John Armitage and Count von Stroebel stared at each other in silence.

“Events!  Events!” muttered the old man presently, and he rested one of his hands upon the despatch box, as though it were a symbol of authority and power.

“Events!” the young man murmured.

“Events!” repeated Count von Stroebel without humor.  “A couple of deaths and there you see him, on the ground and quite ready.  Karl was a genius, therefore he could not be king.  He threw away about five hundred years of work that had been done for him by other people—­and he cajoled you into sharing his exile.  You threw away your life for him!  Bah!  But you seem sane enough!”

The prime minister concluded with his rough burr; and Armitage laughed outright.

“Why the devil don’t you go to Vienna and set yourself up like a gentleman?” demanded the premier.

“Like a gentleman?” repeated Armitage.  “It is too late.  I should die in Vienna in a week.  Moreover, I am dead, and it is well, when one has attained that beatific advantage, to stay dead.”

“Francis is a troublesome blackguard,” declared the old man.  “I wish to God he would form the dying habit, so that I might have a few years in peace; but he is forever turning up in some mischief.  And what can you do about it?  Can we kick him out of the army without a scandal?  Don’t you suppose he could go to Budapest tomorrow and make things interesting for us if he pleased?  He’s as full of treason as he can stick, I tell you.”

Armitage nodded and smiled.

“I dare say,” he said in English; and when the old statesman glared at him he said in German:  “No doubt you are speaking the truth.”

“Of course I speak the truth; but this is a matter for action, and not for discussion.  That packet was stolen by intention, and not by chance, John Armitage!”

There was a slight immaterial sound in the hall, and the old prime minister slipped from German to French without changing countenance as he continued: 

“We have enough troubles in Austria without encouraging treason.  If Rambaud and his chief, Winkelried, could make a king of Francis, the brokerage—­the commission—­would be something handsome; and Winkelried and Rambaud are clever men.”

“I know of Winkelried.  The continental press has given much space to him of late; but Rambaud is a new name.”

“He is a skilled hand.  He is the most daring scoundrel in Europe.”

Count von Stroebel poured a glass of brandy from a silver flask and sipped it slowly.

“I will show you the gentleman’s pleasant countenance,” said the minister, and he threw open a leather portfolio and drew from it a small photograph which he extended to Armitage, who glanced at it carelessly and then with sudden interest.

“Rambaud!” he exclaimed.

“That’s his name in Vienna.  In Paris he is something else.  I will furnish you a list of his noms de guerre.”