“Of course I know, uncle. I have heard the Jewish children sing, in London. Usk cried just a little, because they weren’t black; but I knew before that they wouldn’t be. But it was ever so long ago, and he was very little then.”
“But what made you ask about a Jewess now?” with some impatience.
“Oh, because grandpa said, ‘The Jewess and her boy are in our power.’ They talked about the Count, too, and the Bishop; but it didn’t sound so interesting.”
“Phil, try and remember exactly what you heard, and be very careful in telling it me. If you have the slightest recollection of any names, tell me them just as they sounded to you.”
“But there weren’t any names, Uncle Cyril. I don’t even know who the gentlemen were, except that one talked as if he was French, and another as if he was German. And they only said that about making their friend king, and that if he didn’t like it, there was the boy, and the Bishop would like that better, and something about marching to Bellaviste. Oh, here’s grandpa!”
They had come face to face with the O’Malachy in crossing the street into which the gate of the Villa opened. He swept his hat off with a flourish, and Cyril returned the salute carelessly.
“My niece has found me out, you see, O’Malachy. I hope you were not looking for her? I am taking her back to her mother as soon as we have done a little shopping. There was something about a doll in Thracian costume, wasn’t there, Phil?”
“Oh, Uncle Cyril!” murmured Philippa, squeezing his hand ecstatically, and Cyril passed on with a nod to the O’Malachy, and entered the first toyshop they reached. He knew that the O’Malachy was watching them, and the thought nerved him to remain patient and apparently interested while Philippa discussed the merits of innumerable dolls, and minutes of priceless value slipped away. The old man was still looking in at a shop-window near at hand when they came out, and Cyril was obliged to walk home with Philippa, instead of intrusting her to Wright’s care as he had intended; but he controlled his anxiety so well that the child did not even discover that his mind was preoccupied. When they arrived at the porch of the hotel, he stopped and looked at his watch.
“Why, Phil, I shan’t be able to come in and see your mother after all. We oughtn’t to have spent so much time in choosing the doll. But tell her that I shall be sure to look in this afternoon. Say that I beg her particularly not to be frightened by anything she may hear—and, by the bye, ask her from me not to go to meet your father at the station. That’s a little treat which I want for myself, do you see?”
“Oh yes, Uncle Cyril,” said Philippa, smiling at the idea of a grown-up person’s wanting a treat, and she waved her hand to him as he took off his hat to her and turned away. He still walked slowly, but his mind was strung to its highest pitch, and his plans were working themselves out.