Bernheim saluted and crossing to the desk put down a small package, about as large as one’s fist.
“My lord,” he said, “here is the steel vest.”
The Archduke leaned back and laughed.
“You say that as naturally as though it were my cap or gloves,” he commented.
“And why not, sir—Ferdinand of Lotzen is in Dornlitz, and the truce is ended.”
“The truce?”
“The truce of mourning—you were quite safe so long as it lasted; Moore and I made sure of that.”
“Really, Colonel, you surprise me,” said Armand. “How did you make sure?”
“By having some one buy Bigler plenty of wine, at the Club—and then putting together stray words he let slip.”
The Archduke shook his head in mock reproof.