the window, smiling.

"D'you do anything?" he asked. "We should be delighted, you know, if you
would. It relieves the tension, don't you think?"

"Not in my line, I'm afraid," said Mr. Spokesly. "I never had any
accomplishments."

He stood listening to the full, rounded, clangorous voice, toned down to
Heine's beautiful words:

"_Die Luft ist kuehl und dunkelt,
Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein,
Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt
Im Abend Sonnenschein._"

"Wonderful voice," whispered Mr. Marsh. "Studied at Leipzig. Rather a
talented chap, don't you think? By the way, I heard to-night they intend
making an inspection of the outer harbour while they are here. Improving
the defences. They don't want any more ships to come in the way you did.
Of course it was luck as well as pluck. Probably lay fresh mines."

"Is that a fact?" asked Mr. Spokesly. As in a dream he heard the
applause, himself clapping mechanically and then the booming of bass
chords. And a voice like a silver trumpet, triumphant and vibrating,
blared out the deathless call of the lover to his beloved:

"_Isolde! Geliebte! Bist du mein?
Hab ich dich wieder?_"

"Well it's pretty reliable. A friend of mine who is in the timber
trade--got a saw mill up at Menenen and uses horses--has been given a
contract to bring down a lot of stones to the harbour. Fill all those
lighters, you know. That'll mean quite a lot of work for you, eh?"

Mr. Spokesly turned resolutely to the window and looked out over the
dark roofs at the lustrous and spangled dome of the sky. He would have
to find Cassar and give him some instructions at once. It would be
impossible to get away if they waited for a swarm of workmen and
officials to come down and be for ever sailing up and down the Gulf. He
ought to have thought of such a contingency. He must find Cassar. And
then he must get back to Evanthia and tell her they must go at once.
To-morrow night. He heard the heavy stamp of feet that greeted the end
of the song and joined in without thinking. As he walked across to the
door Mr. Marsh followed him, and Mr. Jokanian, his dark yearning eyes
brilliant with the wine he had drunk, came over making gestures of
protestation as another voice rose from behind the grand piano:

"_Enfant, si j'etais Roi, je donnerais l'empire,
Et mon char, et mon sceptre, et mes peuples a genoux,
Et mon couronne d'or, et mes bains de porphyre._"

"I am coming back," said