The Baron paused in his walk to hear him.
"And find an English army blasting its way through Belgium with that machine to come to her rescue? No," he said; and then, starting from his moody quiet to a sudden loudness: "No! We know his price to lash this Von Specht across the face with a whip and we have agreed to it. Let him lash him as he lies on a stretcher, if he likes! I know that type of scorched brain, simmering on the brink of madness. He'll do it, and he'll keep faith; and it'll be cheap at the price. Haase!"
He wheeled on Herr Haase suddenly.
"Zu befehl, Excellenz," replied Herr Haase.
The Baron stared at him for some moments, at the solid, capable, biddable creature he was, stable and passive in the jar of the overturned world. He pointed to the table.
"Sit there, my good Haase," he ordered. "I will dictate you a telegram. Not code this time, plain German!"
He resumed his to-and-fro walk while Herr Haase established himself.
"Direct it to our private address in the Wilhelmstrasse," he ordered. "Then write: 'You are to carry out orders previously communicated. Send Von Specht forthwith, avoiding all delay. Telegraph hour of his departure and keep me informed of his progress. No objections to this order are to be entertained.'"
"'Entertained,'" murmured Herr Haase, as he wrote the last word.
"Sign it as before," directed the Baron. "You see, Von Wetten, it was too soon!"