“I have no idea, but I can think of nothing else. I shall go straight to the Archbishop and tell him all. We arrive, I believe, at three o’clock, and you in Berlin about seven, I suppose, by German time. The function is fixed for eleven. By eleven, then, we shall have done all that is possible. The Government will know, and they will know, too, that we are innocent in Rome. I imagine they will cause it to be announced that the Cardinal-Protector and the Archbishop, with his coadjutors, will be present in the sacristies. They will double every guard; they will parade volors overhead--and then--well! in God’s hands be the rest.” “Do you think the conspirators will attempt it?” “I have no idea,” said Percy shortly. “I understand they have alternative plans.” “Just so. If all is clear, they intend dropping the explosive from above; if not, at least three men have offered to sacrifice themselves by taking it into the Abbey themselves.... And you, Eminence?” The old man eyed him steadily. “My programme is yours,” he said. “Eminence, have you considered the effect in either case? If nothing happens---” “If nothing happens we shall be accused of a fraud, of seeking to advertise ourselves. If anything happens--well, we shall all go before God together. Pray God it may be the second,” he added passionately. “It will be at least easier to bear,” observed the old man. “I beg your pardon, Eminence. I should not have said that.” There fell a silence between the two, in which no sound was heard but the faint untiring vibration of the screw, and the sudden cough of a man in the next compartment. Percy leaned his head wearily on his hand, and stared from the window. The earth was now dark beneath them--an immense emptiness; above, the huge engulfing sky was still faintly luminous, and through the high frosty mist through which they moved stars glimmered now and again, as the car swayed and tacked across the wind. “It will be cold among the Alps,” murmured Percy. Then he broke off. “And I have not one shred of evidence,” he said; “nothing but the word of a man.” “And you are sure?” “I am sure.” “Eminence,” said the German suddenly, staring straight into his face, “the likeness is extraordinary.” Percy smiled listlessly. He was tired of bearing that. “What do you make of it?” persisted the other. “I have been asked that before,” said Percy. “I have no views.” “It seems to me that God means something,” murmured the German heavily, still staring at him. “Well, Eminence?” “A kind of antithesis--a reverse of the medal. I do not know.” Again there was silence. A chaplain looked in through the glazed door, a homely, blue-eyed German, and was waved away once more. “Eminence,” said the old man abruptly, “there is surely more to speak of. Plans to be made.” Percy shook his head.