“Sagrado B.? Sagrado? The holy or sacred.”
“Yes. It means nothing to you, does it?”
“Yes; it does, Hilary; at least it suggests something. It came into my mind directly you began to speak of this, and it explains it. You remember how, when you were a fresher, I went to Paris for a year? Well, when I was there, I met a man who tried to make love to me; a horrible man, who practised magic among other things. He wanted me to help him in a rite, and when I refused, he said that he would make me help him.”
“What was the rite?”
“Oh, one of the last infamies. It is unspeakable. When we were in Cuba last winter, I heard that the negroes practise it.”
“Who was this fellow?”
“He called himself the Holy One. His real name was Hirsch: I don’t know what his nationality was: he talked all languages. He was evil if ever a man was.”
“That was a good long time ago. He hasn’t bothered you since then, has he?”
“No; but he said then that the hour for that rite came once in every seven years, and it is now almost seven years since he made me that offer in Paris.”
“Sagrado does mean the Holy One. Do you suppose that this Hirsch would cherish a grudge or a desire for all that time?”