The agent provocateur looked appealingly at Count Wedell. "I humbly beg to be excused."
"I command you!"
"Well then, Your Majesty, it occurred to me that I ought to have planted a mark's worth of asafoetida under that bed."
Did the stern Majesty laugh? He guffawed and roared enough to split his sides—the lines between the sublime and the low are not tightly drawn in Berlin.
"This fellow has wit," said the War Lord to Udo. "When you come to think of it, asafoetida is mighty appropriate ammunition to use against the Jesuit disciple." Then, with a look to No. 103: "Proceed."
"Details and all," commanded von Wedell.
"The minutest," emphasised the War Lord.
"May it please Your Majesty, I was in that bed three hours before the parties came into the room. The Cardinal had hired Suite 18 expressly for the meeting, his lodgings being elsewhere in the hotel. He was first to arrive, and swore lustily because there was no crucifix or prie-Dieu, as ordered.
"Cursed like a trooper, eh?" cried the War Lord. "Make a note of that, Udo. When I am Lutheran pope I will visit the grand bane upon any cardinal guilty of saying naughty words."
"Your Majesty will have the All Highest hands full," remarked von Wedell. "What about Prince Max?"