At three o'clock I was in the garden. It was cold, but I didn't care. Besides, I was too excited to feel the chill. I wanted to be out of doors because there would be people about, and no chance for Julian to try and kiss my hand--no vulgar temptation for me to box his ears!
He was already waiting, strolling up and down, smoking a cigarette which he threw away at sight of me. Evidently he'd decided on this occasion not to be frivolous!
I selected a seat safely commanded by many windows. "Now!" I said, sitting down close to one end of the bench.
Julian took the other end, but sat gazing straight at me without a word. There was an odd expression on his face. I didn't know how to read it, or to guess what was to come. But there was nothing Puckish about the enemy at that moment. He looked nervous--almost as if he were afraid. I thought of something you told me when I was quite small, Padre: how the Romans of old used to send packets of good news bound with laurel, or of bad news, tied with the plumes of ravens. I stared into Julian O'Farrell's stare, and wished that he'd stuck a green leaf or a black feather in his buttonhole to prepare my mind.
"Yes--now!" he echoed at last, as if he'd suddenly waked up to my challenge. "Well, a man blew into this hotel last night--a lame Frenchman with a face like a boiled ghost. I was writing an important telegram (I'll tell you about that later), when I heard this person ask the concierge if a Miss Mary O'Malley was staying in the house. That made me open my eyes--because he was of the lower _bourgeois_ class, and hadn't the air of being--so to speak--in your set. It seemed as if 'twas up to me to tackle him; so I did. I introduced myself as a friend of Miss O'Malley's, travelling with her party. I explained that Miss O'Malley was taking care of an old lady who'd been ill and was tired after a long journey. I asked if he'd like to give a message. He said he would. But first he began to explain who he was: an Alsatian by birth, named Muller, corporal in an infantry regiment; been a prisoner in Germany, I forget how long--taken wounded; leg amputated; and fitted with artificial limb in a Boche hospital; just exchanged for a _grand blessé_ Boche, and repatriated; been in Paris on important business, apparently with the War Office--sounded more exciting than he looked! After I'd prodded the chap tactfully, he came back to the subject of the message: asked me if I knew Doctor Paul Herter. I said I did know him. Herter mended up my sister after an air raid. I inquired politely where Herter was, but Muller evaded that question. He led me to suppose he'd seen Herter in Paris; but putting two and two together, I got a different idea--_altogether_ different."