All these matters, important as they doubtless were, did not interest Cecil Banborough, and indeed were quite dwarfed by the fact that this uncalled-for war had diverted the press from its natural functions, and for the time being had thrown utterly into the shade his new sensational novel, "The Purple Kangaroo." His meditations were, however, interrupted by the sound of voices using perfectly good English, but with an accent which bespoke a European parentage.
"'The Purple Kangaroo,'" said one. "It is sufficiently striking--_Si, Señor_?"
"It serves the purpose well, _mi amigo_," replied the other. "It is, as you say, striking; indeed nothing better could be devised; while its reputation--" And the voices died away.
Cecil swung rapidly round. Two gentlemen, slight, swarthy, and evidently of a Latin race, were moving slowly down the long drawing-room. They were foreigners certainly, Spaniards possibly, but they had spoken of his book in no modified terms of praise. He drew a little sigh of satisfied contentment and turned again to the street. Ah, if his father, the Bishop of Blanford, could have heard!
The two foreigners had meanwhile continued their conversation, though out of earshot. The elder was speaking.
"As you say, its reputation is so slight," he said, "one of those ephemeral productions that are forgotten in a day, that it will serve our purpose well. We must have a password--the less noticeable the better. When do you return to Washington?"
"The Legation may be closed at any moment now," replied the younger, seating himself carelessly on the arm of a Morris chair, "and I may be wanted. I go this afternoon, _a dios y a ventura_."
"There's no one to hear. Keep us informed, I say. I'll see to the rest. We've our secret lines of communication nearly complete. They may turn us out of their capital, but--we shall know what passes. _Carramba!_ What is that?" For, in leaning back, the speaker had come against an unresisting body.
Springing up and turning quickly round, he saw that the chair on the arm of which he had been sitting was already occupied by the slumbering form of a youngish man with clear-cut features and a voluminous golden moustache.
"_Madre de Dios!_ Could he have heard?" exclaimed the younger man, moving away.