itzerland. From
Secret Service Administration, Berlin. July 21st, 1916. In reply to
your code-message previously acknowledged, regret to report that
officer you require was recently severely wounded. Hospital
authorities report that it is impossible to move him. Trust this
unfortunate event does not stultify your arrangements. Your further
instructions awaited."

Herr Haase refolded the paper and returned it to the envelope and
stood waiting.

It was Von Wetten who spoke first. "Thank God!" he said loudly.

The old baron, standing near him, hands joined behind his back, had
listened to the reading with eyes on the floor. He shook his head
now, gently, dissenting rather than contradicting.

"Oh, no," he said slowly. "Don't be in a hurry to do that, Von
Wetten."

"But, Excellency," Von Wetten protested, "I meant, of course."

"I know," said the Baron. "I know what you thanked God for; and I
tell you don't be in too great a hurry."

He began to walk to and fro in the room. He let his hands fall to his
sides; he was more than ever distortedly womanlike, almost visibly
possessed and driven by his single purpose. Von Wetten, the extinct
cigar still poised in his hand, watched him frowningly.

"Sometimes" the Baron seemed to speak as often a man deep in thought
will hum a tune "sometimes I have felt before what I feel now a
current in the universe that sets against me, against us. Something
pulls the other way. It has all but daunted me once or twice."

He continued to pace to and fro, staring at the varnished floor.

"But, Excellency," urged Von Wetten, "there are still ways and means.
If we can decoy this inventor-fellow across the frontier and then,
there is his wife! Pressure could be brought to bear through the
woman. If we got hold of her, now!"

The Baron paused in his walk to hear him.

"And find an English army blasting its way through Belgium with that
machine to come to her rescue? No," he said; and then, starting from
his moody quiet to a sudden loudness: "No! We know his price to lash
this Von Specht across the face with a whip and we have agreed to it.
Let him lash him as he lies on a stretcher, if he likes! I know that
type of scorched brain, simmering on the brink of madness. He'll do
it, and he'll keep faith; and it'll be cheap at the price. Haase!"

He wheeled on Herr Haase suddenly.

"Zu befehl, Excellenz," replied Herr Haase.

The Baron stared at him for some moments, at the solid, capabl