"Friend Lind, I am not so far into their secrets as that. Being in prison so long, one loses terms of familiarity with many of one's old associates, you perceive. But your claims are undoubted, my friend; yes, yes, undoubted."
"But what do you think, Calabressa?" he said; and that affectation of carelessness had now gone: there was an eager look in the deep-set eyes under the bushy eyebrows. "What do you yourself think of my chance? It ought to be no chance; it ought to be a certainty. It is my due. I claim it as the reward of my sixteen years' work, to say nothing of what went before."
"Ah, naturellement, sans doute, tu as raison, mon camarade," said the politic Calabressa, endeavoring to get out of the difficulty with a shrug of his shoulders. "But—but—the more one knows of the Council the more one fears prying into its secrets. No, no; I do what I am told; for the rest my ears are closed."
"If I were on the Council, Calabressa," said Lind, slowly, "you would be treated with more consideration. You have earned as much."
"A thousand thanks, friend Lind," said the other; "but I have no more ambitions now. The time for that is past. Let them make what they can out of old Calabressa—a stick to beat a dog with; as long as I have my liberty and a cigarette, I am content."
"Ah, well," said Lind, resuming his careless air, "you must not imagine I am seriously troubled because the Council have not as yet seen fit to think of what I have done for them. I am their obedient servant, like yourself. Some day, perhaps, I may be summoned."
"A la bonne heure!" said Calabressa, rising. "No, no more wine. Your port-wine here is glorious—it is a wine for the gods; but a very little is enough for a man. So, farewell, my good friend Lind. Be kind to the beautiful Natalushka,
if that other thing that I spoke of is impossible. If the bounty of Heaven had only given me such a daughter!"
"Kirski will meet you at the station," said Lind. "Charing Cross, you remember; eight sharp. The train is 8.25."
"I will be there."