The little man, who had arrived at the final stage of his luncheon, helped himself to another pat of butter.
'You don't believe me, of course,' he said, 'yet it happens that I am speaking the truth. You are thinking, I guess, that I am a pitifully insignificant little unit in this great city, in this raging world. Yet I have spoken the solid truth. I can stop the war, and, if you like, you can help me.'
Lavendale withdrew his eyes from his new acquaintance's face for a moment and glanced towards the girl. Something that was almost a smile of mutual understanding flashed between them. Doubtless she had overheard some part of their conversation. Lavendale raised his voice a little in order that she might hear more. He felt a thrill of pleasure at the thought that they were establishing a mutual confidence.
'I'll help, of course,' he promised. 'In what direction are your efforts to be made?'
The little man paused in the act of drinking a glass of water, squinted at his questioner, and set the tumbler down empty.
'Wondering what sort of a crank you've got hold of, eh?'
Lavendale began to be impressed. The little man did not look in the least like a lunatic.
'Well, it's rather a sweeping proposition, yours,' Lavendale remarked.
'Everything in the world,' the other reminded him didactically, 'was impossible before it was done. Your help needn't be very strenuous. I guess there's some sort of headquarters in London from which this war is run, eh?'
'There's the War Office,' Lavendale explained.