A brief cloud passed over the American’s countenance, though it lasted but a moment. “These are… uh, difficult and… occasionally troublesome times, Herr von Dortmann,” he replied, casting an unconscious glance at one of the prominently placed Nazi flags that stood at each side of the entryway into the house as twin reminders of the times. “But then the life of a diplomat in a foreign capital is always one fraught with the unexpected and the perilous, you know!” he added.

He attempted a laugh. It was not as light in tone as that of the society ladies all around them. His laugh and the glance at the flag that preceded it were not lost on the brother of the host.

“I think I know what you mean,” said Dortmann. “Please, Mr. Ambassador, you do not have to guard your words with me. I am not a Nazi, and I have few sympathies with them.”

“Then in a setting such as this, Herr von Dortmann,” said the other, keeping his voice low, “it seems that prudence would suggest that you do not advertise the fact.”

“I’m sure you are right. I am learning that I must choose my words carefully.”

The other did not speak. In truth, Thaddeus McCallum was not the ambassador, but the assistant ambassador to Germany from the United States, and he was one who knew well when to hold his tongue. His wife was dead. He had lived in Berlin with his one son for the past four years.

“Ah, here’s my son—Matthew,” he said, turning and drawing in a nice-looking young man of seventeen who was sauntering toward the conversation, several items from one of the food trays in hand. “Matthew, I’d like you to meet Herr von Dortmann.”

“It is nice to meet you, sir,” said the young man, offering his available hand.

“The pleasure is mine, young McCallum,” replied Dortmann. “You seem to be raising another young diplomat to follow in your footsteps,” he added to the boy’s father with a smile. “My daughter—” he said, glancing around, “my daughter is here someplace. She’s about your age, I would think, Matthew—oh yes, there she is with her uncle. Neither of you go away—I’d like you both to meet her.”

Dortmann turned and hastily bumped his way through Otto’s well-dressed and highly placed guests. Matthew busied himself with the contents of his hands, while his father shook hands with several nearby acquaintances, including the German ambassador to Washington, who was home for a month.

In a minute or two, the baron returned with a young lady on his arm who was nearly the prettiest girl Matthew had ever seen.

“Mr. McCallum… Matthew,” said Dortmann, beaming with pleasure and obvious pride, “may I present my daughter, Sabina.”

“Fräulein von Dortmann,” began the assistant ambassador. “Ich bin—”

The baron interrupted with a laugh.