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bring themselves to believe that it was real. The newspapers were determined to find out what

had happened to a leading German-Jewish financier. They met him at the pier, and when he

wouldn't talk they tried everyone who knew him; but in vain.

At Shore Acres, things were going along much as usual. The employees of the estate were

doing the same work for no wages; but with seventeen million unemployed in the country,

they were thankful to be kept alive. As for Irma's friends, they were planning the customary

round of visits to seashore and mountains; those who still had dividends would play host to

those who hadn't, and everybody would get along. There was general agreement that business

was picking up at last, and credit for the boom was given to Roosevelt. Only a few diehards like

Robbie Budd talked about the debts being incurred, and when and how were they going to

be paid. Most people didn't want to pay any debts; they said that was what had got the country

into trouble. The way to get out was to borrow and spend as fast as possible; and one of the

things to spend for was beer. Roosevelt was letting the people buy it instead of having to make

it in their bathtubs.

Robbie came into the city by appointment, and in the office of the Barnes estate, he and Irma

and Lanny sat down to a conference with Uncle Joseph Barnes and the other two trustees.

Robbie had a briefcase full of figures setting forth the condition of Budd Gun makers, a list of

directors pledged to him, the voting shares which he controlled, and those which he could

purchase, with their prices. The trustees presented a list of their poorest-paying shares, and

weighed them in the balance. Under the will the trustees had the right to say no; but they

realized that this was a family matter, and that it would be a distinguished thing to have Irma's

father-in-law become president of a great manufacturing concern. Also, Irma had developed

into a young lady who knew what she wanted, and said it in the style of the days before

parliamentary control of the purse had been established.

"There's no use going into it unless you go heavily enough to win," cautioned Uncle Joseph.

"Of course not," said Irma, promptly. "We have no idea of not winning." L'état, c'est moi!

"If you pay more than the market for Budd stocks, it will mean that you are reducing the

principal of your estate; for we shall have to list them at market value."

"List them any way you please," said Irma. "I want Robbie to be elected."

"Of course," said Mr. Barnes, timidly, "you might make up the principal by reducing your

expenditures for a while."

"All right," assented Her Majesty—"but it will be time enough to do that when you get me a

bit more income."

II

Johannes went to Newcastle to visit the Robbie Budds. The firm of R and R had many

problems to talk out, and when Irma and Lanny arrived the pair were deeply buried in business.

Robbie considered Johannes the best salesman he had ever known, bar none, and was

determined to make a place for him with Budd's. If Robbie won out, Johannes would become

European representative; if Robbie lost, Johannes would become Robbie's assistant on some sort

of share basis. Robbie had a contract with the company which still had nearly three years to

run and entitled him to commissions on all sales made in his territory. These matters Robbie

put before his friend without reserve; he did it for medico-psychological reasons as well as

financial—he wanted to get Johannes out of his depression, and the way to do it was to put him

to work.

Robbie added: "Of course, provided there's anything left of business." America was in the

throes of an extraordinary convulsion known as "the New Deal," which Robbie described as

"government by college professors and their graduate students." They were turning the

country upside down under a scheme called "N.R.A." You had to put a "blue eagle" up in your

window and operate under a "code," bossed by an army general who swore like a trooper

and drank like the trooper's horse. New markets for goods were being provided by the simple

process of borrowing money from those who had it and giving it to those who hadn't. One lot

of the unemployed were put to work draining swamps to plant crops, while another lot were

making new swamps for wild ducks. And so on, for as long as Robbie Budd could find anybody to

listen to him.

Everybody in Newcastle was glad to see the young couple again; excepting possibly Uncle

Lawford, who wasn't going to see them. The only place they had met was in church, and Irma

and Lanny were going to play golf or tennis on Sunday mornings—Grandfather being out of

the way. Or was he really out of the way? Apparently he could only get at them if they went to

a medium! Lanny remarked: "I'd like to try the experiment of sleeping in his bed one night and

see if I hear any raps." Irma said: "Oh, what a horrid thought!" She had come to believe in the

spirits about half way. Subtleties about the subconscious mind didn't impress her very much,

because she wasn't sure if she had one.

The usual round of pleasure trips began. They motored to Maine, and then to the

Adirondacks. So many people wanted to see them; Irma's gay and bright young old friends.

They had got used to her husband's eccentricities, and if he wanted to pound the piano while they

played bridge, all right, they would shut the doors between. He didn't talk so "Pink" as he had,

so they decided that he was getting sensible. They played games, they motored and sailed and

swam, they flirted a bit, and some couples quarreled, some traded partners as in one of the

old-fashioned square dances. But they all agreed in letting the older people do the worrying

and the carrying of burdens. "I should worry," —meaning that I won't—and "Let George do it,"

—so ran the formulas. To have plenty of money was the indispensable virtue, and to have to go

to work the one unthinkable calamity. "Oh, Lanny," said Irma, after a visit where an ultra-

smart playwright had entertained them with brilliant conversation—"Oh, Lanny, don't you

think you could get along over here at least part of the time?"

She wanted to add: "Now that you're being more sensible." She didn't really think he had

changed his political convictions, but she found it so much pleasanter when he withheld

them, and if he would go on doing this long enough it might become a habit. When they passed

through New York he didn't visit the Rand School of Social Science, or any of those summer

camps where noisy and mostly Jewish working people swarmed as thick as bees in a hive. He

was afraid these "comrades" might have learned what had been published about him in the Nazi

papers; also that Nazi agents in New York might report him to Göring. He stayed with his wife,

and she did her best to make herself everything that a woman could be to a man.

It worked for nearly a month; until one morning in Shore Acres, just as they were getting

ready for a motor-trip to a "camp" in the Thousand Islands, Lanny was called to the telephone to

receive a cablegram from Cannes, signed Hansi, and reading: "Unsigned unidentifiable letter

postmarked Berlin text Freddi ist in Dachau."

III

Their things were packed and stowed in the car, and the car was waiting in front of the mansion.

Irma was putting the last dab of powder on her nose, and Lanny stood in front of her with a

frown of thought upon his face: "Darling, I don't see how I can possibly take this drive."

She knew him well, after four years of wifehood, and tried not to show her disappointment.

"Just what do you want to do?"

"I want to think about how to help Freddi."

"Do you suppose that letter is from Hugo?"

"I had a clear understanding with him that he was to sign the name Boecklin. I think the

letter must be from one of Freddi's comrades, some one who has learned that we helped

Johannes. Or perhaps some one who has got out of Dachau."

"You don't think it might be a hoax?"

"Who would waste a stamp to play such a trick upon us?"

She couldn't think of any answer. "You're still convinced that Freddi is Göring's prisoner?"

"Certainly, if he's in the concentration camp, Göring knows he's there, and he knew it when

he had Furtwaengler tell me that he couldn't find him. He had him sent a long way from

Berlin, so as to make it harder for us to find out."

"Do you think you can get him away from Göring if Göring doesn't want to let him go?"

"What I think is, there may be a thousand things to think of before we can be sure of the best

course of action."

"It's an awfully nasty job to take on, Lanny."

"I know, darling—but what else can we do? We can't go and enjoy ourselves, play around, and

refuse to think about our friend. Dachau is a place of horror—I doubt if there's any so dreadful

in the world today, unless it's some other of the Nazi camps. It's an old dilapidated barracks,

utterly unfit for habitation, and they've got two or three thousand men jammed in there.

They're not just holding them prisoners—they're doing what Göring told me with his own

mouth, applying modern science to destroying them, body, mind, and soul. They're the best

brains and the finest spirits in Germany, and they're going to be so broken that they can

never do anything against the Nazi regime."

"You really believe that, Lanny?"

"I am as certain of it as I am of anything in human affairs. I've been studying Hitler and his

movement for twelve years, and I really do know something about it."

"There's such an awful lot of lying, Lanny. People go into politics, and they hate their

enemies, and exaggerate and invent things."

"I didn't invent Mein Kampf, nor the Brownshirts, nor the murders they are committing

night after night. They break into people's homes and stab them or shoot them in their beds,

before the eyes of their wives and children; or they drag them off to their barracks and beat

them insensible."

"I've heard those stories until I've been made sick. But there are just as many violent men of

the other side, and there have been provocations over the years. The Reds did the same thing

in Russia, and they tried to do it in Germany—"

"It's not only the Communists who are being tortured, darling; it's pacifists and liberals, even

church people; it's gentle idealists, like Freddi—and surely you know that Freddi wouldn't have

harmed any living creature."

IV

Irma had to put down her powder-puff, but was still sitting on the stool in front of her

dressing-table. She had many things that she had put off saying for a long time; and now,

apparently, was the time to get them off her mind. She began: "You might as well take the

time to understand me, Lanny. If you intend to plunge into a thing like this, you ought to

know how your wife feels about it."

"Of course, dear," he answered, gently. He could pretty well guess what was coming.

"Sit down." And when he obeyed she turned to face him. "Freddi's an idealist, and you're

an idealist. It's a word you're fond of, a very nice word, and you're both lovely fellows, and you

wouldn't hurt anybody or anything on earth. You believe what you want to believe about the

world—which is that other people are like you, good and kind and unselfish—idealists, in short.