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Page 83
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 Italy was a united kingdom. Much entertaining information
will be lost for ever when I die. Believe me, while the new
generation is crying forth the new knowledge and glorying in its
genius, we of the old guard are sinking into our graves and
taking the old knowledge with us. Yet they only rediscover for
themselves what we know. Human life is the snake with its tail
in its mouth--Nietzsche's eternal recurrence and the commonplaces
of our forefathers are echoed on the lips of our children as
great discoveries."
Henry Lennox ventured to bring him back to the point.
"What knowledge--what particular branch of information should a
man possess, signor, to find out what you have found?"
"Merely an adornment, my young friend, a side branch of withered
learning, not cultivated, I fear, by your Scotland Yard. Yet I
have known country gentlemen to be skilled in it. The practice of
heraldry. I marked your arms on your Italian gates. I must look
at those gates again--they are not very good, I fear. But the
arms--a chevron between three lions--a fine coat, yet probably
not so ancient as the gates."
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