Meanwhile Henry stood about in the lobby, where a greater excitement and buzz of talk than usual went on. Where was Dr. Svensen? The other members of the Norwegian delegation could throw no light on the question. He had dined last night at the Beau Rivage, with the British delegation; he had left that hotel soon after eleven, on foot; he had meant, presumably, to walk back to the Metropole, which stood behind the Jardin Anglais, on the Mont Blanc side. The hall porter at the Metropole asserted that he had never returned there. The Norwegian delegation, not seeing him in the morning, had presumed that he had gone out early; but now the hotel staff declared that he had not spent the night in the hotel.

“He probably thought he would go for a long walk; the night was fine,” Jefferson, who knew his habits, suggested. “Or for a row up the lake. The sort of thing Svensen would do.”

“In that case he's drowned,” said Grattan, who was of a forthright manner of speech. “He's a business-like fellow, Svensen. He'd have turned up in time for the show if he could, even after a night out.”

The next thing was to inquire of the boat-keepers, and messengers were despatched to do this.

“I am afraid it looks rather serious,” remarked a soft, grave, important voice behind Henry's back. “I am pretty intimate with Svensen; I was lunching with him only yesterday, as it happens. He didn't say a word then of any plan for a night expedition, I am afraid it looks sadly like an accident of some sort.”

“Perspicacious fellow,” muttered Jefferson, who did not like Charles Wilbraham.

Henry edged away: neither did he like Charles Wilbraham. He did not even turn his face towards him.

He jostled into his friend the English clergyman, who said, “Ah, Mr. Beechtree. I want to introduce you to Dr. Franchi.” He led Henry by the arm to the corner where the alert-looking ex-cardinal stood, talking with the Spaniard whom Henry had noticed in the lift at the Secretariat buildings.

“Mr. Beechtree, Your Eminence,” said the Reverend Cyril Waring, who chose by the use of this title to show at once his respect for the ex-cardinal, his contempt for the bigotry which had unfrocked him, and his disgust at the scandalous tongues which whispered that the reason for his unfrocking had been less heresy than the possession of a wife, or even wives. If Canon Waring had heard these spiteful on-dits, he paid no attention to them; he was a high-minded enthusiast, and knew a gentleman and a scholar when he saw one.

“The correspondent of the British Bolshevist,” he added, “and a co-religionist of Your Eminence's.”

The ex-cardinal gave Henry his delicate hand, and a shrewd and agreeable smile.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Beechtree. You must come and see me one day, if you will, at my lake villa. It is a pleasant expedition, and a beautiful spot.”

He spoke excellent English with a slight accent. A thousand pities, thought Henry, that such a delightful person should be a heretic—such a heretic as to have been unfrocked. Why, indeed, should any one be a heretic? Atheism was natural enough, but heresy seemed strange. For, surely, if one could believe anything, one could believe everything. For his part, he believed everything....

Nevertheless, he accepted the invitation with pleasure. It would be a trip, and Henry loved trips, particularly up lakes.

Dr. Franchi, observing the young journalist with approbation, liking his sensitive and polite face, saw it grow suddenly sullen, even spiteful, at the sound of a voice raised in conversation not far from him.

“Perhaps you will do me the honour of lunching with me, M. Kratzky. I have a little party coming, including Suliman Bey....”

M. Kratzky was, in his way, the most deeply and profusely blood-stained of Russians. One of the restored Monarchist government, he it was who had organised and converted the Tche-ka to Monarchist use, till they became in his hands an instrument of perfect and deadly efficiency, sparing neither age, infancy, nor ill-health. M. Kratzky had devised a system of espionage so thorough, of penalties so drastic, that few indeed were safe from torture, confinement, or death, and most experienced all three. One would scarcely say that the White tyranny was worse than the Red had been, or worse than the White before that (one would indeed scarcely say that any Russian government was appreciably worse than any other); but it was to the full as bad, and Kratzky (the Butcher of Odessa, as his nickname was), was its chief tyrant. And here was Charles Wilbraham taking the butcher's blood-stained hand and asking him to lunch. What Mr. Wickham Steed used to feel of those who asked the Bolsheviks to lunch at Genoa in April, 1922, Henry now felt of Charles Wilbraham, only more so. And Suliman Bey too ... a ghastly Turk; for Turk (whatever you might think of Russians) were ghastly; the very thought of them, for all their agreeable manners, turned Henry, who was squeamish about physical cruelty, sick. God, what a lunch party!

“You know our friend Mr. Wilbraham, I expect,” said Dr. Franchi.

“Scarcely,” said Henry. “He wouldn't know me.”

“A very efficient young man. He has that air.”

“He has. But not really very clever, you know. It's largely put on.... I'm told. He likes to seem to know everything ... so I've heard.”

“A common peccadillo.” The ex-cardinal waved it aside with a large and tolerant gesture. “But we do not, most of us, succeed in it.”

“Oh, Wilbraham doesn't succeed. Indeed no. Most people see at once that he is just a solemn ass. That face, you know ... like a mushroom....”

“Ah, that is a Bernard Shaw phrase. A bad play, that, but excellent dialogue.... But he is good-looking, Mr. Wilbraham.”

Henry moodily supposed that he was. “In a sort of smug, cold way,” he admitted.

“E cosa fa tra questo bel giovanotto e quel Charles Wilbraham?” wondered the ex-cardinal, within himself.

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