“The war was the act of a fool,” snarled Herr Steinemann. “In a few years more of peace, we should have beaten those swine. …”
“And now—they have beaten you.” The Count smiled slightly. “Let us admit that the war was the act of a fool if you like, but as men of business we can only deal with the result … the result, gentlemen, as it concerns us. Both you gentlemen are sufficiently patriotic to resent the presence of that army at Cologne I have no doubt. And you, Mr. Hocking, have no love on personal grounds for the English. … But I am not proposing to appeal to financiers of your reputation on such grounds as those to support my scheme. … It is enough that your personal predilections run with and not against what I am about to put before you—the defeat of England … a defeat more utter and complete than if she had lost the war. …”
His voice sank a little, and instinctively his three listeners drew closer.
“Don’t think that I am proposing this through motives of revenge merely. We are business men, and revenge is only worth our while if it pays. This will pay. I can give you no figures, but we are not of the type who deal in thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. There is a force in England which, if it be harnessed and led properly, will result in millions coming to you. … It is present now in every nation—fettered, inarticulate, uncoordinated. … It is partly the result of the war—the war that the idiots have waged. … Harness that force, gentlemen, coordinate it, and use it for your own ends. … That is my proposal. Not only will you humble that cursed country to the dirt, but you will taste of power such as few men have tasted before. …” The Count stood up, his eyes blazing. “And I—I will do it for you.”
He resumed his seat, and his left hand, slipping off the table, beat a tattoo on his knee.
“This is our opportunity—the opportunity of clever men. I have not got the money necessary: you have. …” He leaned forward in his chair, and glanced at the intent faces of his audience. Then he began to speak …
Ten minutes later he pushed back his chair.
“There is my proposal, gentlemen, in a nutshell. Unforeseen developments will doubtless occur; I have spent my life overcoming the unexpected. What is your answer?”
He rose and stood with his back to them by the fire, and for several minutes no one spoke. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and showed it in his own particular way. The American, his eyes shut, rolled his toothpick backwards and forwards in his mouth slowly and methodically; Steinemann stared at the fire, breathing heavily after the exertions of dinner: von Gratz walked up and down—his hands behind his back—whistling under his breath. Only the Comte de Guy stared unconcernedly at the fire, as if indifferent to the result of their thoughts. In his attitude at that moment he gave a true expression to his attitude on life. Accustomed to play with great stakes, he had just dealt the cards for the most gigantic gamble of his life. … What matter to the three men, who were looking at the hands he had given them, that only a master criminal could have conceived such a game? The only question which occupied their minds was whether he could carry it through. And on that point they had only their judgment of his personality to rely on.
Suddenly the American removed the toothpick from his mouth, and stretched out his legs.
“There is a question which occurs to me, Count, before I make up my mind on the matter. I guess you’ve got us sized up to the last button; you know who we are, what we’re worth, and all about us. Are you disposed to be a little more communicative about yourself? If we agree to come in on this hand, it’s going to cost big money. The handling of that money is with you. Wal—who are you?”
Von Gratz paused in his restless pacing and nodded his head in agreement; even Steinemann, with a great effort, raised his eyes to the Count’s face as he turned and faced them. …
“A very fair question, gentlemen, and yet one which I regret I am unable to answer. I would not insult your intelligence by giving you the fictitious address of—a fictitious Count. Enough that I am a man whose livelihood lies in other people’s pockets. As you say, Mr. Hocking, it is going to cost big money; but compared to the results the costs will be a flea-bite. … Do I look—and you are all of you used to judging men—do I look the type who would steal the baby’s money-box which lay on the mantelpiece, when the pearls could be had for opening the safe. … You will have to trust me, even as I shall have to trust you. … You will have to trust me not to divert the money which you give me as working expenses into my own pocket. … I shall have to trust you to pay me when the job is finished. …”
“And that payment will be—how much?” Steinemann’s guttural voice broke the silence.
“One million pounds sterling—to be split up between you in any proportion you may decide, and to be paid within one month of the completion of my work. After that the matter will pass into your hands … and may you leave that cursed country grovelling in the dirty …” His eyes glowed with a fierce, vindictive fury; and then, as if replacing a mask which had slipped for a moment, the Count was once again the suave, courteous host. He had stated his terms frankly and without haggling: stated them as one big man states them to another of the same kidney, to whom time is money and indecision or
