"A little plan to separate Bavaria from Prussia, and help break up Middle Europe. You know feeling between the two provinces is intense. There was almost a mutiny in the second war year. And anything to help it along. To-morrow, Franz Lipp the new foreign minister of the Soviets will telegraph to Berlin recalling the Bavarian ambassador; there _is_ one, you know--a figurehead. And the good Franz will announce to the world that Bavaria has declared its independence of Prussia. This will be a politic move for the Soviets as well as England. For the bourgeoisie in Bavaria dislike Prussia as much as the communists dislike her. But I bore you with intrigue. We have had our little revolution for which you must allow me to accept an honest share of credit.... Let us have another flask." "An interesting story," Dorn agreed. "You still smile, Erik?" "More than ever." "Ah, then truly, we are of the same pattern." Von Stinnes stared at him sadly. "You are my first companion in five years," he added. "As you are mine," Dorn answered. "Here ... to the success of all your villainies and our friendship." "Which is not one of them," the Baron murmured. "You believe me?" "Of course." "Ah! it is almost a sensation to be believed ... for speaking the truth. I feel as if I have committed some exotic sin. Yes, confession is good for the soul." "Shall we go back to the hotel?" The Baron leaned forward and grasped Dorn's hand feverishly. "I do not wish to joke any more," he whispered. "I have told you the truth. And you still smile at me. You are a curious man. I have for long sat like an exile surrounded by my villainies and smiling alone at the world. But it is impossible to live alone, to become someone whom nobody knows, whom trusting people mistake for someone else. I have wanted to be known as I am ... but have been afraid. Ah! I am very drunk ... for you seem still amused." Dorn squeezed his hand. "Yes, you are my first friend," he said. The Baron followed him to his feet. They were silent on the way to the hotel. Von Stinnes walked with his arm linked in Dorn's. Before the latter's room he halted. "Good night, sweet prince," he mumbled drowsily, "and may angels guard thy sleep." Alone, he moved unsteadily down the hall. Mathilde was gone. Moving about the room, Dorn found a note left for him. He read: "A man was here asking for you. An American officer. I met him in the lobby and mentioned there was an American here and he asked your name. When I told him he seemed to be excited. He said his name is Captain Hazlitt and he is in the courier service on his way from Paris to Vienna. I do not like him. Please be careful. "MATHILDE DOHMANN." CHAPTER IX In the days that followed Dorn sought to interest himself in the details of the situation. The thing buzzed and gyrated about him, tiring his thought with its innumerable surfaces. Revolution. A new state. New flags and new slogans.