He made as if to speak, but his lips emitted no sound.
“Well? Well?” queried the Count, impatiently. “What is it? Explain it. That is from His Royal Highness, isn’t it?”
“I—I—you see, I—” stammered the Captain, dazed and affrighted, “I—I am not so sure. It may be a hoax—a trap.”
Von Ritter’s eyes poured out upon him their contempt.
“A hoax, a trap,” he sneered. “No, no, unless it be a trap in which to catch a certain officer of the Army who is not so very far away. I think, Captain, that it is useless to prolong this interview,” and he pressed an electric button in the table under his thumb.
Captain Lindenwald bowed, but said nothing.
At the same moment the footman reappeared and at a signal from the Chancellor lifted the portière, and the Captain went rather shamefacedly from the room.
When the Count heard the street door close he pressed the button in the table again, and to the footman who entered he said:
“Otto, I wish to speak to the Chief of Police. Call him up, and when you have him on the telephone let me know.”
He walked to the window again. The moon had risen, and the rose garden was clad in luminous white with trimmings of purplish grey and black shadows.