Grey relaxed a little, hearing this. He had lost all sense of time, and was relieved to discover that his experience had not in fact lasted the eon it had seemed. Trevelyan would have had time to flee, but perhaps not to escape altogether.

Von Namtzen coughed, tactfully.

“It is perhaps not proper for me to inquire—you must forgive me, if so—but if we are to meet Herr Trevelyan shortly, I think perhaps it would be good to understand why he has been seeking to kill you?”

“I don’t know whether he did mean to kill me,” Grey said, accepting another cup of egg white with no more than a faint grimace of distaste. “He may only have meant to incapacitate me for a time, in order to give himself time to escape.”

Von Namtzen nodded, though a slight frown formed itself between his heavy brows.

“We shall hope so,” he said. “Though if so, his judgment is regrettably imprecise. If you think he wishes to escape, will he be still in his house?”

“Perhaps not.” Grey closed his eyes, trying to think. It was difficult; the nausea had passed, but the dizziness showed a tendency to return periodically. He felt as though his brain were an egg, fragile and runny after being dropped from a height. “One can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,” he murmured.

“Oh?” Von Namtzen said politely. “Just so, Major.”

If Trevelyan had meant to kill him, then the man might well be still at his house; for if Grey were dead, Trevelyan would have sufficient leisure to follow his original plans—whatever they were. If not, though, or if he were not sure that the mercuric sulphide would have a fatal effect, he might have fled at once. In which case—

Grey opened his eyes and sat up.

“Tell the coachman to go to Mecklenberg Square,” he said urgently. “If you please.”

Von Namtzen didn’t question this change of plan, but thrust his head out of the window and shouted to the coachman in German. The heavy coach swayed as it slowed, making the turn.

Six eggs later, it drew to a stop before the house of Reinhardt Mayrhofer.

Von Namtzen sprang lithely from the coach, put on his helmet, and strode like bold Achilles toward the door of the house, plumes waving. Grey assumed his own hat, paltry and insignificant as this object seemed by comparison, and followed, holding tightly to Tom Byrd’s arm lest his knees give way.

By the time Grey reached the doorstep, the door was open, and von Namtzen was haranguing the butler in a flood of German menace. Grey’s own German extended to no more than a smattering of parlor conversation, but he was able to follow von Namtzen’s demands that the butler summon Reinhardt Mayrhofer, and do it forthwith, if not sooner.