The door closed behind him; his retreating footsteps echoed in the corridor. The Baron spoke at last. He stared up at Von Wetten, his strong old face seamed with new lines.
"You thank God for that, do you?" he said.
Von Wetten returned his gaze. "Yes, Excellency," he replied.
He had screwed his monocle into his eye; it gave to his unconscious arrogance the barb of impertinence.
"You!" The Baron cried out at him. "You thank God, do you? and neither your thanks nor your God is worth the bones of a single Pomeranian grenadier! Do you know what has happened, fool?"
Captain von Wetten bent towards him, smiling slightly.
"You are speaking to Haase, of course, Excellency?"
The Baron caught himself. His face went a trifle pinker, but his mouth was hard under the clipped white moustache and the heavy brows were level.
"I will tell you what has happened," he said deliberately. "I will try to make it intelligible to you."
He held up the ivory paper-knife, its slender yellow blade strained in his two hands.