The buzz of a muted bell presently interrupted the even tenor of their industry, causing Sturm to start sharply, drop his pen, and slue round in his chair, turning to Victor a livid face in which his dark eyes of a fanatic were live embers of excitement.

Without a sign to show he shared or even was aware of Sturm’s emotion, Victor deliberately fished from beneath the table a telephone instrument, unhooked the receiver, and pronounced a conventional phrase of greeting.  To this he added a short “Yes,” and after listening quietly for some seconds, “Very good—­in twenty minutes, then.”  Wasting no more time on the author of the call, he hung up, returned the telephone to its place of concealment, and helped himself to a cigarette before deigning to acknowledge Sturm’s persistent stare.

Then, elevating his eyebrows in mild impatience, he made the laconic announcement: 

“Eleven.”

Sturm’s mouth twitched nervously, his eyes burned with a keener fire.

“Coming here?  To-night?”

“Yes.”

“Then”—­a gaunt hand described a gesture of agitation—­“the hour strikes!”

Victor looked bored.

“Who knows?” he replied, as who should say:  “Does it matter?”

“But—­Gott in Himmel—!”

“Sturm,” Victor interposed, critically, “if you Bolsheviki were a trifle more consistent, one might repose greater faith in your sincerity.  But when one hears you deny the Deity in one breath and call on him by name in the next—!”

“A mere mode of speech,” Sturm muttered.

“If you must invoke a spiritual patron, why not Satan?  Or don’t you believe in the Powers of Darkness, either?”

“I believe in you.”

“As temporal viceroy of Lucifer?  Many thanks!  But you were about to say—?”

“Nothing.  That is—­I was envying your poise, Excellency.  You take things so coolly.”

“Why not?”

“With Eleven coming here to tell us when we are to strike?”

“Why not?” Victor repeated.  “We are prepared to strike at any hour.  What matters whether to-night or a week from to-night—­since we cannot fail?”

“If that were only certain!”

“It rests with you.”

“That’s just it,” Sturm doubted moodily.  “Suppose I fail?”

“Why, then—­I suppose—­you will die.”

“I know.  And so will all of us, Excellency.”

“Oh, no.  Undeceive yourself, my friend.  I shall survive.  You will surely die, and perhaps many others with you; but I would not be Number One if I had turned my hand to this scheme without discounting failure first of all.  My way of escape is sure.”

“I believe you,” Sturm grumbled.

With a languid hand Victor found and pressed a button embedded in the table near the edge.

“You have reason.  Whatever my shortcomings, my good Sturm, they do not include hypocrisy; I do not pretend, like your noble Bolsheviki, I am in this business for the sake of humanity or anything but my own selfish ends—­power, plunder”—­a slight wait prefaced one final word, spoken in a key of sombre passion—­“revenge.”