He laughed a little, confidently, but almost with light indifference.
“If she were missing, no particular search would be made then,” he said. “She is pretty enough to suit Berlin.”
He seemed to think pleasantly of something as he stood still for a moment, his eyes on the floor. When he lifted them, there was in their blue a hint of ugly exulting, though Mathilde Hirsch did not think it ugly. He spoke in a low voice.
“It will be an exciting—a colossal day when we come to London—as we shall. It will be as if an ocean had collected itself into one huge mountain of a wave and swept in and overwhelmed everything. There will be confusion then and the rushing up of untrained soldiers—and shouts—and yells——”
“And Zeppelins dropping bombs,” she so far forgot herself as to pant out, “and buildings crashing and pavements and people smashed! Westminster and the Palaces rocking, and fat fools running before bayonets.”
He interrupted her with a short laugh uglier than the gleam in his eyes. He was a trifle excited.
“And all the women running about screaming and trying to hide and being pulled out. We can take any of their pretty, little, high nosed women we choose—any of them.”
“Yes,” she answered, biting her lip. No one would take her, she knew.
He put on his overcoat and prepared to leave her. As he stood at the door before opening it, he spoke in his usual tone of mere command.
“Take her to Kensington Gardens tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Sit in one of the seats near the Round Pond and watch the children sailing their boats. I shall not be there but you will find yourself near a quiet, elegant woman in mourning who will speak to you. You are to appear to recognize her as an old acquaintance. Follow her suggestions in everything.”