‘He may have his own reasons, my lord, for delay,’ said Maude, rather to suggest further discussion of the point.
‘He may think he has, I’ve no doubt. These small creatures have always scores of irons in the fire. So it was when I agreed to go to Ireland. There were innumerable fine things and clever things he was to do. There were schemes by which “the Cardinal” was to be cajoled, and the whole Bar bamboozled. Every one was to have office dangled before his eyes, and to be treated so confidentially and affectionately, under disappointment, that even when a man got nothing he would feel he had secured the regard of the Prime Minister! If I took him out to Turkey to-morrow, he’d never be easy till he had a plan “to square” the Grand-Vizier, and entrap Gortschakoff or Miliutin. These men don’t know that a clever fellow no more goes in search of rogueries than a foxhunter looks out for stiff fences. You “take them” when they lie before you, that’s all.’ This little burst of indignation seemed to have the effect on him of a little wholesome exercise, for he appeared to feel himself better and easier after it.
‘Dear me! dear me!’ muttered he, ‘how pleasant one’s life might be if it were not for the clever fellows! I mean, of course,’ added he, after a second or two, ‘the clever fellows who want to impress us with their cleverness.’
Maude would not be entrapped or enticed into what might lead to a discussion. She never uttered a word, and he was silent.
It was in the perfect stillness that followed that Walpole entered the room with the telegram in his hand, and advanced to where Lord Danesbury was sitting.
‘I believe, my lord, I have made out this message in such a shape as will enable you to divine what it means. It runs thus: “Athens, 5th, 12 o’clock. Have seen S——, and conferred at length with him. His estimate of value” or “his price”—for the signs will mean either—“to my thinking enormous. His reasonings certainly strong and not easy to rebut.” That may be possibly rendered, “demands that might probably be reduced.” “I leave to-day, and shall be in England by middle of next week.—ATLEE.”’
Walpole looked keenly at the other’s face as he read the paper, to mark what signs of interest and eagerness the tidings might evoke. There was, however, nothing to be read in those cold and quiet features.
‘I am glad he is coming back,’ said he at length. ‘Let us see: he can reach Marseilles by Monday, or even Sunday night. I don’t see why he should not be here Wednesday, or Thursday at farthest. By the way, Cecil, tell me something about our friend—who is he?’
