"Good night."
When the door was closed the Vicomte looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.
"The Reverend Father Talma will have to wait till to-morrow morning," he said to himself. "I cannot go to him to-night. It would be too theatrical. That old gentleman is getting too old for his work."
In the meantime, Sidney returned to the little smoking-room at the side of the porch. There he found Mr. Bodery smoking with his usual composure. The younger man forbore asking any questions. He poured out for himself some whisky, and opened a bottle of soda-water with deliberate care and noiselessness.
"That man," said Mr. Bodery at length, "knows nothing about Vellacott."
"You think so?"
"I am convinced of it. By the way, who is the old gentleman who came to tea this afternoon?"
"Signor Bruno, do you mean?"
"I suppose so--that super-innocent old man with the white hair who wears window-gla.s.s spectacles."
"Are they window-gla.s.s?" asked Sidney, with a little laugh.
"They struck me as window-gla.s.s--quite flat. Who is he--beyond his name, I mean?"
"He is an Italian refugee--lives in the village."
Mr. Bodery had taken his silver pencil from his waistcoat pocket, and was rolling it backwards and forwards on the table. This was indicative of the fact that the editor of the _Beacon_ was thinking deeply.
"Ah! And how long has he been here?"
"Only a few weeks."
Mr. Bodery looked up sharply.
"Is _that_ all?" he inquired, with an eager little laugh.
"Yes."
"Then, my dear sir, Vellacott is right. That old man is at the bottom of it. This Vicomte d"Audierne, what do you know of him?"
"Personally?"
"Yes."
"He is an old friend of my father"s. In fact, he is a friend of the family. He calls the girls by their Christian names, as you have heard to-night."
"Yes; I noticed that. And he came here to-day merely on a friendly visit?"
"That is all. Why do you ask?" inquired Sidney, who was getting rather puzzled.
"I know nothing of him personally--except what I have learnt to-day. For my own part, I like him," answered Mr. Bodery. "He is keen and clever.
Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman. But, politically speaking, he is one of the most dangerous men in France. He is a Jesuit, an active Royalist, and a staunch worker for the Church party. I don"t know much about French politics--that is Vellacott"s department. But I know that if he were here, and knew of the Vicomte"s presence in England, he would be very much on the alert."
"Then," asked Sidney, "do you connect the presence of the Vicomte here with the absence of Vellacott?"
"There can be little question about it, directly or indirectly.
Indirectly, I should think, unless the Vicomte d"Audierne is a scoundrel."
Sidney thought deeply.
"He may be," he admitted.
"I do not," pursued Mr. Bodery, with a certain easy deliberation, "think that the Vicomte is aware of Vellacott"s existence. That is my opinion."
"He asked who you were--if you were a friend of my father"s."
"And you said--"
"No! I said that you were a friend of a friend, and mentioned Vellacott"s name. He knew his father very well."
"Were you"--asked Mr. Bodery, throwing away the end of his cigar and rising from his deep chair--"were you looking at the Vicomte when you answered the question?"
"Yes."
"And there was no sign of discomfort--no flicker of the eyelids, for instance?"
"No; nothing."
Mr. Bodery nodded his head in a businesslike way, indicative of the fact that he was engaged in a.s.similating a good deal of useful information.
"There is nothing to be done to-night," he said presently, as he made a movement towards the door, "but to go to bed. To-morrow the _Beacon_ will be published, and the result will probably be rather startling. We shall hear something before to-morrow afternoon."
Sidney lighted Mr. Bodery"s candle and shook hands.
"By the way," said the editor, turning back and speaking more lightly, "if any one should inquire--your mother or one of your sisters--you can say that I am not in the least anxious about Vellacott. Good night."
CHAPTER XVII
A RETREAT
It was quite early the next morning when the Vicomte d"Audierne left his room. As he walked along the still corridor and down the stairs it was noticeable that he made absolutely no sound, without, however, indulging in any of those contortions which are peculiar to late arrivals in church. It would seem that Nature had for purposes of her own made his footfall noiseless--if, by the way, Nature can be credited with any purpose whatever in her allotment of human gifts and failings.
In the hall he found a stout cook armed for a.s.sault upon the front-door step.
"Good morning," he said. "Can you tell me the breakfast-hour? I forgot to inquire last night."