id.

"And," she went on, "this man had orders to hide things from Callan; you
know what it is they have to hide. But he won't now; that is what I was
arranging. It's partly by bribery and partly because he has a belief in
his _beaux yeux_--so Callan will be upset and will write an ...
exposure; the sort of thing Callan would write if he were well upset.
And he will be, by what this man will let him see. You know what a
little man like Callan will feel ... he will be made ill. He would faint
at the sight of a drop of blood, you know, and he will see--oh, the very
worst, worse than what Radet saw. And he will write a frightful article,
and it will be a thunderclap for de Mersch.... And de Mersch will be
getting very shaky by then. And your friend Churchill will try to carry
de Mersch's railway bill through in the face of the scandal. Churchill's
motives will be excellent, but everyone will say ... You know what
people say ... That is what I and Gurnard want. We want people to talk;
we want them to believe...."

I don't know whether there really was a hesitation in her voice, or
whether I read that into it. She stood there, playing with the knots of
the window-cords and speaking in a low monotone. The whole thing, the
sad twilight of the place, her tone of voice, seemed tinged with
unavailing regret. I had almost forgotten the Dimensionist story, and I
had never believed in it. But now, for the first time I began to have my
doubts. I was certain that she had been plotting _something_ with one of
the Duc de Mersch's lieutenants. The man's manner vouched for that; he
had not been able to look me in the face. But, more than anything, his
voice and manner made me feel that we had passed out of a realm of
farcical allegory. I knew enough to see that she might be speaking the
truth. And, if she were, her calm avowal of such treachery proved that
she _was_ what she had said the Dimensionists were; cold, with no
scruples, clear-sighted and admirably courageous, and indubitably
enemies of society.

"I don't understand," I said. "But de Mersch then?"

She made a little gesture; one of those movements that I best remember
of her; the smallest, the least noticeable. It reduced de Mersch to
nothing; he no longer even counted.

"Oh, as for him," she said, "he is only a detail." I had still the idea
that she spoke with a pitying intonation--as if she were speaking to a
dog in pain. "He doesn't really count; not really. He will crumb