"The devil! How did he find out?"
"I don't know. But he knew."
A stream of smoke and sparks flew backwards from Herr Liederman's cigar as he puffed violently. He was much disturbed.
"The Wilhelmstrasse! It is worse than I supposed."
"It is well to know the worst," Zoya Rochal's clear voice cut in coolly, "for then we can plan for it. Georg Senf must know at once."
"It will be a battle for our existence," said Liederman grimly. "They dare not interfere with our meetings," he roared. "They dare not!"
"You feel very sure of yourself," put in Rowland. "I wish I were as confident."
Max Liederman clenched his great fist, held it for a moment suspended in the air and then let it fall quietly upon the wheel. To Rowland, who had felt the might of German autocracy, the action seemed typical--the clenched fist of an aroused people which did not dare to strike, a fist restrained in awe of a habit of thought! But Liederman's words were brave enough.
"The German Socialists will permit themselves to be intimidated just so far," he muttered between set teeth. "And then they will show their might. It may be that this is the straw that will break the camel's back. We shall see. They will not find us unprepared."
"Who is Graf von Stromberg?" asked Rowland, suddenly recalling the name in Khodkine's dossier.