“Herr Gott! It’s—it’s his voice!” he gasped.
His eyes turned to Kranz and there was fear in them, a primitive fear of the supernatural. Trembling, he reeled rather than walked to the chair by the table with the telephone, dropped heavily into it. Kranz broke the oppressive silence, posed himself as master of the situation.
“Good evening, Karl!” he said as though welcoming an everyday acquaintance into the room.
“Hallo, Kranz!” came the easy, jocular voice through the lips of the entranced girl. “Wie gehts? I am glad you persuaded His Excellency to come. Now we can start!”
The old man pulled himself together, moistened his lips for speech.
“Is—is that really you, Karl?” he asked, unevenly.
The merry little laugh, so uncanny from the only origin visible, preceded the answer.
“Really I, Excellenz—Karl Wertheimer, shot six months ago by the English in the Tower of London, and as alive in this room as ever I was.” The tone changed to that of a humorously bantering introduction. “Karl Wertheimer, Excellenz, the terror of the English counterespionage department, at your service—still!”
The old man fumblingly produced a handkerchief and mopped at the perspiration on his brow. He hesitated for an appropriate remark.
“Why——?” he asked falteringly, and stopped.