"I am sorry to be so importunate," he said gravely, "but I must have those despatches and I mean to have them."
He stopped.
"The position is this: Nelson is mine." He brought down his right fist on his left. "Nothing can save him now—nothing. This time to-morrow, so sure as that sun will rise, he will be dead or on the way to Verdun. That has been arranged."
"How?" thundered the Parson. "How has it been arranged?"
The Gentleman was pacing to and fro before the window; and his eyes were down.
"It's enough for you to know," he said at last, "that I—I have influence with a lady, who—who has influence with Nelson."
"What does he mean?" whispered Kit.
The Parson had turned very white.
He knew that woman, by nature so noble; and he knew something of her history—the history of the shame of man.
"D'you mean to tell me She's going to sell her Nelson to that organ-grinder's monkey from Corsica?" he roared. "Because if you'll tell me that, I'll tell you you're a liar."