"I want to see the Jew Ballin. To-morrow morning at the earliest. You heard about the Lusitania?" Before Prince Bülow could say "Yes," the War Lord had hung up the receiver, simultaneously pressing the button marked Wedell, whom he asked to bring in the Ballin personalia.
"No ordinary Jew," explained the chief of the Secret Service.
"But common stock?"
"Very, Your Majesty."
"How does Ballin dress?"
"Affects the American business man, All Highest, in demeanour and dress."
"A genius, you said?"
"For making money, absolutely, Your Majesty."
"Let's hear about his beginnings." The War Lord sat down in a low chair and lit a cigarette. No such luxuries for Count Wedell, though. The head of the Secret Service stood while he read from his card index in telegraphic style:
"Born emigrant agents.—Son, brother and nephew of drummers-up of steerage cargo.—Learnt rudiments of trade in his native Hamburg.—Finished in London——"