"You will excuse me. It is possible. I have heard the name. But I
have long since ceased to concern myself with persons. In a great
struggle such as this individuals are submerged."
He walked on again, slip-slopping in his shapeless boots through the
slush, his head down to the rain.
"Christine," Robert said, "don't you remember Christine?"
(He himself had not thought of her for years, and now deliberately he
had conjured her up.)
Mr. Ricardo hunched his shoulders. He peered round at Stonehouse,
frowning suspiciously.
"You are very persistent, sir. Are you God?"
"No."
"It is better to be quite frank with one another. Not an emissary of
God?"
"No."
He seemed only half satisfied.
"You will excuse my asking. I have to be very careful. There have
been certain signs of late that the enemy is anxious to
negotiate--to--ah--reach some compromise. No direct offer, you
understand, but various feelers--hints--suggestions--terms of a most
unscrupulous and subtle nature--traps into which a man less--ah--wary
than myself might well fall. This Christine--yes--yes--I have to be on
my guard."
"I have nothing to do with God," Robert said gently. "I'm a friend--on
your side. I'd like to help. If I knew where you lived so that I
could learn more about your work----"
But Mr. Ricardo shrank away from him.
"I don't like the sound of that. I dare say I do you an injustice,
young man, but I can't afford to take risks.
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