Mr. Bodery did draw his own inferences, but the countenance into which Sidney glanced at intervals was one of intense stolidity.
“Well, I confess I cannot make it out—at present,” he said; “Vellacott has written to us only on business matters. We publish to-morrow a very good article of his purporting to be the dream of an overworked attaché. It is very cutting and very incriminating. The Government cannot well avoid taking some notice of it. My only hope is that he is in Paris. There is something brewing over there. Our Paris agent wired for Vellacott this morning. By the way, Mr. Carew, is there a monastery somewhere in this part of the country?”
“Down that valley,” replied Sidney, pointing with his whip.
“In Vellacott's article there is mention of a monastery—not too minutely described, however. There are also some remarkable suppositions respecting an old foreigner living in seclusion. Could that be the man you mentioned just now—Signor Bruno?”
“Hardly. Bruno is a harmless old soul,” replied Sidney, pulling up to turn into the narrow gateway.
There was no time to make further inquiries.
Sidney led the way into the drawing-room. The ladies were there.
“My mother, Mr. Bodery—my sister; my sister Hilda,” he blurted out awkwardly.
Mrs. Carew shook hands, and the two young ladies bowed. They were all disappointed in Mr. Bodery. He was too calm and comfortable—also there was a suggestion of cigar smoke in his presence, which jarred.
“I am sorry,” said the Londoner, with genial self-possession, “to owe the pleasure of this visit to such an unfortunate incident.”