The man in bed contributed a broad smile to the kind darkness—sheer luxury to facial muscles cramped and constrained to the cast of Nogam for eighteen hours a day. He was now at last to reap the reward of three months of preparation and three weeks of ingenious, but necessarily spasmodic, and at all times desperately dangerous, tampering with the house wiring system.
He lay very still for a long time, listening ...
XIV
CONFERENCE OF THE DAMNED
An Irish voice was making the hush of the study musical with mellow cadences.
“This week-end sure, your Excellency—within the next three nights—the little Welshman will be after summoning the Cabinet to sit in secret in Downing Street, with His Most Gracious Majesty attending in person; the emergency extraordinary being thoughtfully provided by this shindig me amiable but spirited fellow-countrymen are kicking up across the Channel—God bless the work!”
The speaker laughed lightly, flashing white teeth at Prince Victor across the width of the paper-strewn table.
“In more Parliamentary language, by the Irish Question. But we’ll hear no more of that, I’m thinking, once we’ve proclaimed the Soviet Government of England.”
Victor bowed in grave assent.
“You have my word as to that,” he said; and after a moment of thoughtful consideration: “You speak, no doubt, from the facts?”
“I do that. It’s straight I’ve come from the House of Commons to bring you the news without an hour’s delay. There’s more than one advantage in being an Irish Member these days.”