Even this message scarcely distracted him. He, with the rest of the world, was no longer surprised at the sudden descents of the President. He came and vanished again without warning, travelling and working with incredible energy, yet always, as it seemed, retaining his personal calm.
It was already after nineteen; Oliver supped immediately, and a quarter-of-an-hour before the hour presented himself in Snowford’s room, where half a dozen of his colleagues were assembled.
That minister came forward to meet him, with a strange excitement in his face. He drew him aside by a button.
“See here, Brand, you are wanted to speak first—immediately after the President’s Secretary who will open; they are coming from Paris. It is about a new matter altogether. He has had information of the whereabouts of the Pope.... It seems that there is one.... Oh, you will understand presently. Oh, and by the way,” he went on, looking curiously at the strained face, “I am sorry to hear of your anxiety. Pemberton told me just now.”
Oliver lifted a hand abruptly.
“Tell me,” he said. “What am I wanted to say?”
“Well, the President will have a proposal, we imagine. You know our minds well enough. Just explain our attitude towards the Catholics.”
Oliver’s eyes shrank suddenly to two bright lines beneath the lids. He nodded.
Cartwright came up presently, an immense, bent old man with a face of parchment, as befitted the Lord Chief Justice.