exaggerated snores and turned his back to the company. The stranger took a step nearer to the bed and spoke two syllables in a low voice. For a second or two the tramp lay as he was but seemed to be afflicted with a shivering fit: then, slowly, but with continuous movement, as when the bows of a ship come round in obedience to the rudder, he rolled round and lay staring up into the other’s face. His mouth and his eyes were both opened very wide. From certain jerking of his head and hands and from certain ghastly attempts to smile, Mark concluded that he was trying to say something, probably of a deprecatory and insinuating kind. What next followed took his breath away. The stranger spoke again: and then, with much facial contortion, mixed with coughs and stammers and spluttering and expectoration, there came out of the tramp’s mouth, in a high unnatural voice, syllables, words, a whole sentence, in some language that was neither Latin nor English. All this time the stranger kept his eyes fixed on those of the tramp.
The stranger spoke again. This time the tramp replied at much greater length and seemed to manage the unknown language a little more easily, though his voice remained quite unlike that in which Mark had heard him talking for the last few days. At the end of his speech he sat up in bed and pointed to where Wither and Frost were standing. Then the stranger appeared to ask him a question. The tramp spoke for the third time.
At this reply the stranger started back, crossed himself several times, and exhibited every sign of terror. He turned and spoke rapidly in Latin to the other two. Something happened to their faces when he spoke. They looked like dogs who have just picked up a scent. Then, with a loud exclamation the stranger caught up his skirts and made a bolt for the door. But the scientists were too quick for him. For a few minutes all three were wrangling there, Frost’s teeth bared like an animal’s, and the loose mask of Wither’s face wearing, for once, a quite unambiguous expression. The old priest was being threatened. Mark found that he himself had taken a step forward. But before he could make up his mind how to act, the stranger, shaking his head and holding out his hands, had come timidly back to the bedside. It was an odd thing that the tramp who had relaxed during the struggle at the door should suddenly stiffen again and fix his eyes on this frightened old man as if he were awaiting orders.
More words in the unknown language followed. The tramp once more pointed at Wither and Frost. The stranger turned and spoke to them in Latin, apparently translating. Wither and Frost looked at one another as if each waited for his fellow to act. What followed was pure lunacy. With infinite caution, wheezing and creaking, down went the whole shaky senility of the Deputy Director, down onto its knees: and half a second later with a jerky, metallic movement Frost got down beside him, When he was down he suddenly looked over his shoulder to where Mark was standing. The flash of pure hatred in his face, but hatred, as it were, crystallised so that it was no longer a passion and had no heat in it, was like touching metal in the Arctic where metal burns.
“Kneel,” he bleated, and instantly turned his head. Mark never could remember afterwards whether he simply forgot to obey this order or whether his real rebellion dated from that moment.
The tramp spoke again, always with his eyes fixed on those of the man in the cassock. And again the latter translated, and then stood aside. Wither and Frost began going forward on their knees till they reached the bedside. The tramp’s hairy, dirty hand with its bitten nails was thrust out to them. They kissed it. Then it seemed that some further order was given them. They rose and Mark perceived that Wither was gently expostulating in Latin against this order. He kept on indicating Frost. The words venia tua (each time emended to venia vestra) recurred so often that Mark could pick them out. But apparently the expostulation was unsuccessful: a few moments later Frost and Wither had both left the room.
As the door shut, the tramp collapsed like a deflated balloon. He rolled himself to and fro on the bed muttering, “Gor’, blimey. Couldn’t have believed it. It’s a knock-out. A fair knock-out.” But Mark had little leisure to attend to this. He found that the stranger was addressing him, and though he could not understand the words, he looked up. Instantly he wished to look away again and found that he could not. He might have claimed with some reason that he was by now an expert in the endurance of alarming faces. But that did not alter the fact that when he looked on this he felt himself afraid.
Almost before he had time to realise this he felt himself drowsy. A moment later he fell into his chair and slept.
III
“Well?” said Frost, as soon as they found themselves outside the door.
“It is . . . er . . . profoundly perplexing,” said the Deputy Director.
They walked down the passage conversing in low tones as they went.
“It certainly looked-I say looked,” continued Frost “as if the man in the bed were being hypnotised and the Basque priest were in charge of the situation.”
“Oh, surely, my dear friend, that would be a most disquieting hypothesis.”
“Excuse me. I have made no hypothesis. I am describing how it looked.”
“And how, on your hypothesis-forgive me, but that is what it is-would a Basque priest come to invent the story that our guest was Merlinus Ambrosius?”
“That is the point. If the man in the bed is not Merlinus, then someone else, and someone quite outside our calculations, namely the priest, knows our whole plan of campaign.”
“And that, my dear friend, is why the retention of both these persons and a certain extreme delicacy in our attitude to both is required-at least until we have some further light.”
“They must, of course, be detained.”
“I would hardly say detained. It has implications. I do not venture to express any doubts at present as to the identity of our distinguished guest. There is no question of detention. On the contrary, the most cordial welcome, the most meticulous courtesy . . .”
“Do I understand that you had always pictured Merlinus entering the Institute as a Dictator rather than a colleague?”
“As to that,” said Wither, “my conception of the personal, or even official, relations between us had always been elastic and ready for all necessary adaptations. It would be a very real grief to me if I thought you were allowing any misplaced sense of your own dignity . . . ah, in short, provided he is Merlinus . . . you understand me?”
“Where are you taking us at the moment?”
“To my own apartments. If you remember, the request was that we should provide our guest with some clothes.”
“There was no request. We were ordered.” To this the Deputy Director made no reply. When both men were in his bedroom and the door was shut, Frost said, “I am not satisfied. You do not seem to realise the dangers of the situation. We must take into account the possibility that the man is not Merlinus. And if he is not Merlinus, then the priest knows things he ought not to know. To allow an impostor and a spy to remain at large in the Institute is out of the question. We must find out at once where that priest gets his knowledge from. And where did you get the priest from?”
“I think that is the kind of shirt which would be most suitable,” said Wither, laying it on the bed. “The suits are in here. The . . . ah . . . clerical personage said he had come in answer to our advertisement. I wish to do full justice to the point of view you have expressed, my dear Frost. On the other hand, to reject the real Merlinus . . . to alienate a power which is an integral factor in our plan . . . would be at least equally dangerous. It is not even certain that the priest would in any event be an enemy. He may have made independent contact with the Macrobes. He may be a potential ally.”
“Did you think he looked like it? His priesthood is against him.”
“All that we now want,” said Wither, “is a collar and tie. Forgive me for saying that I have never been able to share your root and branch attitude to religion; I am not speaking of dogmatic Christianity in its primitive form. But within religious circles-ecclesiastical circles-types of spirituality of very real value do from time to time arise. When they do they sometimes reveal great energy. Father Doyle, though. not very talented, is one of our soundest colleagues: and Mr. Straik has in him the germs of that total allegiancc (objectivity is, I believe, the term you prefer) which is so rare. It doesn’t do to be in any way narrow.”
“What do you actually propose to do?”
