"That is very well," said the old man. "His Holiness will be pleased at
that."
At his second tap the door opened and the Cardinal came out, taking him by the arm without a word; and together they turned to the lift entrance.
Percy ventured to make a remark as they slid noiselessly up towards the papal apartment.
"I am surprised at the lift, your Eminence, and the typewriter in the audience-room."
"Why, father?"
"Why, all the rest of Rome is back in the old days."
The Cardinal looked at him, puzzled.
"Is it? I suppose it is. I never thought of that."
A Swiss guard flung back the door of the lift, saluted and went before them along the plain flagged passage to where his comrade stood. Then he saluted again and went back. A Pontifical chamberlain, in all the sombre glory of purple, black, and a Spanish ruff, peeped from the door, and made haste to open it. It really seemed almost incredible that such things still existed.
"In a moment, your Eminence," he said in Latin. "Will your Eminence wait here?"
It was a little square room, with half-a-dozen doors, plainly contrived out of one of the huge old halls, for it was immensely high, and the tarnished gilt cornice vanished directly in two places into the white walls. The partitions, too, seemed thin; for as the two men sat down there was a murmur of voices faintly audible, the shuffling of footsteps, and the old eternal click of the typewriter from which Percy hoped he had escaped. They were alone in the room, which
