The younger man took the sheet and fixed his keen eyes upon it.
"My dear Friend," ran the note, "the s.s. 'Polidor' is due to leave H—— at four o'clock to-morrow, Tuesday afternoon. I had this on absolute authority; you can rely on it."
The tall, fair-haired man came to the end of the brief note, and his hard mouth tightened; then he read the postscript: "Don't forget the tabloids!"
He looked up slowly, and fixed his keen gaze upon Manwitz's apoplectic countenance. Baron Rathenau, who had taken his degree at Oxford, who spoke English like an English gentleman, and possessed, on the surface, the manners of an English gentleman, was quite five years older than he looked. His brain was subtle and keen, and in the service of the Fatherland he was hard and ruthless as steel.
"You have done not so badly here, Manwitz," conceded the Baron. "This letter alone"—he folded Treves's note carefully—"this letter alone would bring our young friend, Lieutenant Treves, into the presence of a firing party within forty-eight hours." He paused a moment. "Our English enemies," he went on, "are unpleasantly hasty in regard to spies. But when it comes to traitors, the celerity with which they put a man face to the wall in their Tower of London, it is marvellous!"
He had folded the note carefully, and lifting his light fawn coat, he slipped Treves's note into the inner pocket, then he flung the coat back again on the chair.
"I'll see our young neurasthenic friend at once," he said. "You will leave him to me, Manwitz." He turned and pressed the bell twice. When the footman presently appeared at the door, Baron Rathenau was standing with his back to the mantelshelf, toying with a cigarette.
"Bring up Mr. Treves, Conrad," he said, briefly.
CHAPTER V
"Do I introduce you as Captain Cherriton, Herr Baron?" asked Manwitz, when Conrad had closed the door and departed.