'David!'
'All right,' said a voice from inside.
'David, what do you think of the news?'
'What news?' after a pause.
'Why, the war, man! Haven't you seen the evening paper?'
No answer. The minister stood listening at the door. Then a tender look dawned in his odd grey face.
'David, look here, I'll push you the paper under the door. You're tired, I suppose—done yourself up with your walk?'
'I'll be down to supper,' said the voice from inside, shortly. 'Will you push in the paper?'
The minister descended, and sat by himself in the kitchen thinking. He was a wiser man now than when he had gone out, and not only as to that reply of the King of Prussia to the French ultimatum on the subject of the Hohenzollern candidature.
For he had met Barbier in the street. How to keep the voluble Frenchman from bombarding David in his shattered state had been one of Mr. Ancrum's most anxious occupations since his return. It had been done, but it had been difficult. For to whom did David owe his first reports of Paris if not to the old comrade who had sent him there, found him a lodging, and taught him to speak French so as not to disgrace himself and his country? However, Ancrum had found means to intercept Barbier's first visit, and had checkmated his attempts ever since. As a natural result, Barbier was extremely irritable. Illness—stuff! The lad had been getting into scrapes—that he would swear.