"After you, Monsignor," said the old priest.
The other stepped in and sat down. The priest hesitated for an instant, and then leaned forward into the car.
"You have an appointment in Dean's Yard, Monsignor, you remember.
It's important, you know. Are you too ill?"
"I can't. . . . I can't. . . ." stammered the man.
"Well, at least, we can go round that way. I think we ought, you know. I can go in and see him for you, if you wish; and we can at any rate leave the papers."
"Anything, anything. . . . Very well."
The priest got in instantly; the door closed; and the next moment, through crowds, held back by the police, the great car, with no driver visible in front through the clear-glass windows, moved off southward.
(II)
It was a moment before either spoke. The old priest broke the silence. He was a gentle-faced old man, not unlike a very shrewd and wide-awake dormouse; and his white hair stood out in a mass beneath his biretta. But the words he used were unintelligible, though not altogether unfamiliar.
"I . . . I don't understand, father," stammered the man.