"I'll find it out," said I. "If I pull the house down, I'll find it. Is
it a secret door or--"

She had colored at the question. I put the latter part in a low, eager
voice, for hope had come to me.

"Is it a way out?" I asked, leaning over to her.

She sat mute, but irresolute, embarrassed and fretful.

"Heavens!" I cried, impatiently, "it may mean life or death to all of
us, and you boggle over your oath!"

My rude impatience met with a rebuke that it perhaps deserved. With a
glance of the utmost scorn, Euphrosyne asked, coldly:

"And what are the lives of all of you to me?"

"True, I forgot," said I with a bitter politeness. "I beg your pardon. I
did you all the service I could last night, and now I and my friends may
as well die as live! But I'll pull this place to ruin but I'll find your
secret."

I was walking up and down now in a state of some excitement. My brain
was fired with the thought of stealing a march on Constantine through
the discovery of his own family secret.

Suddenly Euphrosyne gave a little soft clap with her hands. It was over
in a minute, and she sat blushing, confused, trying to look as if she
had not done it at all.

"What did you do that for?" I asked, stopping in front of her.

"Nothing," said Euphrosyne.

"Oh, I don't believe that," said I.

She looked at me. "I didn't mean to do it," she said again. "But can't
you guess why?"

"There's too much guessing to be done here," said I, impatiently; and I
started walking again. But presently I heard a voice say softly, and in
a tone that seemed to address nobody in particular--me least of all:

"We Neopalians like a man who can be angry, and I began to think you
never would."

"I am not the least angry," said I, with great indignation. I hate being
told that I am angry when I am merely showing firmness.

Now, at this protest of mine Euphrosyne saw fit to laugh--the most
hearty laugh she had given since I had known her. The mirthfulness of it
undermined my wrath. I stood still opposite her, biting the end of my
mustache.

"You may laugh," said I, "but I'm not angry; and I shall pull this house
down--or dig it up--in cold blood, in perfectly cold blood."

"You are angry," said Euphrosyne, "and you say you're not. You are like
my father. He would stamp his foot furiously like that and say, 'I am
not angry, I am not angry, Phroso.'"

Phroso! I had forgotten that diminutive of my guest's classical name. It
rather pleased m