“And I admire you for it. You once said you’d tell me all about your own little daughter.”
He was silent for a moment, and she saw she had touched a tender chord in his memory.
“I’ll tell you about little Aggie one day; not now, please, Miss Griffin.”
“Well, tell me, then, why your friends are so antagonistic towards my father?”
“For several reasons. One is that the man you don’t like—the one with the red-face—is a fierce hater of the Jewish race. His own avarice knows no bounds, and he has sworn to recover the treasure of Israel if it still exists and when recovered he will break up and melt the sacred vessels and destroy the sacred relies in order to exhibit to the Jews his malice and his power.”
“Why, it would be disgraceful to desecrate such objects—even though he is a Gentile.”
“Certainly. But your father’s known leaning towards the Jews—his friendship with certain Rabbis, and the assistance he has once or twice rendered the Jewish community in London, have aroused the ire of this man, who is now his bitterest and most unscrupulous opponent.”
“Then you can assist us, Mr Mullet—if you will.”
“I fear that is impossible—certainly not openly,” was his reply. “Personally, I would not lift a finger to help one whose fixed idea is despoliation and desecration of the sacred objects. My sympathies, my dear Miss Gwen, are entirely with you in your own unfortunate position, and with your father in his strenuous efforts to discover the key to this cipher, and afterwards place the expedition to Palestine upon a firm business basis, the most sacred treasures to be handed over to their rightful owners, the Jews.”
“Why does this man, whose name you refuse to tell me, so hate the Jews?”