The merry little laugh rang out again in the silent room.
“Why, Excellenz? Because in my earth-life I had only one passion—and it is as strong as ever it was. Stronger, for I owe our enemies a grudge for that little early-morning shooting party in the Tower. You’ve no idea how I long for a really good cigar, Excellenz,” he finished in a tone of jesting complaint.
The old man stared into the empty air beyond the girl.
“And you can really obtain information and convey it?” He was recovering his poise. The question was asked in the brusque tone familiar to his subordinates.
“Test me, Excellenz!”
“I assure you, Excellenz——!” interjected Kranz, eagerly.
His superior waved him aside. The brow under the short white hair had recovered its normal ruddiness, was wrinkled in cogitation. He felt in his pocket and produced a letter in a sealed envelope.
“Tell me from whom this comes,” he said.
He proffered the letter as though expecting it to be taken out of his fingers. Then, as it was not, he dropped his hand with a gesture of hopeless bafflement. There was so real a feeling of the actual presence of Karl Wertheimer in the room that the quite normal fact of the letter remaining untouched emphasized suddenly the uncanny nature of this conversation.
“Permit me, Excellenz,” said Kranz, politely. He took the letter and laid it on the girl’s brow. Her lips moved at once.