would have been no use; his mind is fixed upon his own position and upon his own sense of power.  He is a man of the lower classes. . . .”—­“He is a brute,” said Mr. Travers, obstinately, and for a moment those two looked straight into each other’s eyes.—­“Oh,” said Mrs. Travers, slowly, “you are determined not to compromise with your feelings!” An undertone of scorn crept into her voice.  “But shall I tell you what I think?  I think,” and she advanced her head slightly toward the pale, unshaven face that confronted her dark eyes, “I think that for all your blind scorn you judge the man well enough to feel that you can indulge your indignation with perfect safety.  Do you hear?  With perfect safety!” Directly she had spoken she regretted these words.  Really it was unreasonable to take Mr. Travers’ tricks of character more passionately on this spot of the Eastern Archipelago full of obscure plots and warring motives than in the more artificial atmosphere of the town.  After all what she wanted was simply to save his life, not to make him understand anything.  Mr. Travers opened his mouth and without uttering a word shut it again.  His wife turned toward the looking-glass nailed to the wall.  She heard his voice behind her.

“Edith, where’s the truth in all this?”

She detected the anguish of a slow mind with an instinctive dread of obscure places wherein new discoveries can be made.  She looked over her shoulder to say: 

“It’s on the surface, I assure you.  Altogether on the surface.”

She turned again to the looking-glass where her own face met her with dark eyes and a fair mist of hair above the smooth forehead; but her words had produced no soothing effect.

“But what does it mean?” cried Mr. Travers.  “Why doesn’t the fellow apologize?  Why are we kept here?  Are we being kept here?  Why don’t we get away?  Why doesn’t he take me back on board my yacht?  What does he want from me?  How did he procure our release from these people on shore who he says intended to cut our throats?  Why did they give us up to him instead?”

Mrs. Travers began to twist her hair on her head.

“Matters of high policy and of local politics.  Conflict of personal interests, mistrust between the parties, intrigues of individuals—­you ought to know how that sort of thing works.  His diplomacy made use of all that.  The first thing to do was not to liberate you but to get you into his keeping.  He is a very great man here and let me tell you that your safety depends on his dexterity in the use of his prestige rather than on his power which he cannot use.  If you would let him talk to you I am sure he would tell you as much as it is possible for him to disclose.”

“I don’t want to be told about any of his rascalities.  But haven’t you been taken into his confidence?”

“Completely,” admitted Mrs. Travers, peering into the small looking-glass.

“What is the influence you brought to bear upon this man?  It looks to me as if our fate were in your hands.”