"I am glad," observed the Prince with some acerbity. "You will understand then why I can give you only an hour."
He had no desire to add to his visitor's obvious ill-humor. And there were other reasons for his attitude than the mere fear of his power. He desired this man's personal favor. When war broke out in 1914, before the Prince had risen to his present power, he, Von Salzinger, had been brought into contact with his daughter Valita von Hertzwohl in the work of the Secret Service. It had fallen to his lot to endeavor to utilize her in his country's service. That his efforts had failed was not his only disaster, for, failing to enlist her coöperation, he had achieved her displeasure with himself. And her displeasure had disturbed him more than the other. He had fallen a victim to her charms in a manner which made her displeasure something of a tragedy to his vanity. But he was as vain as he was persevering, and with him effort was a continuous process, and not spasmodic.
The Prince hurried him through the wilderness of industry, and the haughty military governor lost much of his dignity in the scurry, and in his effort to pay deferential attention to his visitor's incessant complaint. An overwhelming clanging of machinery, intensified by the dull thunderous boom of adjacent steam hammers, and the machine-gun rattle of the riveting hammers, made talk almost impossible.
Herr von Bersac no longer displayed the least interest in his companions. Since he had dropped behind them, and was safe from Von Salzinger's observation, the dreaming had passed out of his dark eyes. They were alight with a keen interest, an interest almost excited, as the wonders of the place revealed themselves to him. But the works and their busy life had less effect than other things. His whole mind seemed to be absorbed in the direction of the water, and the numberless naval craft lying at their moorings. And out of all these his searching eyes selected one type, a type he could not miss, a type which seemed to be prevailing.
One of them lay so near inshore that he could observe its every detail of outward construction. It was a curious, ugly vessel of strangely vicious type. He recognized it at once as of the submersible pattern of the vessel he had arrived at Borga in. But it was so huge. It was heavily armored, as it lay there in light draught, high out of water, and on its deck, in place of the simple conning-tower and surmounting periscope, there was a central armored turret, while, fore and aft of this, two other turrets bristled, each with a pair of 12-inch guns. He had no time for a closer inspection as he was hurried along, but he made a mental note that the vessel was a submarine dreadnought, and that there were nearly fifty other such vessels lying about at their moorings.