The young lieutenant flushed angrily.

"If you prefer my room to my company ... by all means," he retorted
gruffly, "but I think, in the circumstances, that I shall go to bed."

And he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, shutting the door
with rather more force than was necessary, I thought.

Clubfoot sighed.

"Ach! youth! youth!" he cried, "the same impetuous youth that is at
this very moment hacking out for Germany a world empire amidst the
nations in arms. A wonderful race, a race of giants, our German youth,
Herr Doktor ... the mainspring of our great German machine--as they find
who resist it. A glass of wine!"

The man's speech and manner boded ill for me, I felt. I would have
infinitely preferred violent language and open threats to the subtle
menace that lay concealed beneath all this suavity.

"You smoke?" queried Clubfoot. "No!"--he held up his hand to stop me as
I was reaching for my cigarette case, "you shall have a cigar--not one
of our poor German Hamburgers, but a fine Havana cigar given me by a
member of the English Privy Council. You stare! Aha! I repeat, by a
member of the English Privy Council, to me, the Boche, the barbarian,
the Hun! No hole and corner work for the old doctor. _Der Stelze_ may be
lame, Clubfoot may be past his work, but when he travels _en mission_,
he travels _en prince_, the man of wealth and substance. There is none
too high to do him honour, to listen to his views on poor, misguided
Germany, the land of thinkers sold into bondage to the militarists! Bah!