“I am convinced of it. By the way, who is the old gentleman who came to tea this afternoon?” “Signor Bruno, do you mean?” “I suppose so--that super-innocent old man with the white hair who wears window-glass spectacles.” “Are they window-glass?” asked Sidney, with a little laugh. “They struck me as window-glass--quite flat. Who is he--beyond his name, I mean?” “He is an Italian refugee--lives in the village.” Mr. Bodery had taken his silver pencil from his waistcoat pocket, and was rolling it backwards and forwards on the table. This was indicative of the fact that the editor of the _Beacon_ was thinking deeply. “Ah! And how long has he been here?” “Only a few weeks.” Mr. Bodery looked up sharply. “Is _that_ all?” he inquired, with an eager little laugh. “Yes.” “Then, my dear sir, Vellacott is right. That old man is at the bottom of it. This Vicomte d'Audierne, what do you know of him?” “Personally?” “Yes.” “He is an old friend of my father's. In fact, he is a friend of the family. He calls the girls by their Christian names, as you have heard to-night.” “Yes; I noticed that. And he came here to-day merely on a friendly visit?” “That is all. Why do you ask?” inquired Sidney, who was getting rather puzzled. “I know nothing of him personally--except what I have learnt to-day. For my own part, I like him,” answered Mr. Bodery. “He is keen and clever. Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman. But, politically speaking, he is one of the most dangerous men in France. He is a Jesuit, an active Royalist, and a staunch worker for the Church party. I don't know much about French politics--that is Vellacott's department. But I know that if he were here, and knew of the Vicomte's presence in England, he would be very much on the alert.” “Then,” asked Sidney, “do you connect the presence of the Vicomte here with the absence of Vellacott?” “There can be little question about it, directly or indirectly. Indirectly, I should think, unless the Vicomte d'Audierne is a scoundrel.” Sidney thought deeply. “He may be,” he admitted. “I do not,” pursued Mr. Bodery, with a certain easy deliberation, “think that the Vicomte is aware of Vellacott's existence. That is my opinion.” “He asked who you were--if you were a friend of my father's.” “And you said--” “No! I said that you were a friend of a friend, and mentioned Vellacott's name. He knew his father very well.” “Were you”--asked Mr. Bodery, throwing away the end of his cigar and rising from his deep chair--“were you looking at the Vicomte when you answered the question?” “Yes.” “And there was no sign of discomfort--no flicker of the eyelids, for instance?” “No; nothing.” Mr. Bodery nodded his head in a businesslike way, indicative of the fact that he was engaged in assimilating a good deal of useful information.