"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety.
"Yes?"
"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in his own country."
"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?"
"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now Baron Griffin."
The fingers tightened around the ivory knife.
"That," the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety, "that is unfortunate." There was silence again. The knife was laid down, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, I think, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad—and you also—while the excellent shooting continues near—ah—the camp. It seems best."
The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up the receiver.
"Yes, someone will come down."
He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav.