“Well, sir, let me tell you this first. This old lady’s son is my employer, and a very prominent Communist. She lives with him and his wife. The other two will be away to-night. That is why I am asking you all this. And now, you will come, sir?”
Percy looked at him steadily for a moment or two. Certainly, if this was a conspiracy, the conspirators were feeble folk. Then he answered:
“I will come, sir; I promise. Now the name.”
The stranger again licked his lips nervously, and glanced timidly from side to side. Then he seemed to gather his resolution; he leaned forward and whispered sharply.
“The old lady’s name is Brand, sir—the mother of Mr. Oliver Brand.”
For a moment Percy was bewildered. It was too extraordinary to be true. He knew Mr. Oliver Brand’s name only too well; it was he who, by God’s permission, was doing more in England at this moment against the Catholic cause than any other man alive; and it was he whom the Trafalgar Square incident had raised into such eminent popularity. And now, here was his mother—-
He turned fiercely upon the man.
“I do not know what you are, sir—whether you believe in God or not; but will you swear to me on your religion and your honour that all this is true?”
The timid eyes met his, and wavered; but it was the wavering of weakness, not of treachery.
“I—I swear it, sir; by God Almighty.”