"No more secrets, Gertie; but how pale you look! Take some brandy, little girl. Now, I'm going to make you laugh! Listen!" CHAPTER XI PROGRESS Sir Michael Manichoe, Father Ripon, and Harold Spence were sitting in Sir Michael's own study in his London house in Berkeley Square. A small circular table with the remains of a simple meal showed that they had dined there, without formality, more of necessity than pleasure. When a small company of men animated by one strenuous purpose meet together, the same expression may often be seen on the face of each one of them. The three men in the study were curiously alike at this moment. A grim resolution, something of horror, a great expectation looked out of their eyes. Sir Michael looked at his watch. "Gortre ought to be here directly," he said. "It won't take him very long to drive from Victoria. The train must be in already." Father Ripon nodded, without speaking. There was another interval of silence. Then Spence spoke. "Of course it is only a _chance_," he said. "Gertrude Hunt may very likely be able to give us no information whatever. One can hardly suppose that Llewellyn would confide in her." "Not fully," said Father Ripon. "But there will be letters probably. I feel sure that Gortre will come back with some contributory evidence, at all events. We must go to work slowly, and with the greatest care." "The greatest possible care," repeated Sir Michael. "On the shoulders of us four people hangs an incredible burden. We must do nothing until we are _sure_. But ever since Gortre's suspicions have been known to me, ever since Schuabe asked you that curious question in the train, Ripon, I have felt absolutely assured of their truth. Everything becomes clear at once. The only difficulty is the difficulty of believing in such colossal wickedness, coupled with such supreme daring." "It is hard," said Father Ripon. "But probably one's mind is dazzled with the consequences, the _size_, and immensity of the fraud. Apart from this question of bigness, it may be that there is, given a certain Napoleonic type of brain, no more danger or difficulty in doing such gigantic evil than in doing evil on a smaller scale." "Perhaps the size of the operation blinds people--" Spence was continuing, when the door opened and the butler showed Gortre into the room. He wore a heavy black cloak and carried a Paisley travelling rug upon his arm. The three waiting men started up at his approach, with an unspoken question on the lips of each one of them. Gortre began to speak at once. He was slightly flushed from his ride through the keen, frosty air of the evening. His manner was brisk, hopeful.