“Wicklow, jog your memory now, and see if you can help me with two or three little matters which I wish to inquire about.”
“I will do my very best, sir.”
“Then, to begin with—who is ‘the Master’?”
It betrayed him into darting a startled glance at our faces, but that was all. He was serene again in a moment, and tranquilly answered,—
“I do not know, sir.”
“You do not know?”
“I do not know.”
“You are sure you do not know?”
He tried hard to keep his eyes on mine, but the strain was too great; his chin sunk slowly toward his breast and he was silent; he stood there nervously fumbling with a button, an object to command one’s pity, in spite of his base acts. Presently I broke the stillness with the question,—
“Who are the ‘Holy Alliance’?”