"Not a syllable."
Madge laughed. "Dear old Daddy!" she said patronizingly. "Well, we know, so you needn't keep it up. And it's an awfully good dodge. Think of the surprise it'll be."
"It would be a surprise, right enough," her father admitted.
"You see," Bobby continued, to enlighten his mama, "the North Sea's full of mines, so they've shipped the Russian troops from Archangel, landed 'em in Scotland, and they're rushing 'em through England to the front."
Whether Sir William had any knowledge of this spirited proceeding or not, Bobby had plenty. He'd collected impressions on the journey.
Sir William was occupied in paying facetious tribute to Miss Greta for her manipulation of beds and arm-chairs. "Eh? what?" he interrupted himself to say to a footman whom he discovered unexpectedly behind the barrier of the reading-desk. "Didn't you hear? Tea for these ladies."
"Beg pardon, Sir William, but there's an inspector of police—"
"Inspector! What's he want now?"
"He—a—well, sir, he'd like to speak to you for a moment, sir."
Sir William rose rather testily and went out. He took the precaution to turn back and shut the door, after the footman had followed him across the threshold.