“With care—my dear fellow,” exclaimed the Parson in that calm, clerical drawl habitual to him. “The girl’s cousin, Miss Ethel Thorold, is English. The sister of the Signora Boncini married a man on the London Stock Exchange, named Thorold.”
“That’s awkward,” exclaimed his lordship thoughtfully, “upsets my plans.”
“But he’s dead,” the Parson declared. His companion nodded satisfaction.
“Now Miss Ethel is, I’ve found, a rather religiously inclined young person—all praise to her. So I shall succeed very soon in getting to know her. Indeed, as you’ve already made her acquaintance you might introduce me as the vicar of some living within your gift.”
“Excellent—I will.”
“And what’s your plans?”
“They’re my own secrets at present, Tommy,” was the other’s quick answer. “You’re at the Grand, aren’t you? Well, for the present, we must be strangers—till I approach you. Understand?”
“Of course. Give me five hundred francs will you. I’m short?”
His lordship unlocked his heavy steel despatch-box and gave his friend five one-hundred franc notes without a word.
Then they reseated themselves, and with Charles, the faithful valet, leaning against the edge of the table smoking a cigarette with them, their conversation was both interesting and confidential.