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 document. 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.
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