“I never told them to tell you so, at any rate,” said Cyril. “Now be reasonable, Caerleon, and don’t shout the house down. I would have given you a week’s notice if I could; but since I only had ninety minutes myself in which to save the kingdom, I couldn’t afford to lose time.”
“If you could make time just now to explain what you mean, you would place me under a deep obligation to you,” said Caerleon, with bitter irony.
“That sounds more like business. I am always delighted to explain things away afterwards, provided I have a free hand at the critical moment. The fact is, I didn’t want you at Tatarjé, and I don’t now.”
“Don’t you think you are really too flattering?”
“It must sound so, I suppose; and yet it is the sober truth. If this interrupted journey of yours had turned out as it was intended to do, my occupation would have been gone, for the simple reason that the throne of baby Michael would have been gone too.”
“You don’t accuse me of carrying dynamite about with me, I hope?”
“Not at all. You are the dynamite yourself.”
“If these are your explanations, Cyril,” said Caerleon shortly, “all I can say is that they are a good deal darker than your proceedings, and they are dark enough, in all conscience.”
“Now don’t get waxy, old man. I’m afraid the lapse of years has disturbed your faith in me a little, hasn’t it? I assure you honestly I mean what I say. You have come to the very worst place in Thracia, at the very worst time, and in the very worst way. Come, you can’t say that that’s not plain speaking, can you?”
“I can’t see that it throws much light on the subject.”