“Damn it all, I am nervous. I admit it. Don't lecture me. I'm not going to lose my grit,—or my head either.”
“You can't lose one without the other, you know,” remarked Thorsensel sententiously. “What do you suppose has happened?”
“Nothing,—nothing at all,” said the other. “You mean that—that they didn't pull it off? God, that is the very worst that could have happened.”
“That is exactly what I mean. You need not worry, however. Trust Scarf to play it safe. If he saw that there was the slightest chance of failure, he would have taken no risk. That's Scarf, my friend. Calm yourself. We will hear from him before noon. He will have worked out another plan, you may be sure.”
It may be mentioned here and now that Zimmerlein had consulted Thorsensel—the mastermind,—before taking a step in the affair of the night just past. He had gone directly from his hotel to the little French café down the street. He knew that it was the unvarying habit of the strange, silent engineer to drop in at this quaint place for a bite of something to eat and a bottle of red wine at midnight. Thorsensel never missed doing this. There was method in his continence.
A big and vital problem confronted Zimmerlein.
He did not dare act without consulting his pseudo-subordinate. Thorsensel took the matter out of his hands. It was he who laid the plans. Zimmerlein became merely an instrument, with certain functions to perform, and nothing more.
“I hope you are right,” said Zimmerlein, absorbing some of the other's fatalistic assurance. “God help us if you are wrong.”
“My dear man, God helps us because we are right, not because we are wrong,” said Thorsensel, laying his big, clenched fist upon the desk,—not violently but with a gentleness that suggested vast strength held under control by the power of a vaster will.
Zimmerlein drew a long, deep breath.