“Sure!” he replied, a little curiously.
“If you want to keep friends with him for any
reason, I don’t bear him any ill-will.”
“I just want to talk to him,” Pamela murmured,
“that’s all.”
There was a ripple of interest and a good deal of
curiosity that afternoon, in the lounge and entrance
hall of the Hotel Plaza, when a tall, grey-moustached
gentleman of military bearing descended from the automobile
which had brought him from the station, and handed
in his name at the desk, inquiring for Mr. Fischer.
“Will you send my name up—the Baron
von Schwerin,” he directed.
The clerk, who had recognised the newcomer, took him
under his personal care.
“Mr. Fischer is up in his rooms, expecting you,
Baron,” he announced. “If you’ll
come this way, I’ll take you up.”
The Baron followed his guide to the lift and along
the corridor to the suite of rooms occupied by Mr.
Fischer and his young friend, James Van Teyl.
Mr. Fischer himself opened the door. The two men
clasped hands cordially, and the clerk discreetly
withdrew.
“Back with us once more, Fischer,” Von
Schwerin exclaimed fervently. “You are
wonderful. Tell me,” he added, looking around,
“we are to be alone here?”
“Absolutely,” Fischer replied. “The
young man I share these apartments with—James
Van Teyl—has taken his sister out to Baltusrol.
They will not be back until seven o’clock.
We are sure of solitude.”
“Good!” Von Schwerin exclaimed. “And
you have news—I can see it in your face.”
Fischer rolled up easy chairs and produced a box of
cigars.
“Yes,” he assented, with a little glitter
in his eyes, “I have news. Things have
moved with me. I think that, with the help of
an idiotic Englishman, we shall solve the riddle of
what our professors have called the consuming explosive.
I sent the formula home to Germany, by a trusty hand,
only a few hours ago.”
“Capital!” Von Schwerin declared.
“It was arranged in London, that?”
“Partly in London and partly here,” Fischer
replied.
Von Schwerin made a grimace.
“If you can find those who are willing to help
you here, you are fortunate indeed,” he sighed.
“My life’s work has lain amongst these
people. In the days of peace, all seemed favourable
to us. Since the war, even those people whom
I thought my friends seem to have lost their heads,
to have lost their reasoning powers.”
“After all,” Fischer muttered, “it
is race calling to race. But come, we have more
direct business on hand. Nikasti is here.”
Von Schwerin nodded a little gloomily.
“Washington knows nothing of his coming,”
he observed. “I attended the Baron Yung’s
reception last week, informally. I threw out very
broad hints, but Yung would not be drawn. Nikasti
represents the Secret Service of Japan, unofficially
and without responsibility.”
