Herr Haase refolded the paper and returned it to the envelope and stood waiting.
It was Von Wetten who spoke first. "Thank God!" he said loudly.
The old baron, standing near him, hands joined behind his back, had listened to the reading with eyes on the floor. He shook his head now, gently, dissenting rather than contradicting.
"Oh, no," he said slowly. "Don't be in a hurry to do that, Von
Wetten."
"But, Excellency," Von Wetten protested, "I meant, of course."
"I know," said the Baron. "I know what you thanked God for; and I tell you don't be in too great a hurry."
He began to walk to and fro in the room. He let his hands fall to his sides; he was more than ever distortedly womanlike, almost visibly possessed and driven by his single purpose. Von Wetten, the extinct cigar still poised in his hand, watched him frowningly.
"Sometimes" the Baron seemed to speak as often a man deep in thought will hum a tune "sometimes I have felt before what I feel now a current in the universe that sets against me, against us. Something pulls the other way. It has all but daunted me once or twice."
He continued to pace to and fro, staring at the varnished floor.
"But, Excellency," urged Von Wetten, "there are still ways and means. If we can decoy this inventor-fellow across the frontier and then, there is his wife! Pressure could be brought to bear through the woman. If we got hold of her, now!"