“It would not be at all difficult,” he said, with a mysterious expression. “I have something upstairs which would very soon effect our purpose and leave no trace—if it were necessary.”
“But it is necessary,” the Count declared.
“One day it may be,” Drost said. “But not yet.”
“Your girl is in love with him, and I suppose you think it a pity to—well, to spoil their romance, even in face of all that Germany has at stake!” remarked the Count, with an undisguised sneer. “Ah, my dear Drost! you pose as a Dutch pastor, but do you not remember our German motto: Der beste prediger ist der Zeit?” (Time is the best preacher.)
“Yes, yes,” replied the old man with the scraggy beard. “But please rely upon my wits. My eyes are open, and I assure you there is nothing whatever at present to fear.”
“Very well, Drost,” Answered the Count. “I submit to your wider knowledge. But now that the girl has gone, we may as well go upstairs—eh? You’ve, of course, seen in to-night’s paper that Merton Mansfield is to address the munition-makers in the Midlands in a fortnight’s time.”
Old Drost again smiled mysteriously, and said:
“I knew that quite a fortnight ago. Schrieber has been north. He returned only last Tuesday.”
“Did you send him north?”
“I did. He went upon a mission. As you know, I am generally well ahead with any plans I make.”