Bedells devoted himself to the telephone. Mr. Hebblethwaite munched a biscuit and sipped his sherry. Presently the latter laid down the telephone and reported success.
"Mr. Spencer Wyatt was on his way to a city dinner, sir," he announced.
"They caught him in the hall and he will call here."
Mr. Hebblethwaite nodded. "See that he is sent up directly he comes."
In less than five minutes Mr. Spencer Wyatt was ushered in. He was wearing the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet—a tall, broad-shouldered man, fair complexioned, and with the bearing of a sailor.
"Hullo, Hebblethwaite, what's wrong?" he asked. "Your message just caught me. I am dining with the worshipful tanners—turtle soup and all the rest of it. Don't let me miss more than I can help."
Mr. Hebblethwaite walked to the door to be sure that it was closed and came back again.
"Look here, Wyatt," he exclaimed, "what the devil have you been up to?"
Wyatt whistled softly. A light broke across his face.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"You know perfectly well what I mean," Hebblethwaite continued. "Five weeks ago we had it all out at a Cabinet meeting. You asked Parliament to lay down six battleships, four cruisers, thirty-five submarines, and twelve torpedo boats. You remember what a devil of a row there was. Eventually we compromised for half the number of battleships, two cruisers, and the full amount of small craft."