el Gandolfo. The
priests hate him because he is a Jesuit and a Spaniard."

"And wherein does his strength lie?"

"In the Society, and in his knowing several languages. He was educated
in England."

"From what you two tell me of him, he gives me the impression of a
fatuous person."

A bottle of champagne was brought in and the three of them drank,
toasting and touching glasses.

"If I were in your place," said Cittadella, after thinking a long while,
"I shouldn't try to get at people in high places, but people who are
inconspicuous and yet have influence in your country."

"For instance...."

"For instance, Father Herreros, at the convent in Trastevere."

"And Father Miro too," added Preciozi, "and if you could talk to Father
Ferrer, of the Gregorian University, it wouldn't be a bad idea."

"That will be more difficult," said Cittadella.

"You could tell them," Preciozi suggested, "that your uncle the Cardinal
sent you, and hint that he doesn't want anybody to know that he is
backing you." "And if somebody should write to my uncle?"

"You mustn't say anything definite. You must speak ambiguously. Besides,
in case they did write, we would fix it up in the office."

Caesar began to laugh naively. Afterwards, the two abbes, a little
excited by the food and the good wine, started in to have a violent
discussion, speaking Italian. Caesar paid the bill, and pretending that
he had an urgent engagement, took leave of them and went out.

_A SPANISH MONK_

The next day Caesar went to look up Father Herreros. He had not yet
succeeded in forming a plan. His only idea was to see if he could take
advantage of some chance: to follow a scent and be on the alert, in case
something new should start up on one side or the other.

Father Herreros lived in a convent in Trastevere. Caesar took the tram
in the Piazza Venezia, and got out after crossing the Tiber, near the
Via delle Fratte.

He soon found the convent; it had a yellow portal with a Latin
inscription which sang the gymnastic glories of Saint Pascual Bailon.
Above the inscription there was a picture, in which a monk, no doubt
Bailon, was dancing among the clouds.

On the lintel of the gate were the arms of Spain, and at the sides, two
medallions bearing hands wounded in the palm.

The convent door was old and quartered. Caesar knocked.

A lay-brother, with a suspicious glance, came out to admit him, told him
to wait, and left him alone. After some while,