"If he is not he must be a stone," said Mr. Brown.
"Yes, but is he? I told you to watch him—to report to me."
"I do not know. He did not consent readily; he must have time to think, he said. But, man, he cannot resist her!"
"I do not know."
"But have you ever heard of any man who could resist her blandishments? Has she not been called a sorceress?"
"Yes, yes, I know—but he promised her nothing?"
"He said he would let her know later."
"Then he has resisted. My friend, I do not understand him. But—but—let me think."
"He was greatly impressed not only by her, but by her arguments," went on Mr. Brown presently. "I tell you, the woman is a sibyl, a witch. She was wonderful—wonderful. While I listened, I—even I—almost believed in her description of Bolshevism. A new heaven, and a new earth! I tell you, I almost believed in it. She pictured a paradise, an El Dorado, an Elysium, and she made Faversham see, understand. I tell you, he cannot resist her, and if he promises her, as he will, I can see England in a state of chaos in six months. Then—then——"
But the Count did not seem to be listening. His eyes were turned towards the streets, but he saw nothing.