The abrupt sound of rifle-fire around the corner startled her. Dorn halted. The woman turned toward him, puzzled. "They are shooting a whole lot to-night," she spoke in German. "Quite a lot," he answered. She looked back at the red-faced man who had remained where she had left him. "What do you think of that dunce?" she whispered, and hurried on. Dorn followed leisurely in the direction of the Palais. CHAPTER VIII A rabble of dictators, ministerial fledglings, freshly sprouted governors, organizers, departmental heads, scurried through the dimly lighted corridors of the old Palais. Dorn, with the aid of a handful of communist credentials that seemed to flow endlessly from the pockets of the Baron, passed the Palais guard--a hundred silent men squatting behind a hastily erected barricade of sandbags. Within he stumbled upon von Stinnes. The Baron drew him into a large empty chamber. "We must be careful," he whispered. His voice buzzed with an elation. "Already two ministries have fallen. There is talk now of Levine. He's of the extreme left. I thought you would like to see it. It has its amusing side." He laughed softly. "I was with the men in the streets for a while. There was something there, Dorn. Life, yes ... yes ... It was amazing. But here it is different. What is it the correspondents say? 'All is confusion, there is nothing to report.' ... Yes, confusion. There are at present three poets, one lunatic, an epileptic, four workingmen and a scientist from Vienna, and two school teachers. They are the Council of Ten. Look, there is _Muhsam,_ the one with the red vandyke. A poet. He used to recite rhymes in the Cafe Stephanie." The red vandyke peered into the room. "Stinnes, you are wanted," he called. "I have my portfolio. I am the new minister to Russia. I leave for Moscow to-morrow." "Congratulations!" the Baron answered. A tall, contemplative man with a scraggly gray beard--an angular Christ-like figure--appeared. He spoke. "What are you doing here, Muhsam? There is work inside." "And you!" angrily. "I must think. We must grow calm." He passed on, thinking. "Landerdauer," smiled the Baron, "the Whitman translator." "Yes," the vandyke answered, "we have appointed him minister of education. What news from the station, Stinnes?" "It is taken." Dorn followed the Baron about the corridors, his ears bewildered by the screechings from unexpected chambers of debate. He listened, amused, to the volatile von Stinnes. "They are trying for a coalition. Nikish is at the top. A former schoolmaster. The communists under Levine won't come in. The workingmen are out overthrowing the world, and the great thinkers sit in conference hitting one another over the head with slapsticks. Life, Dorn, is a droll business, and revolution a charming comedy, _nicht wahr?_ But it will grow serious soon. Munich will be cut off. Food will vanish. Aha! wait a minute...."