If he could have been dashed down upon the pavement and his head hammered in with the handle of a sword, or if he could have been run through furiously again and again, either or both of these things would have been done. But neither was possible. It also was not possible to curse aloud in a fashionable London street. Such curses as one uttered must be held in one’s foaming mouth between one’s teeth. Count von Hillern knew this better than most men would have known it. Here was one of those English swine with whom Germany would deal in her own way later. They walked back together as if they were acquaintances taking a casual stroll. “There is nothing which would so infuriate your—Master—as a disgraceful scandal,” Lord Coombe’s highbred voice suggested undisturbedly. “The high honour of a German officer—the knightly bearing of a wearer of the uniform of the All Highest—that sort of thing you know. All that sort of thing!” Von Hillern ground out some low spoken and quite awful German words. If he had not been trapped—if he had been in some quiet by-street! “The man walking ahead of us is a detective from Scotland Yard. The particularly heavy and rather martial tread behind us is that of a policeman much more muscular than either of us. There is a ball going on in the large house with the red carpet spread across the pavement. I know the people who are giving it. There are a good many coachmen and footmen about. Most of them would probably recognize me.” It became necessary for Count von Hillern actually to wipe away certain flecks of foam from his lips, as he ground forth again more varied and awful sentiments in his native tongue. “You are going back to Berlin,” said Coombe, coldly. “If we English were not such fools, you would not be here. You are, of course, not going into that house.” Von Hillern burst into a derisive laugh. “You are going yourself,” he said. “You are a worn-out old _roue_, but you are mad about her yourself in your senile way.” “You should respect my age and decrepitude,” answered Coombe. “A certain pity for my gray hairs would become your youth. Shall we turn here or will you return to your hotel by some other way?” He felt as if the man might a burst a blood vessel if he were obliged to further restrain himself. Von Hillern wheeled at the corner and confronted him. “There will come a day—” he almost choked. “_Der Tag?_ Naturally,” the chill of Coombe’s voice was a sound to drive this particular man at this particular, damnably-thwarted moment, raving mad. And not to be able to go mad! Not to be able! “Swine of a doddering Englishman! Who would envy you—trembling on your lean shanks—whatsoever you can buy for yourself. I spit on you—spit!” “Don’t,” said Coombe. “You are sputtering to such an extent that you really _are_, you know.” Von Hillern whirled round the corner. Coombe, left alone, stood still a moment.