Part 9 (1/2)

I gave orders for my boy to have me dressed by ten o'clock. I decided to take a nap, for I knew that midnight interviews with the gentleman at the Wilhelmstra.s.se often led to some mighty unexpected and protracted traveling. Before going to sleep, however, I went over the European situation. What had loomed big? I hoped it was something big, for while a Secret Service agent doesn't get blase, he likes to work when thrones or the boundaries of empires are involved.

I reflected that June--it was in 1911--had been a decidedly strenuous month for more than one cabinet in Europe. Germany and France were snapping and snarling. France was going around with its chest stuck out; its att.i.tude decidedly belligerent. Of course, this c.o.c.kiness was due to the fat fingers of honest John Bull; indeed, England had more than ten fingers in this pie that was baking. I knew that the air was full of Morocco and war talk. I knew that there was a certain faction in Germany that was trying to push the Kaiser into a war.

This clique, composed of army and navy men and the junker, the ”Jingo”

party, the big gun interests, backed by public opinion, were trying their utmost to urge war with France. What was the latest at the Wilhelmstra.s.se?

On the stroke of 10.30 I was there. I handed my number to the commissaire. This number is important. All German secret agents are known by number, all carry little cards and a photograph of mine is published between these covers.

Presently the commissaire returned and showed me into the chambers of Graf von Wedel, Privy Councilor to the German Emperor. With another man in evening dress, I was told to wait in an antechamber. We bowed, and although we took pretty good stock of each other, neither spoke.

It is an unwritten law not to hold unnecessary conversation in the Imperial Secret Service. After about half an hour's wait, we were shown into the Count's private room. This rather astonished me, for the usual rule at the Wilhelmstra.s.se is to interview only one man at a time. Clearly something out of the ordinary was in the air. After the Count greeted us, he inquired if we were known to each other.

Receiving a negative, he introduced us. My companion was a Herr von Senden, ex-officer of the Zweite Gaarde Dragona.

”You will both be taken at half-past eleven to a certain room,” said the Count. ”You will advance to the middle, wheel to your right, face the portiere and stand at attention. You will answer all questions, but make no comments or queries yourself. I need not enjoin you to total silence. You understand?”

We bowed. Just then a gong boomed somewhere below us. A last word from the Count, ”Be ready!” He left us. Reappearing almost immediately, he beckoned us to follow him. We noticed that he seemed even more grave than usual. Down a flight of stairs along a great corridor we made our way, no one speaking a word. At the end of the corridor we saw two sentries; then, a big solid oak door, guarded by an attendant in the livery of the Royal Household. At a sign from the Count we halted; he knocked. The door was opened by an officer of the Erste Gaarde du Corps and, remembering our instructions, we entered and came to attention in the middle of a large room, facing an adjoining chamber, the portieres to which were divided. The room in which we stood was brilliantly lighted, but the other was dark, save for a green glow that came from a shaded reading lamp on a big writing desk. Senden looked at the desk and gave a sort of gasp.

Then I quite understood his emotion. For seated behind that heavy, old-fas.h.i.+oned desk, was Wilhelm II, Emperor of Germany.

We stood at a rigid attention, absolutely silent, for full five minutes. The dimly lit, solitary figure at the desk made no sign but went on writing. I am not a timid or a nervous man, the sort of work I was doing seasons one pretty thoroughly. But this began to get on my nerves. Drawn up in front of the Emperor and waiting, waiting.

Contact with the great ones of the earth, especially through Secret Service, can take some almighty queer turns and a short circuit is confoundedly unhealthy for the negative wire. The more I looked at that silent, lonely figure, War Lord of Europe, the more I began to feel a great big longing for the African Veldt, a thousand miles north of Port Natal, preferably.

Suddenly the Emperor made a move, and there came a sharp, rather high pitched voice, saying, ”Wedel, I will see the doctor.”

At once Herr Senden was shown from the room; obviously the mission, whatever it was, was not for him. I never saw him again.

I was bidden to step to within three paces of the Emperor; the officer who escorted Herr von Senden from the room attempted to return, but was waved out. There were just the three of us: Count Wedel, standing at the corner of the desk on the right, the Kaiser and myself. I had seen the Emperor on many occasions, but never so close before. He appeared to be lost in some doc.u.ment. He looked well but older than any of his portraits. Tanned, almost dark, his rather lean face bore a striking likeness to Frederick the Great; more so than ever, for he is getting gray. I realized that none of his portraits do his eyes justice. Of a bluish-steel gray, they have an icy, impersonal, weighing look in them. It is hard to define. It struck me in that moment that Lord Kitchener, Teufick Pasha, Cecil Rhodes, and Li Hung Chang had exactly those same eyes--the eyes of men who feel it in them to master the world.

Presently His Majesty looked up, and in that same, rather shrill voice, asked:

”How long are you in the Service?”

”Three years, sir.”

”You know Morocco?”

Morocco! So that was it. France and Germany quarreling over the bone, at the point of war! I replied:

”Yes, sir!”

”How long were you in Morocco?” continued the Emperor.

”About twelve months, sir.”

On this he seemed to hesitate. Frankly, I was nervous, so instead of thinking about Morocco, I noticed that the Kaiser wore the undress uniform of a Colonel of the Grenadier Guard with the star of the Order Pour le Merite, dangling from his coat b.u.t.ton. As if making up his mind, he turned again on me those gray eyes.

”You know Kaid MacLean?”

”Yes, sir.”

”How did you get to know him?”