feigns death, holding my breath, my hand on the trigger.  For the door of the cottage was flung open, and Constantine and Vlacho appeared on the threshold.

“Ah,” said Vlacho, “dawn is nearly on us.  See, it grows lighter on the horizon.”

A more serious matter was that, owing to the opened door and the lamp inside, it had grown lighter on the veranda, so light that I saw the three figures—­for the woman had come also—­in the doorway; so light that my huddled shape would be seen if any of the three turned an eye towards it.  I could have picked off both men before they could move; but a civilized education has drawbacks; it makes a man scrupulous; I did not fire.  I lay still, hoping that I should not be noticed.  And I should not have been noticed but for one thing.  Acting up to his part in the ghastly farce which these two ruffians were playing with the wife of one of them, Constantine turned to bestow kisses on the woman before he parted from her.  Vlacho, in a mockery that was horrible to me who knew his heart, must needs be facetious.  With a laugh he drew back; he drew back farther still; he was but a couple of feet from the wall of the house, and that couple of feet I filled.