snach's wire, the murder of Eichendorff at Odessa, the court-martial at Boden, the Provincial Court case at Vienna over the Galician fortification betrayals, the earlier rumour of a year once spent in the penal mines of Siberia, the Livorno plot to smuggle the fruits of a winter's espionage out of Italy by concealing certain papers in the coffin of a British Admiral who had died at Pisa, There were other unsavoury details from equally unsavoury quarters. And remembering them, Kestner also remembered that knowledge was power. Yet his enemy seemed in no way discomfited by the American's calm stare of opposition.
"Herr Keudell, I believe?"
Kestner had the satisfaction of beholding the deep-set eyes betray one brief second of disquiet. But it was a second and no more.
"Herr Watchel," corrected the other. Kestner bowed.
"It's some time, Herr Watchel, since we've had the pleasure of meeting."
"It is," admitted Watchel. But the grim line of his mouth did not relax.
"At that last meeting, you may remember, I had occasion to inquire as to your particular business of the moment. I must now repeat that inquiry."
Watchel's movement was one of brusque impatience.
"My business is my own," was his coldly enunciated retort.
"In this room and the presence of this lady"—Watchel sniffed audibly at Kestner's ceremonial bow—"I fear that all business must first be referred to me."
