“This purports to be from the firm of Wilson and Staunton, Boston, to the firm of Jensen and Auerstedt, Christiania, with reference to an overdue account.” The voice was still the chuckling voice of Karl Wertheimer. “Actually, it is a communication in code to you from Heinrich Biedermann at New York. Do you wish me to read the message? I still remember the old code, Excellenz!”
“No—no!” interposed the old man. “Never mind!”
“Perhaps you would like me to tell you what Heinrich Biedermann is doing at this moment, Excellenz?”
“But he is in New York! You can’t be here and there, too!”
Again came the merry little laugh.
“Time and Space are an illusion of matter, Excellenz. I half forget that you are still subject to it.—Well, Heinrich Biedermann is sitting with a young woman in a restaurant, having tea. They are both very cheerful, for he has just received a remittance from you, and he has bought her a new hat. The sun is setting and he is lost in admiration of the glow of her red hair against the background of the illuminated sky which he can perceive through the window. He is hopelessly in love with her, which is unfortunate, as the lady happens to be a spy, by name Desirée Rochefort, in the pay of the French Secret Service.”
“The devil——!” ejaculated the old man.
“But,” said Kranz in a puzzled tone. “Sunset?—It is nearly midnight!”
The old man turned on him.
“Fool! There is a difference of six hours in time between here and America. That proves it—if anything can be proof of such wild improbability!”