“You've heard about the Elston, I suppose?”
“Yes. They got her. I knew they would. That was the greatest tip we've ever had. Our report is that not one of the big bugs on board was saved. A number of the crew got off in boats, but they had to hurry. She went down in eight minutes. They made a good job of it, bless 'em. No wonder the night wind weeps! Now, we'll see what old England has to say for the invincibility of her fleet, and what she 'll say to the United States for letting the cat out of the bag.” He laughed aloud,—for the first time in the memory of Zimmerlein. Several of the men in the drafting-room looked up. They stared unblinkingly at the laugher.
The forenoon wore away. Thorsensel shuttled between the drafting-room and the private office. He no longer laughed. The pleased, confident look had left his eyes; in its stead lurked something that finally developed into real, undisguised anxiety. An atmosphere of restraint settled down like a cloud over the offices. The uneasiness of the two principal figures in the place was acutely infectious.
The report of Peter Hooge, the steward of the Black Downs Country Club, who arrived shortly after noon, neither increased nor lessened the strain. He was unnecessarily alarmed. What if secret service men did visit the club-house and question the employés? That was not an unusual proceeding. They were doing something of the sort all the time. But, said Peter, they obtained a list of all the members and guests of the club present on the premises at the time of the Reynolds explosion. Naturally, said both Zimmerlein and Thorsensel: That was just what they would do. Precious little good it would do them, however.
“I was obliged to show them my passports and papers from the Swiss Government,” said Peter.
“Well, they were all in order, weren't they?”
“Perfectly. That isn't the point. The mere fact that they asked for them proves something, doesn't it?”
“You are too old a bird to be frightened by pop-guns, Hooge,” said Thorsensel, gnawing at his moustache. “These fellows, from what I know of them, couldn't catch the scent of a polecat.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” put in Zimmerlein. “They've landed some pretty big fish.”
“They've landed a pack of blatant asses,” snapped Thorsensel. “Good God, man, you don't put Reistelen and others of his stripe in the class with—well, with a few I could mention, do you? They've only touched the surface, my friend. It is very deep,—very deep indeed—where the big fishes lie. Go back to your work, Hooge,—and don't worry us again with trifles.”