“Has it come to this, then—that my life isn’t safe here—nor in my house, nor on the street! Is this civilization or savagery?”
Bernheim shrugged his shoulders.
“Neither,” he said, “neither—it’s Hell. It’s always Hell where Lotzen plays. Surely, sir, you have not forgot the past.”
“No—no—but that was a Masque, and assassination went with the costumes and the atmosphere; yet now, in Dornlitz of the twentieth century—I can’t bring myself to believe ... why don’t you threaten me with poison or a bomb?”
“Poison is possible, but not a bomb—it is not neat enough for Lotzen.”
Armand looked at him in puzzled amusement.
“I see,” he said, “I see—he murders artistically—he doesn’t like a mess.”
“Just so, sir; and the most artistic and least messy is a neat hole through the heart.... You will wear the vest, my lord?”
The Archduke’s glance wandered to the window—electric cars were speeding down the avenue—an automobile whizzed by—and another—and another.
“Look,” said he, “look! isn’t it absurd to talk of steel vests!”