He waited, like a skilled actor, for the tremendous sensation he expected and deserved.  But it did not come.  Unhappily for Signor Mannetti’s great moment, his words conveyed no particular impression to anybody.

Sir Walter asked politely: 

“And was he a good, or a bad Pope?  I fear many of those gentlemen had little to their credit.”

But the signor felt the failure of his great climax.  At first he regretted it, and a wave of annoyance, even contempt, passed unseen through his mind; then he was glad that the secret should be hidden for another four-and-twenty hours, to gain immensely in dramatic sensation by delay.  Already he was planning the future, and designing wonderful histrionics.  He could not be positive that he was right; though now the old man felt very little doubt.

He did not answer Sir Walter’s question, but asked one himself.

“The detectives examined this apartment with meticulous care, you say?”

“They did indeed.”

“And yet what can care and zeal do; what can the most conscientious student achieve if his activities are confounded by ignorance?  The amazing thing to me is that nobody should have had the necessary information to lead them at least in the right direction.  And yet I run on too fast.  After all, who shall be blamed, for it is, of course, the Grey Room and nothing but the Grey Room we are concerned with.  Am I right?  The Grey Room has the evil fame?”

“Certainly it has.”

“And yet a little knowledge of a few peculiar facts—­a pinch of history—­yet, once again, who shall be blamed?  Who can be fairly asked to possess that pinch of history which means so much in this room?”

“How could history have helped us, signor?” asked Henry Lennox.

“I shall tell you.  But history is always helpful.  There is history everywhere around us—­not only here, but in every other department of this noble house.  Take these chairs.  By the accident of training, I read in them a whole chapter of the beginnings of the Renaissance; to you they are only old furniture.  You thought them Spanish because they were bought in Spain—­at Valencia, as a matter of fact.  You did not know that, Sir Walter; but your grandfather purchased them there—­to the despair and envy of another collector.  Yes, these chairs have speaking faces to me, just as the ceiling over them has a speaking face also.  It, too, is copied.  History, in fact, breathes its very essence in this home.  If I knew more history than I do, then other beautiful things would talk to me as freely as these chairs—­and as freely as the trophies of the chase and the tiger skins below no doubt talk to Sir Walter.  But are we not all historical—­men, women, even children?  To exist is to take your place in history, though, as in my case, the fact will not be recorded save in the ‘Chronicles’ of the everlasting.  Yes, I am ancient history now, and go far back, before