“Is it some outlying debt of vengeance, an old vendetta, detains you here?” asked Longworth.
“I wouldn't call it that,” replied he, slowly, “but I'd not be surprised if it took something of that shape, after all.”
“And do you know any other great folk?” asked Pracontal, with a laugh. “Are you acquainted with the Pope?”
“No, I have never spoken to him. I know the French envoy here, the Marquis de Caderousse. I know Field-Marshall Kleinkoff. I know Brassieri—the Italian spy—they call him the Duke of Brassieri.”
“That is to say, you have seen them as they drove by on the Corso, or walked on the Pincian?” said Longworth.
“No, that would not be acquaintance. When I said 'know' I meant it.”
“Just as you know my friend here, and know me perhaps?” said Pracontal.
“Not only him, but you,” said the fellow, with a fierce determination.
“Me, know me? what do you know about me?”
“Everything,” and now he drew himself up, and stared at him defiantly.