“Perhaps you don't remember me. My name's Cornish. I'm a newspaper man, a correspondent.” (He named a New York paper.) “I'm down here to get a Vatican story. I knew your father for a number of years before his death, and I think I may claim that he was a friend of mine.”
“That's good,” said the youth cordially. “If I hadn't a fine start already, and wasn't in a hurry to dress, we'd have another.”
“You were pointed out to me in Paris,” continued Cornish. “I found where you were staying and called on you the next day, but you had just started for the Riviera.” He hesitated, glancing at Mellin. “Can you give me half a dozen words with you in private?”
“You'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid. I've only got about ten minutes to dress. See you to-morrow.”
“I should like it to be as soon as possible,” the journalist said seriously. “It isn't on my own account, and I—”
“All right. You come to my room at ten t'morrow morning?”
“Well, if you can't possibly make it to-night,” said Cornish reluctantly. “I wish—”
“Can't possibly.”
And Cooley, taking Mellin by the arm, walked rapidly down the corridor. “Funny ole correspondent,” he murmured. “What do I know about the Vatican?”