He travelled in consequence leisurely by sea. He started from Alexandria after half the month of June had gone, and he was thus in the Bay of Biscay on that historic morning of June the twenty-eighth, when the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophia Duchess of Hohenberg, were murdered in the streets of Saravejo. London, when he reached it, was a choir of a million voices not yet tuned to the ringing note of one. It was incredible that the storm, foreseen so often over the port wine, should really be bursting at last. Mediation will find a way. Not this time; the moment has been chosen. And what will England do? Ride safe in the calm centre of the hurricane? No ship ever did, and England won't.
A few degenerate ones threw up their hands and cried that all was over—they knew.
Of these a gaunt-visaged man, stubborn and stupid and two generations back a German, held forth in the hall of Hillyard's club.
"German organisation, German thoroughness and German brains—we are no match for them. The country's thick with spies—wonderful men. Where shall we find their equals?"
A sailor slipped across the hall and dropped into a chair by Hillyard's side.
"You take no part in these discussions? The crackling of thorns—what?"
"I have been a long time away."
"Thought so," continued the sailor. "A man was inquiring for you yesterday—a man of the name of Graham."
Hillyard shook his head.
"I don't know him."