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"I, I don't see why not," he replied. The Baron nodded thrice, very slowly. Then he glanced up at Herr Haase. "Then miracles are worked by machinery, after all," he said. Then he turned again to Von Wetten. "Well?" he said. "And the man? We are forgetting the man; I think we generally do, we Germans. What is the difficulty about the man?" Von Wetten shrugged.
"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.
"Tell me," he demanded of Von Wetten. "You are a soldier; I am only a diplomat. What would this machine mean in war in this war, for instance? Supposing you were in command upon a sector of the front; that in the trenches opposite you were the English; and you had this machine? What would be the result?" "Well!" Von Wetten deliberated. "Pretty bad for the English, I should think," he decided.
"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.
"But how, man how?" persisted the Baron. "In what way would it be bad for them?" Von Wetten made an effort; he was not employed for his imagination. "Why," he hesitated, "because I suppose the cartridges would blow up in the men's pouches and in the machine-gun belts; and then the trench-mortar ammunition and the hand grenades; well, everything explosive would simply explode!
Herr Haase picked up the empty suit-case, stood aside to let Von Wetten pass, and brought up the rear of the procession. At the foot of the wooden steps that led up to the veranda, the Baron halted and turned to Bettermann. "One thing makes me curious," he said. "Suppose we had not accepted your terms, what would you have done? Sold your machine to our enemies?"
Midnight was close at hand when he reached the Baron's room, with the telegram and his neatly-written interpretation in an envelope. He had changed his coat and shoes for the visit; it was the usual Herr Haase, softish of substance, solemn of attire, official of demeanor, who clicked and bowed to the Baron and Von Wetten in turn. "Our good Haase," said the Baron. "At last!"
But it was more than shyness that narrowed her German-blue eyes as she stood behind the bars, looking at the three men. Von Wetten, tall, comely, stepped forward. "Good afternoon, gnadige Frau. We have an appointment with your husband for this hour. Let me present Herr Steinlach Herr von Haase." The two bowed at her; she inspected each in turn, still with that narrow-eyed reserve.
"Well," he repeated, "there's the end of that!" 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.
"It was the captain of my company," said Bettermann, with a glare at Von Wetten. "Another Prussian swine-dog like this brute here." He waited. Von Wetten regarded him with stony calm and did not move. Bettermann flushed. "He sent me for his whip, and when I brought it, he called me to attention and cut me over the face with it." "Eh?" The old baron sat up. "Aber-"
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