"But I will go with you to the station," Stewart protested.
"No, no," said Bloem; "you must not do that. I am to meet my cousin. Good-by. Lebe wohl!"
"Good-by—and good luck!" and Stewart wrung the hand thrust into his. "You have been most kind to me."
Bloem answered only with a little shake of the head; then turned resolutely and hastened from the terrace.
Stewart sank back into his seat more moved than he would have believed possible by this parting from a man whom, a fortnight before, he had not known at all. Poor Bloem! To what fate was he being hurried! A cultured man graded down to the level of the hind; a gentleman set to the task of slaughter; a democrat driven to fight in defense of the divine right of kings! But could such a fight succeed? Was any power strong enough to drag back the hands of time——
And then Stewart started violently, for someone had touched him on the shoulder. He looked up to find standing over him a tall man in dark blue uniform and wearing a spiked helmet.
"Your pardon, sir," said the man in careful English; "I am an agent of the police. I must ask you certain questions."
"Very well," agreed Stewart with a smile. "Go ahead—I have nothing to conceal. But won't you sit down?"
"I thank you," and the policeman sat down heavily. "You are, I believe, an American."
"Yes."