"At your Majesty's commands, I am all ears," he murmured, as, obedient to a sign from the Emperor, he drew up an arm-chair for him.
"Sit down yourself," the Emperor ordered curtly, pointing to a tabouret. Then, sneeringly: "Your idea was——"
"To leave everything to my wife."
The War Lord slapped his knees hard, as he always does when excited.
"So would Herr Müller and Herr Schulze," he cried, without attempting to conceal the insult. "Her Ladyship—chief of the Krupp works—of what use would the Baroness Marguerite be to my interests?"
Mrs. Frederick Krupp was née von Ende, and the War Lord, always eager to use titles of nobility, chose to call her by her maiden name and style.
Frederick Krupp, who, despite his irregularities, was genuinely fond of his wife, moved uneasily on his low chair. "Your Majesty is pleased——"
"To have his head screwed on tightly and in the right place," declared the War Lord, bringing his fist down on a table at his elbow and making the Chinese ivories jump. "Now then, without further palaver, I don't choose to see the Baroness heiress of the Krupp works. She shall not control my interests, do you hear? nor those of the Fatherland."
The War Lord talked as if addressing a parcel of raw recruits. His withered left hand had pulled from the trouser-pocket, and was making spasmodic attempts to clutch the lapel of his coat. He has the curious taste to give this poor hand a liberal coating of rings, and his enormous emeralds seemed to gleam more poisonously than usual upon the cringing form of poor Frederick.
"Willy," gasped the Ironmaster pleadingly.