"You mean the murders at Sarajevo," he said. "You're over-sensitive. Run along and play. Nothing will come of that."
"Tell me," Wandel said, turning slowly, "that you mean what you say. Tell me you haven't figured on it already."
George shrugged his shoulders.
"You're discreet. All right. I have figured, because, if anything should come of it, it offers the chance of a lifetime for making money. Mundy's put me in touch with some useful people in London and Paris. I want to be ready if things should break. I hope they won't. Honestly, I very much doubt if they will. Even Germany will think twice before forcing a general war."
"But you're making ready," Wandel whispered, "on the off-chance."
George pressed a switch and got more light. It was as if a heavy shadow had filled the delightful room.
"We're growing fanciful," he said, "seeing things in the dark. By the way, you run into Dalrymple occasionally? I'm told he comes often to town."
Wandel left the window, nodding.
"How long can he keep it up?" George asked.
"I'm not a physician."