“I am confident of that,” said Mark.  “Otherwise I should not have spoken to you.”

“Then,” said the priest, “suppose we go now to our engagement at Killimaga.”

The two passed across the lawn, then down the street and along the road toward the great house whose towers looked out over the trees.  Neither Mark nor the priest said a word until the town was well behind them.  Then Father Murray turned to his companion.

“You will find Miss Atheson a remarkable woman, Mr. Griffin.  There is a reason, perhaps, why I might not be a competent judge—­why I might be prejudiced—­but still I think that you, too, will see it.  She has not been here long, but she is already loved.  She receives no one but me.  But she seems to like you, and I didn’t hurt you any in her estimation by my own rather sudden attraction.”

“I am grateful for your appreciation,” replied Mark, “even though I may not deserve it.  And more grateful for your confidence.”

Walking slowly, and chatting in friendly fashion, they reached Killimaga.  As the great gates swung open their attention was arrested by the purring of a motor.  Father Murray uttered a low “Ah!” while Mark stared after the swiftly vanishing machine.  He, too, had seen its passenger, a heavy, dark man with a short beard combed from the center to the sides.  The flashing eyes had seemed to look everywhere at once, yet the man in the car had continued to smoke in quiet nonchalance as if he had not noticed the two standing by the gates.  Uncle Mac had described the man well.  He was ‘highfalutin’’ without a doubt.

“Sihasset is greatly honored,” Father Murray remarked softly.

“Do you know him?”

“I have seen him before.  He comes from a foreign state, but he is no stranger to America—­nor to England, for that matter.  Have you any acquaintance with the diplomats in London?”

“I have attended balls at which some of them were present.”

“Does your memory recall one of that type?” persisted the priest.

“No, it does not.”

“Mine does,” said Father Murray.  “I once had occasion to offer a prayer at an important banquet at which that gentleman was the guest of honor.  He sat near me, and when I asked him where he had acquired such a mastery of English, he told me that he had been for five years minister at the Court of St. James.  He is now accredited to Washington.  Do you see why I suggest that Sihasset is greatly honored to-day?”

Mark could not conceal his astonishment.

“But why under heaven,” he said, “should a foreign diplomat be mixed up in a camp of Slavic laborers?”

“There are strange things in diplomacy,” said Father Murray.  “And stranger things in Sihasset when the town constable has so much interest in your taking of tea at Killimaga.  If you had turned around a moment ago, you would have seen our constable’s coattails disappearing behind the bushes on our right.”