“In due season; but not just now.  In fact, I have regretted parting with that document I gave you in Paris.  It is safer in America than in Vienna.  If you please, I should like to have it again, sir.”

The palsy in the old man’s hands had increased, and he strove to control his agitation; but fear had never been reckoned among his weaknesses, and he turned stormily upon Armitage.

“That packet is lost, I tell you!” he blurted, as though it were something that he had frequently explained before.  “It was stolen from under my very nose only a month ago!  That’s what I’m here for—­my agents are after the thief, and I came to Geneva to meet them, to find out why they have not caught him.  Do you imagine that I travel for pleasure at my age, Mr. John Armitage?”

Count von Stroebel’s bluster was merely a cloak to hide his confusion—­a cloak, it may be said, to which he did not often resort; but in this case he watched Armitage warily.  He clearly expected some outburst of indignation from the young man, and he was unfeignedly relieved when Armitage, after opening and closing his eyes quickly, reached for a fresh cigarette and lighted it with the deft ease of habit.

“The packet has been stolen,” he observed calmly; “whom do you suspect of taking it?”

The old man leaned upon the table heavily.

“That amiable Francis—­”

“The suggestion is not dismaying.  Francis would not know an opportunity if it offered.”

“But his mother—­she is the devil!” blurted the old man.

“Pray drop that,” said Armitage in a tone that caused the old man to look at him with a new scrutiny.  “I want the paper back for the very reason that it contains that awful indictment of her.  I have been uncomfortable ever since I gave it to you; and I came to ask you for it that I might keep it safe in my own hands.  But the document is lost,—­am I to understand that Francis has it?”

“Not yet!  But Rambaud has it, and Rambaud and Francis are as thick as thieves.”

“I don’t know Rambaud.  The name is unfamiliar.”

“He has a dozen names—­one for every capital.  He even operates in Washington, I have heard.  He’s a blackmailer, who aims high—­a broker in secrets, a scandal-peddler.  He’s a bad lot, I tell you.  I’ve had my best men after him, and they’ve just been here to report another failure.  If you have nothing better to do—­” began the old man.

“Yes; that packet must be recovered,” answered Armitage.  “If your agents have failed at the job it may be worth my while to look for it.”

His quiet acceptance of the situation irritated the minister.

“You entertain me, John Armitage!  You speak of that packet as though it were a pound of tea.  Francis and his friends, Winkelried and Rambaud, are not chasers of fireflies, I would have you know.  If the Archduke and his son are dead, then a few more deaths and Francis would rule the Empire.”