"I suppose it had some meaning?" he went on.
"Yes, it had. And excuse me when I say that I'm hanged if either you
or your Constant Readers shall know what that meaning was. My dear
fellow, you belong to a strong race--a race that has beaten us and
taken toll of us, and now carves 'Smith' and 'Thompson' and such names
upon our fathers' tombs. But there are some things you have not laid
hands on yet; secrets that we all know somehow, but never utter, even
among ourselves, nor allude to. If I told you what Billy Tredegar did
to-day, and why he did it, I tell you frankly your article would
make some thousands of Constant Readers open wide eyes over their
breakfast-cups. But you won't know. Why, after all, should I say
anything to spoil Cornwall's prospects as a health-resort?"
My friend took this very quietly, merely observing that it was rather
late in the day to take sides against Hengist and Horsa. But he was
sorry, I could see, to lose his local colour. And as I looked down,
for the last time that night, upon Troy, this petition escaped me--
"O my country, if I keep your secrets, keep for me your heart!"