The Grand Duke glared for a moment. Then:
“No; you are right!” he agreed, grudgingly.
Bernard O’Hagan would be a dazzling ornament to the diplomatic service. One can imagine his prevailing upon the united monarchies of Europe to present a fleet of dreadnoughts to Great Britain as a little token of esteem.
Is it necessary, by the way, that I mention here how all this extraordinary conversation was so much Sanscrit to me? I think not. I perceived no gleam of light through the darkness. I was a man in a tunnel leading he knows not whither, surrounded by he knows not what.
My bewildered surmisings had come to a hazy meridian, I think, when the car drew up before the embassadorial residence.
“If he is at home, what excuse shall I make for my call?” asked the Grand Duke.
“Any excuse!” said O’Hagan drily. “You may profess to have heard rumours that he is troubled with a return of his gout——”
“He has no gout!”
“His wife’s gout, then! Anything—anything!”
Grunting uncouthly, the Grand Duke alighted and disappeared in the darkness. Coincident with the footman’s reclosure of the door, burst forth my dammed up torrent of queries.