“Pray make use of my house as your own, sir,” he said gravely. “From what you leave unsaid, I gather that things are more serious than the papers would have us believe. Under those circumstances, I need not assure you that any help we can render is entirely yours.”
Mr. Fentolin left the room. Lieutenant Godfrey was already attacking his breakfast. Gerald leaned towards him eagerly.
“Is there really going to be war?” he demanded.
“Ask those chaps at The Hague,” Lieutenant Godfrey answered. “Doing their best to freeze us out, or something. All I know is, if there’s going to be fighting, we are ready for them. By-the-by, what have you got wireless telegraphy for here, anyway?”
“It’s a fad of my uncle’s,” Gerald replied. “Since his accident he amuses himself in all sorts of queer ways.”
Lieutenant Godfrey nodded.
“Poor fellow!” he said. “I heard he was a cripple, or something of the sort. Forgive my asking, but—you people are English, aren’t you?”
“Rather!” Gerald answered. “The Fentolins have lived here for hundreds of years. Why do you ask that?”
Lieutenant Godfrey hesitated. He looked, for the moment, scarcely at his ease.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “The old man was very anxious I should find out. You see, a lot of information seems to have got over on the other side, and we couldn’t think where it had leaked out, except through your wireless. However, that isn’t likely, of course, unless you’ve got one of these beastly Germans in your receiving-room. Now if I can borrow a cigarette, a cigar, or a pipe of tobacco—any mortal thing to smoke—I’ll be off, if I may. The old man turned me out at an unearthly hour this morning, and in Sheringham all the shops were closed. Steady on, young fellow,” he laughed, as Gerald filled his pockets with cigarettes. “Well, here’s good morning to you, Miss Fentolin. Good morning, sir. How long ought it to take me to get to Sheringham?”