Cawdor moved his place and sat between the men. He laid a hand upon Marnstam’s shoulder—another on Rounceby’s knee.
“My dear friends,” he said, impressively, “if you could have built a model, or conducted these negotiations in the usual way, you might have asked a million. As it is, I think I am the only man in England who could have dealt with this matter—so satisfactorily.”
Rounceby glanced suspiciously at the young man to whom Miss Brown was still devoting the whole of her attention.
“Why don’t he come out and talk like a man?” he asked. “What’s the idea of his sitting over there with his back to us?”
“I want him never to see your faces—to deal only with me,” Cawdor explained. “Remember that he is in an official position. The money he is going to part with is secret service money.”
The two men were beginning to be more reassured. Rounceby slowly produced a roll of oilskin from his pocket.
“He’ll look at them as he sits there,” he insisted. “There must be no copying or making notes, mind.”
Cawdor smiled in a superior fashion.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “you are dealing with the emissary of a government—not one of your own sort.”
Rounceby glanced at his companion, who nodded. Then he handed over the plans.