“I dare say,” he said in English; and when the old statesman glared at him he said in German: “No doubt you are speaking the truth.”
“Of course I speak the truth; but this is a matter for action, and not for discussion. That packet was stolen by intention, and not by chance, John Armitage!”
There was a slight immaterial sound in the hall, and the old prime minister slipped from German to French without changing countenance as he continued:
“We have enough troubles in Austria without encouraging treason. If Rambaud and his chief, Winkelried, could make a king of Francis, the brokerage—the commission—would be something handsome; and Winkelried and Rambaud are clever men.”
“I know of Winkelried. The continental press has given much space to him of late; but Rambaud is a new name.”
“He is a skilled hand. He is the most daring scoundrel in Europe.”
Count von Stroebel poured a glass of brandy from a silver flask and sipped it slowly.
“I will show you the gentleman’s pleasant countenance,” said the minister, and he threw open a leather portfolio and drew from it a small photograph which he extended to Armitage, who glanced at it carelessly and then with sudden interest.
“Rambaud!” he exclaimed.
“That’s his name in Vienna. In Paris he is something else. I will furnish you a list of his noms de guerre.”