CHAPTER V. — ECHOES FROM THE WILHELMSTRASSE
After leaving the War Offices, Rebener went directly to the nearest public telephone.
“Hello, Karlbeck,” he called, after satisfying himself by mumbling a jumble of unintelligible words and numbers that he had the man he wanted on the wire. “Is Smith there? What? Thames Embankment? What did you say is the number of that officer? Oh, my old butler, Pat! That’s all right. Now listen; if I should miss Smith and he comes in, tell him to call me at my hotel at once. I have made an engagement for dinner with our man for eight o’clock tonight, but you and H. R. H. need not be at my rooms until half-past eight. You understand, eh? Good-bye.”
He strolled out, following Edestone’s course with the air of a man wishing to enjoy this beautiful spring morning, and approaching the officer who had interrupted the interview between Edestone and Smith, he said, with a little twinkle in his eye: “Will you tell me which of these bridges is called the London Bridge?”
The blue-coated Pat, with Hibernian readiness, caught the humour of the situation. “Shure, I would gladly, but ‘tis a strhanger I am here mesilf,” he grinned as he smothered the entire lower part of his face with his huge paw of a hand, and significantly closed one eye.
“Pat, your fondness for joking will get you into trouble yet. Did Smith turn Edestone over to you?”
“He did, and I mesilf took him up to the Admiralty where he is now. 4782, I think they called him, takes him up from there, and will keep him until he hears from either you or Smith.”
“Where has Smith gone?”
“Shure he’s up at Claridge’s, bein’ shaved by Count von Hottenroth.”