“You can’t give me orders. I’m an American citizen—”
“Bosh!... Last week there was an explosion in an armory in a Canadian town not far from here. It did quite a satisfactory bit of damage. I’m sure the Emperor will appreciate it.”
“That armory explosion—did you arrange that?”
“I?... Oh no, Herr von Essen! You did.”
“I! You’re crazy.”
“The records show—our secret records. You have the credit there.... Now, Herr von Essen, will you obey orders?”
“No. What do your secret records matter to me?”
“If I put information in the hands of the clumsy American agents that Herr von Essen is excessively pro-German and that it might be well to inquire where he was the night of that so-called outrage, they might be interested, eh?... And if it was hinted that a search of your premises would unearth a considerable quantity of explosives, and some extremely novel and effective bombs and infernal machines?... I should hate to do that, Herr.”
“But I was not where you say on that night—that Friday night.”
“No, Herr von Essen? Shall I tell you where you were? You were with me. Alone with me, as I took excellent pains to see you would be. Nobody knows where you were but myself—and I would be unable to come to your assistance, of course. I’m afraid there would be evidence directly against you, however. It would look black for you if your chauffeur were to swear that he carried you to a point on the river and saw you meet two other men, and that you had baggage which you carried, oh, so carefully. Eh? And if he saw you cross the river, partly on the ice and partly with boats? It would look bad.”