"Just so," the poet murmured, as they paused at the corner of the street. "So long!"
Jack Lovejoy stepped into a taxi and was driven away westwards.
Cresswell crossed the road, turned into Whitehall, made his way into a block of public buildings, and after half an hour's delay was shown into the presence of an important-looking gentleman, who bade him take a seat and peered at him doubtfully over the top of his eyeglasses.
"Sir Lionel," his visitor began, "I have come to you because I have some information which should be exceedingly valuable to the home branch of the Secret Service."
"Young man," the official replied, "you are the fifteenth caller within the last few hours who has brought me information guaranteed to save the Empire."
"Lucky number, the fifteenth," the poet remarked cheerfully. "Do you happen to know Mrs. Abrahams of Northumberland Court?"
"I know her slightly," Sir Lionel admitted. "She is a friend of several members of the Cabinet."
"Why isn't she interned?" Cresswell demanded. "She is a German."
"Her husband was born in England."
"But she is a red-hot German, all the same," the young man persisted. "I have been making enquiries about her myself and I find that for years before the war she was doing nothing but run down the culture and customs of this country as compared with Germany."