"No. 103," whispered the speaking-tube into Count Wedell's ear.
"Three minutes late," snarled that official; "but I will pay him back."
"No. 103," in faultless evening dress (though it is nine in the morning), is conducted through the right-hand passage. He is at home here, but no one recognises him. Secret Service rule: No comradeship with other agents of the Government. You are a number, no more.
As he is ushered through the lines of sentinels, the royal chasseur, drawn broadsword in his right, opens the door with his left hand. Count Wedell meets him on the threshold.
"Kept Majesty waiting," grumbled the Privy Councillor sotto voce.
"Cab broke down, Excellency," No. 103 excused himself.
"Don't let it happen again. You will stand under the chandelier facing the inner room. Attention!" commanded the chief.
And at attention, every nerve vibrating with excitement and expectancy, No. 103 stood like a statue in the Avenue of Victory, but with rather more grace, for no man living could imitate the War Lord's marble dolls without provoking murder. Wedell had gone into the inner room, the entrance of which was framed by heavy damask portières with gold lace set a jour.
"Portholes," thought No. 103, sizing up the decorations; and, keyhole artist that he is, he soon met a pair of eyes gazing at him through the apertures.
"Majesty taking a peep," he reflected. "I wonder what he thinks of the man who went back on his native Nero for filthy lucre."