“The fast cruiser squadron,” he observed. “Hm! Three new ships we haven't any note of. No transports, then, Horridge?'”
“Not a sign of one, sir,” was the reply. “They're after a bombardment.”
He rose to his feet, walked to a giant map of England, and touched a certain port on the east coast. Sir Henry's eyes glistened.
“You're sure?”
“It is a certainty,” Horridge replied. “I've been on three of those ships. I've dined with four of the officers. They're under sealed orders, and the crew believes that they're going to escort out half a dozen commerce destroyers. But I have the truth. That's their objective,” Horridge repeated, touching once more the spot upon the map, “and they are waiting just for one thing.”
Sir Henry smiled thoughtfully.
“I know what they're waiting for,” he said. “Perhaps if they'd a Herr Horridge to send over here for it, they'd have got it before now. As it is—well, I'm not sure,” he went on. “It seems a pity to disappoint them, doesn't it? I'd love to give them a run for their money.”
Horridge smiled faintly. He knew a good deal about his companion.
“They're spoiling for it, sir,” he admitted. Sir Henry spoke down a telephone and a few minutes later Ensol reappeared.
“Find Mr. Horridge a comfortable room,” his chief directed, “and one of our confidential typists. You can make out your report at your leisure,” he went on. “Come in and see me when it's all finished.”