"Does she talk intelligently?" asked the Cardinal.
"Intelligently? No!" quoth Don Miguel. "Awhile ago she talked intelligibly enough, but three bumpers of heavy Spanish wine have addled her feeble wits by now. I doubt me but the wench was always half crazed. I thought so when I saw her in that booth, covered with tinsel and uttering ridiculous incantations."
"She might prove dangerous too," remarked His Eminence softly.
"To the man who thwarted her—yes!"
"Then, if His Grace should find out the deception, and, mayhap, were none too lenient with her, she would . . ."
He did not complete the sentence, and after a moment or two said blandly—
"In either case, meseems, chance is bound to favour us. Our good Pasquale shall see that the wench is provided with a short dagger, eh? . . . of English make . . . and with unerring and . . . poisoned blade. . . . What? . . ."
There was silence between the two men after that. The thought which now reigned in both their minds was too dark to be put into more precise words.
Don Miguel took up a cloak, which was lying on a chair, and wrapped it round him. His Eminence drew a breviary from his pocket and settled himself more comfortably in the high-backed chair. Don Miguel turned to go, but at the door he paused and came back close to where the Cardinal was sitting. Then he said quietly—
"Is Your Eminence prepared for that eventuality too?"