The rain was soaking Armitage thoroughly, but its persistent beat covered any slight noises made by his own movements, and he was now intent upon the little room and its occupants. He observed the care with which the man kept close to his coat, and he pondered the matter as he hung upon the balcony. If Chauvenet was on his way to America it was possible that he would carry with him the important paper whose loss had caused so much anxiety to the Austrian minister; if so, where was it during his stay in Geneva?
“The old man’s death is only the first step. We require a succession of deaths.”
“We require three, to be explicit, not more or less. We should be fortunate if the remaining two could be accomplished as easily as Stroebel’s.”
“He was a beast. He is well dead.”
“That depends on the way you look at it. They seem really to be mourning the old beggar at Vienna. It is the way of a people. They like to be ruled by a savage hand. The people, as you have heard me say before, are fools.”
The last speaker was a young man whom Armitage had never seen before; he was a decided blond, with close-trimmed straw-colored beard and slightly-curling hair. Opposite him, and facing the door, sat Chauvenet. On the table between them were decanters and liqueur glasses.
“I am going to America at once,” said Chauvenet, holding his filled glass toward a brass lamp of an old type that hung from the ceiling.
“It is probably just as well,” said the other. “There’s work to do there. We must not forget our more legitimate business in the midst of these pleasant side issues.”
“The field is easy. After our delightful continental capitals, where, as you know, one is never quite sure of one’s self, it is pleasant to breathe the democratic airs of Washington,” remarked Chauvenet.
“Particularly so, my dear friend, when one is blessed with your delightful social gifts. I envy you your capacity for making others happy.”