“He is the friend of a great friend of mine; that is how we know him,” replied Sidney, prizing up the wick of a candle. He was still rising to the occasion—this dull young Briton. Then he turned. “Christian Vellacott,” he said; “you knew his father?”
“Ah, yes: I knew his father.”
Sidney was moving to the door without any hurry, and also without any intention of being deterred.
“His father,” continued the Vicomte, winding his watch meditatively, “was brilliant. Has the son inherited any brain?”
“I think so. Good night.”
“Good night.”
When the door was closed the Vicomte looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.
“The Reverend Father Talma will have to wait till to-morrow morning,” he said to himself. “I cannot go to him to-night. It would be too theatrical. That old gentleman is getting too old for his work.”
In the meantime, Sidney returned to the little smoking-room at the side of the porch. There he found Mr. Bodery smoking with his usual composure. The younger man forbore asking any questions. He poured out for himself some whisky, and opened a bottle of soda-water with deliberate care and noiselessness.
“That man,” said Mr. Bodery at length, “knows nothing about Vellacott.”