“All the more reason for putting an end to his little game, I should say,” was the cheerful reply.
“And have the whole neighbourhood either laughing at my wife and Miss Fairclough, or talking scandal about them!” Sir Henry retorted.
“I forgot that,” his friend confessed ruminatively. “He's a gentlemanly sort of fellow, from what I hear, but a rotten spy. What do you want done with him?”
“Leave him for me to deal with,” Sir Henry insisted. “I have a little scheme on hand in which he is concerned.”
Rayton scratched his chin doubtfully.
“The fellow may not be such a fool as he seems,” he reminded his friend.
“I won't run any risks,” Sir Henry promised. “I just want him left there, that's all. And look here, Rayton, you know what I want from you. I quite agreed to your proposals as to my anonymity at the time when I was up in Scotland, but the thing's a secret no longer with the people who count. Every one in Germany knows that I'm a mine-field specialist, so I don't see why the dickens I should pose any longer as a sort of half-baked idiot.”
Rayton's eyes twinkled.
“You want to play the Wilson Barrett hero and make a theatrical disclosure of your greatness,” he laughed. “Poor Philippa will fall upon her knees. You will be the hero of the village, which will probably present you with some little article of plate. You've a good time coming, Henry.”
“Talk sense, there's a good fellow,” the other begged. “You go and see the Chief and put it to him. There isn't a single reason why I shouldn't own up now.”