Von Stromberg folded his long arms and gazed at the lamp.
“You do not feel that it would be possible to return at once?”
“Not unless I wished to be shot as a spy.”
“What will you do?”
“Take whatever service you will give me. Failing that I will volunteer for aviation.”
The General, without pursuing the subject further, motioned Hammersley to the door.
“You will find food ready. After eating you had better get to bed. I will talk with you further in the morning.”
As the door closed behind his visitor von Stromberg sank into the chair by the fire and lighted a third cigar, upon which he pulled steadily for some moments, rehearsing by question and reply almost every word of Hammersley’s story. By every rule of the game as he knew it Herr Hammersley should be a liar. And yet his story from first to last held water. There was not a flaw in its texture from beginning to end. If Hammersley had not told the truth he was the most skillful liar in Europe, a man who gave the appearance of truthfulness to the last hair of his head. And yet it was much more easy to lie if one knew that there was no man to oppose him. Hammersley did not know that Rizzio was on the way. Tomorrow they would meet. It would be interesting to watch that meeting. For, as to this thing, the mind of the General was clear. One of these men was false to Germany, the other true, but which? Both had come willingly, or was it by necessity? And Herr Maxwell! It was strange that Maxwell should have failed in his report at this crucial moment. And if Maxwell were dead—who had betrayed him? General von Stromberg’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the entrance of the orderly.
“A telegram, Excellenz, by motorcycle from Windenberg.”
The General opened the paper. It was in code and he translated it rapidly.