side; but they approached their respective points in it more quickly, less warily, than usual, for he who before had but played into the hands of Monsignore to betray him, now came to play into his hands with sincerity.
This was not the first by many audiences the brilliant Bishop, the favourite of the Vatican, had given to one who had been until the night before this the deadliest foe of his Church, of his king, of his projects, of his policies; for Giulio Villaflor had been duped despite all his finesses, and had believed the gentle and adroit Englishman his tool, while he was, in truth, the tool himself. Monsignore had his silken webs over Italy, and Franco, and Austria, and Spain; Monsignore had his secret sbirri of the ablest; Monsignore knew everything; was the lover of great ladies who played the spy in palaces, never gave a Benedicite without some diplomatic touch, never administered the Viaticum but what the Church was the richer for a legacy, never yet was compromised by a lie, yet never yet was driven to the vulgarity of the truth;—but even Monsignore had been trepanned by Victor Vane. The secret of the defeat was this; Giulio Villaflor loved power well, but he loved other things as well; the pleasures of the table, the scent of pure wines,
