"Oh, a lot, in a topsyturvy kind of way. Look what a fine chap he is to look at,—just like that lovely Figure on Your cross. And he's clever too. Well, You'd think him fortunate enough, wouldn't You? Then comes Fate and spoils him—spoils him completely. That's what makes me furious. To have to class him with Mustafa. I wonder he doesn't kill himself."
"Go gently with that wrist, please. Have you told him that?"
"Oh no, I should hope not. Sorry. I want to do everything in the world to keep him from knowing what I think—to keep him from hitting on that line of thought by accident, by himself, even. It would drive the poor chap mad: that's all."
"John you're a brick. Now listen to this. Thoughts you know, are things. If you think such thoughts, they'll be in the air about you; and it's as likely as not that Macleod's senses will perceive them. So you'd better extirpate them hic et nunc—if you like him and want to help him."
"Oh do You think so? Well, I will then: because I really do want to help him."
"Good. And now what's to be done with him?"
"Oh but why should anything be done with him? He's very happy here."
"Thanks to your goodness, John. Silence! But first of all We must give him a reason for being here: and then We must remember that 'here we have no continuing city.' Now listen attentively. When you have finished that hand, you will go to the Secretary of State, and tell His Eminency to issue a patent to Mr. Macleod as third gentleman of the chamber—emolument half yours—no knighthood. Will that do?"
"Oh finely!"
"Good. Well now let's go back a bit. Suppose Macleod wasn't here. Where, in your opinion, would he be best?"