Immediately I was in the street I became aware—you know how one does?—that the Japanese was right, and Plymouth was in a ferment. London is too vast for anything but a national calamity to make any alteration in the outward appearance of things, and even then it takes a sharp eye and a man well versed in the psychology of crowds to detect anything unusual. Not so a big provincial town.
As I walked along the classic façade of the theatre and turned the corner to the main entrance of the hotel, I saw one thought on every face and heard one single topic of discussion. The streets, always so gay and cheerful with military and naval uniforms, seemed more crowded than their wont, and there was a definite electricity in the air. I know that I felt stimulated, encouraged to persist, and as I ascended the massive steps of the hotel, my clean-shaven lips smiled to think with what interest I should be regarded if anyone had but an inkling of whom I was and upon what mission.
And then I had a shock.
Standing in the big lounge-hall, and talking to a man in a black morning-coat and a silk hat, was my second in command—Muir Lockhart, Assistant Commissioner of Air Police! He was in uniform, a special uniform that we both wore upon ceremonial occasions only.
"Yes," he was saying, "I'm down here representing the Chief."
I dared not stay to listen, but I walked towards them as slowly as I could. Muir Lockhart has a somewhat high, penetrating voice.
"When did you come down?" asked the other man.
"Arrived half an hour ago, flew down from Whitehall this morning," said Muir Lockhart.
"Then Sir John Custance isn't coming?"