he city; but towards sunset it lifted a
little, and he raised his heavy head from his breast as he lay,
half sitting, half lying, on the tumbled sofa and blankets on
which he had slept, to see the red sunlight on the wall above
him. It was a curious room to a man who had grown accustomed to
modern ways; there was a faded carpet on the floor, paper on the
walls, and the old-fashioned electric globes hung, each on its
wire, from the whitewashed ceiling. He saw that it must be a
survival, or perhaps a deliberate archaicism. . . .

The sunlight crept slowly up the wall. . . .

Then the door was unlocked from the outside, and he turned his
head, to see James Hardy come smiling towards him.

(II)

"Good evening, Monsignor. I am ashamed that I have not paid you a
visit before. But we have been very busy these days."

He sat down without offering to shake hands.

The priest saw, with one of those sudden inexplicable intuitions
more certain than any acquired knowledge, two things: first,
that his having been left alone for three days had been by
deliberation and not carelessness; and second, that this visit
to him only a few hours before the time of truce expired was
equally deliberate. His brain was too confused for him to draw
any definite conclusion from these facts; but he made at least
one provisional decision, as swift as lightning, that he must
hold his tongue.

"You have had an anxious time, I am afraid," went on the other.
"But so have we all. You must bear no malice, Monsignor."

The priest said nothing. He looked between his half-closed
eyelids at the heavy, clean-shaven, clever face of the man who
sat opposite him, the strong, capable and rather humorous mouth,
his close-cut hair turning a little grey by the ears, watching
for any sign of discomposure. But there was none at all.

The man glanced up, caught his eye, and smiled a little.

"Well, I am afraid you're not altogether pleased with us. But you
must bear in mind, Monsignor, that you've driven--" (he corrected
his phrase)--"you drove us into a corner. I regret the deaths of
the two envoys as much as you yourself. But we were forced to
keep our word. Obviously your party did not believe us, or they
would have communicated by other means. Well, we had to prove our
sincerity." (He paused). "And we shall have to prove it again
to-night, it seems."

Again there was silence.

"I think you're foolish to take this line, Monsignor," went on
the oth