Cases, too, were piled on the floor. These contained bullion direct from the Bank of England, to be used only when it was necessary for any political or other purposes to send remittances to the branch houses in Delhi, Sydney, or any other far-off corner of the earth, where transactions through a local bank might attract an unnecessary amount of attention and speculation.
Later, we returned upstairs, and there I expounded what was, after all, the crucial point in my plan—the reconciliation of the principal different interests that were now fighting us with so much deadly bitterness and precision.
“What I suggest,” I said, gazing very determinedly at the two men in front of me, “is nothing more and nothing less than a round-table conference between the lot of us—Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, Earl Fotheringay, the Napiers, the hunchback, ourselves!”
“Why, that’s preposterous!” snapped the Prior, and his eyes flashed, but I would not be gainsaid.
“I am sure it is not,” I retorted with great firmness. “After all, what is it, really, that makes them all so bitter against us? It is no mere dream of making themselves rich—no stupid desire to rob anyone. It is simply pride, when the whole facts are reduced to their proper level, mistaken pride, and, being that, I am convinced it can, in a full and free discussion, be eliminated from this contest between us.”
“I will never meet Cuthbertson,” interposed the Member of Parliament, “never! You forget: our cause of difference is too deep for words to remove!”
“That may be,” I reasoned; “but, after all, are you not patriots first, and men with mere human passions like jealousy and revenge afterwards?”
“And I will not meet Peter Zouche,” declared José, drawing himself up to his full height and folding his arms. “He is my father, but he has not been a father to me. He drove me from my home, and made me a wanderer all over the earth, because I loved England and things English and rejoiced in the fact that, because I was born here, I was able to claim the rights of an Englishman.”
“More than that,” artfully added the Prior, “you, Glynn, forget how badly Fotheringay has treated you. He has made use of you, taken you up and flung you down, and finally had you carted about, as though you were a piece of furniture in his drawing-room. You could not say to him, like I sent word to Casteno, ‘In reparation’ for old unkindnesses with which I treated him when first he wanted to join the Order, and, later, to wed that charming little ward of mine, Camille Velasquon, who, by the way, I myself in panic abducted from you at Vauxhall Station.”
“Indeed I could,” I answered boldly. “We are not one of us as black as the others pretend to make out. Naturally, perhaps, we all want to shine and to become famous over the discovery and translation of those manuscripts. But at present we are all engaged in the amiable task of cutting each other’s throats. Why go on? After all, if England is going to get hold of all those millions and millions now lying in treasure at the bottom of that sacred lake, we must really pull together. The task, even from the diplomatic standpoint, is no easy one. It will test us all to the uttermost. Then why fight amongst ourselves?”