The twenty-eighth—it was always the twenty-eighth with General von Kuhne. With machine-like precision his forceful mind returned again and again to that date—the date which was to mark the consummation of his work. The blow, the subtle, heavy blow at England's heart—the blow planned, schemed for, and ordered; the great destruction that had originated in his martial and ruthless mind.
"Things go well, eh?"
"Quite well, Excellenz," Cherriton answered promptly, for as yet he had not found courage to mention to the general his suspicion of Treves. He was not yet positive that Treves had betrayed them, and, in the meantime, he had resolved to say nothing. Rather would he wait and watch, seeking for tangible proof of duplicity on Treves's part.
These thoughts were passing through his mind when a knock came at the door, and Conrad entered to clear away the luncheon things. In his hand he carried a salver upon which lay a single letter, addressed to Doctor Voules, and without a stamp.
The doctor took up the letter.
"Herr Manwitz brought it from Newport, Excellenz," said the servant in German.
"Tell Herr Manwitz I will see him presently, and remain out of the room until I ring for you."
General von Kuhne had recognised Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's handwriting. He began to read almost casually; then, suddenly, his interest intensified, and as he read the lines of his heavy face grew hard, firm and implacable. His colour rose; he eased his collar about his throat and bit heavily upon his long cigar.
Cherriton, noticing his agitation, noticing the blazing wrath that illuminated his face, watched him with anxious eyes.
Suddenly von Kuhne sprang to his feet.