He listened attentively and did not interrupt until Stanford Beale had finished.
"That's big enough," he said. "I owe you an apology—much as I was interested in Miss Cresswell, I realize that her fate was as nothing beside the greater issue."
"What does it mean?" asked McNorton.
"The Wheat Panic? God knows. It may mean bread at a guinea a pound—it is too early to judge."
The door was opened unceremoniously and a man strode in. McNorton was the first to recognize the intruder and rose to his feet.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you," said Lord Sevington—it was the Foreign Secretary of Great Britain himself. "Well, Beale, the fantastic story you told me seems in a fair way to being realized."
"This is Mr. Kitson," introduced Stanford, and the grey-haired statesman bowed.
"I sent for you, but decided I couldn't wait—so I came myself. Ah, McNorton, what are the chances of catching van Heerden?"
"No man has ever escaped from this country once his identity was established," said the police chief hopefully.
"If we had taken Beale's advice we should have the gentleman under lock and key," said the Foreign Minister, shaking his head. "You probably know that Mr. Beale has been in communication with the Foreign Office for some time?" he said, addressing Kitson.