“Yes,” answered the Count; “it is true--all of it. The writer knows my country as few Englishmen--or women know it.”
John Craik was leaning back in his deep chair an emaciated, pain-stricken form. His calm grey eyes met the quick glance, and did not fall nor waver.
“Then you will not tell me?”
“No. But why are you so anxious to know?”
The Count smoked for a few seconds in silence.
“I will tell you,” he said suddenly, “in confidence.”
Craik nodded, and settled himself again in his chair. He was a very fidgety man.
“It is not the first article that I care about,” explained De Lloseta. “It is that which is behind it. This” - he laid his hand on the page--“is my own country, the north and east of Spain, the wildest part of the Peninsula, the home of the Catalonians, who have always been the leaders in strife and warfare. It is the country from whence my family has its source. All that is written about Catalonia or the Baleares must necessarily refer in part to me and mine. This writer may know too much.”
“I think,” said John Craik, “that I can guarantee that if the writer does know too much, the Commentator shall not be the channel through which the knowledge will reach the public.”
“Thanks; but--can you guarantee it? Can you guarantee that the public interest, being aroused by these articles, may not ask for further details, which details might easily be given elsewhere, in something less--respectable--than the Commentator?”