“But,” suggested the Englishman, “there may be changes. It may all come right.” The Vicomte sipped his whisky and water with vicious emphasis. “If it began at once,” he said, “it would never be right in my time. Not as it used to be. And in the meantime we are in the present--in the present France is governed by newspaper men.” Sidney drew in his feet and coughed. Some of his smoke had gone astray. Mr. Bodery looked sympathetic. “Yes,” he said calmly, “that really seems to be the case.” “And newspaper men,” pursued the Vicomte, “what are they? Men of no education, no position, no sense of honour. The great aim of politicians in France to-day is the aggrandisement of themselves.” Mr. Bodery yawned. “Ah!” he said, with a glance towards Sidney. Perhaps the Frenchman saw the glance, perhaps he was deceived by the yawn. At all events, he rose and expressed a desire to retire to his room. He was tired, he said, having been travelling all the previous night. Mr. Bodery had not yet finished his cigar, so he rose and shook hands without displaying any intention of following the Vicomte's example. Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They walked through the long, dimly lighted corridors in silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apart for the Vicomte d'Audierne that this gentleman spoke. “By the way,” he said, “who is this person--this Mr. Bodery? He was not a friend of your father's.” Sidney was lighting the tall candles that stood upon the dressing-table, and the combined illumination showed with remarkable distinctness the reflection of his face in the mirror. From whence he stood the Frenchman could see this reflection. “He is the friend of a great friend of mine; that is how we know him,” replied Sidney, prizing up the wick of a candle. He was still rising to the occasion--this dull young Briton. Then he turned. “Christian Vellacott,” he said; “you knew his father?” “Ah, yes: I knew his father.” Sidney was moving to the door without any hurry, and also without any intention of being deterred. “His father,” continued the Vicomte, winding his watch meditatively, “was brilliant. Has the son inherited any brain?” “I think so. Good night.” “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?”