"Can't we kape it saycret?" blurted out McCloskey.

Ledochowski pointed down a long passage-way, at the end of which could be seen a party of Cook's tourists, doing the Vatican by torchlight. Among them could be seen a shadowy individual with a dark-lantern and a note-book.

"It's Jenkins himself, of the Boston Saturday Evening Chemisette," sighed Antonelli.

"No use," said a monk; "better send for Father Polhemus."

In all the brotherhood of the Church, no man's advice was more sought for than that of Father Polhemus. Born at Ithaca, N. Y., he received a sound Catholic education at Cornell University, several years before that institution was founded. He was the originator of the famous Know-Nothing Society, for which ingenious device for promoting the cause of the true Church he received the mitre. It was his hand that applied the torch to the Roman Catholic Convent at Somerville, Mass.,- a deed which has always been considered a master-stroke of Church policy.

No man knew better than be how to manage the annual miracle of the liquefying of the blood at Naples; how to temper the success to the receipt of offerings; how to have the grand climax at the proper moment. Therefore, when his portly frame appeared at the entrance to the refectory, all hopefully awaited the opening of his lips.

"The Pope's infallible," said he.

A chorus of assent.

"Therefore, his fall is a miracle."

An enthusiastic "Si! si!"

"Miracles are worked by the hand of God."

"E vero! e vero!!"

"To be handled by God is a special mark of favor."

"Naturlich," said Ledochowski.