"What do you make of it?" persisted the other.
"I have been asked that before," said Percy. "I have no views."
"It seems to me that God means something," murmured the German heavily, still staring at him.
"Well, Eminence?"
"A kind of antithesis—a reverse of the medal. I do not know."
Again there was silence. A chaplain looked in through the glazed door, a homely, blue-eyed German, and was waved away once more.
"Eminence," said the old man abruptly, "there is surely more to speak of. Plans to be made."
Percy shook his head.
"There are no plans to be made," he said. "We know nothing but the fact—no names—nothing. We—we are like children in a tiger's cage. And one of us has just made a gesture in the tiger's face."
"I suppose we shall communicate with one another?"
"If we are in existence."
It was curious how Percy took the lead. He had worn his scarlet for about three months, and his companion for twelve years; yet it was the younger who dictated plans and arranged. He was scarcely conscious of its strangeness, however. Ever since the shocking news of the morning, when a new mine had been sprung under the shaking Church, and he had watched the stately ceremonial, the gorgeous splendour, the dignified, tranquil movements of the Pope and his court, with a secret that burned his heart and brain—above all, since that quick interview in which old plans had been reversed and a startling decision formed,
