"'He's a holy man and a strong man,' I was saying, 'and he gets holier and stronger every day, and he knows how to bide his time. One day, when he's holy enough and strong enough, he'll get up in the middle of the night and preach the Holy War. And then beware! His followers will come out of the desert like a swarm of locusts and eat up the country.'
"Having made this speech, I proceeded to withdraw with dignity; but one of the gentlemen followed me down the stairs, and spoke to me in an Irish accent—
"'Oirish whisky, Mr. Stromboli,' he said, 'is better f'r y'r health than the Scotch that ye've been drinking, an' I happen to know a little place round the corner...'
"I accepted the invitation as cordially as it was given, never guessing that it was the prelude to a political proposal; but the refreshment was no sooner set before us than my companion broke the ice.
"'I was listenin' just now with very much interest to y'r conversation, Mr. Stromboli. Ye were spaking of a sartain holy friend of yours.'
"'Hardly a personal friend,' I corrected.
"'Ah, well! ye said he was a holy man, and a powerful man, and ye seemed to know a good deal about his ways. So it occurred to me, between ourselves, to make a little proposal to ye.'
"It seemed to me, at this stage of the proceedings, that I had better ask my friend his name.
"'Me name?' he replied. 'Well, of course, that's what I should have begun by telling ye. Me name's Biggar. Maybe ye've heard of me. I'm a member of the Irish Nationalist Party.'
"I bowed; while Mr. Biggar took off his spectacles, wiped them, put them on again, and peered at me with his penetrating little eyes. Then he called for further glasses of whisky, and proceeded—