I'm sure I don't just imagine this. It's real, dear Padre, and makes all
the difference to me that a rope flung out over dark waters would make
to a drowning man.
At three o'clock I was in the garden. It was cold, but I didn't care.
Besides, I was too excited to feel the chill. I wanted to be out of
doors because there would be people about, and no chance for Julian to
try and kiss my hand--no vulgar temptation for me to box his ears!
He was already waiting, strolling up and down, smoking a cigarette which
he threw away at sight of me. Evidently he'd decided on this occasion
not to be frivolous!
I selected a seat safely commanded by many windows. "Now!" I said,
sitting down close to one end of the bench.
Julian took the other end, but sat gazing straight at me without a word.
There was an odd expression on his face. I didn't know how to read it,
or to guess what was to come. But there was nothing Puckish about the
enemy at that moment. He looked nervous--almost as if he were afraid. I
thought of something you told me when I was quite small, Padre: how the
Romans of old used to send packets of good news bound with laurel, or of
bad news, tied with the plumes of ravens. I stared into Julian
O'Farrell's stare, and wished that he'd stuck a green leaf or a black
feather in his buttonhole to prepare my mind.
"Yes--now!" he echoed at last, as if he'd suddenly waked up to my
challenge. "Well, a man blew into this hotel last night--a lame
Frenchman with a face like a boiled ghost.
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