“I'd like to ask you one question, sir. Why didn't your people finish the job they began on myself—if it was your people, and not, as I suspect, some Sinn Fein scoundrels?”
The ex-cardinal gave his kindly smile.
“It was certainly my people, Mr. Macdermott. But, in attacking you, they made a mistake. When they perceived who you were, they desisted. They had, you see, orders not to remove certain delegates, of whom you and your colleague from South Ireland were two, from the scene. It was considered that the Irish delegates would serve the cause I have the honour to represent better by their presence at the Assembly than by their absence from it.”
“Enough talk,” Signor Cristofero put in. “It is time we went.”
“Brief and to the point as ever, dear brother. Good-bye, then, gentlemen and ladies. I regret, Lord Burnley, not to have had time in which to finish the interesting conversation we began last night on the subject of my present book. It will have to keep for happier days. Meanwhile, I hope to have a quiet little time in which to meditate on and complete the book.”
As he passed Henry Beechtree on his way to the door, he stopped.
“Ah, my dear young man. Luck did not favour our little plan, did it?”
“That person,” said the disagreeable voice of Charles Wilbraham, “is, if I may be allowed to mention it, a young woman, Dr. Franchi.”
The ex-cardinal turned to him a cold face.
“I have known that, Mr. Wilbraham, a good deal longer than you have.” He smiled sweetly at Henry.