“About forty minutes,” Gerald told him, “if your car’s any good at all.”
“It isn’t much,” was the somewhat dubious reply. “However, we’ll shove along. You in the Service?” he enquired, as they walked down the hall together.
“Hope I shall be before long,” Gerald answered. “I’m going into the army, though.”
“Have to hurry up, won’t you?”
Gerald sighed.
“It’s a little difficult for me. Here’s your car. Good luck to you!”
“My excuses to Mr. Fentolin,” Lieutenant Godfrey shouted, “and many thanks.”
He jumped into the automobile and was soon on his way back. Gerald watched him until he was nearly out of sight. On the knoll, two of the wireless operators were already at work. Mr. Fentolin sat in his chair below, watching. The blue sparks were flashing. A message was just being delivered. Presently Mr. Fentolin turned his chair, and with Meekins by his side, made his way back to the house. He passed along the hall and into his study. Gerald, who was on his way to the dining-room, heard the ring of the telephone bell and the call for the trunk special line. He hesitated for a moment. Then he made his way slowly down towards the study and stood outside the door, listening. In a moment he heard Mr. Fentolin’s clear voice, very low yet very penetrating.
“The Mediterranean Fleet will be forty-seven hours before it comes together,” was the message he heard. “The Channel Fleet will manoeuvre off Sheerness, waiting for it. The North Sea Fleet is seventeen units under nominal strength.”
Gerald turned the handle of the door slowly and entered. Mr. Fentolin was just replacing the receiver on its stand. He looked up at his nephew, and his eyebrows came together.