"Very good, sir;" and the man took his departure.
A minute later the telephone bell rang.
Malcolm Sage took up the receiver. "That you, Smart?" he enquired, "re Z.18, in future transcribe figures in words exactly as spoken, thus double-one-three, one-hundred-and-thirteen, or one-one-three, as the case may be." He jammed the receiver back again on to the rest, and proceeded to gaze fixedly at the finger-nails of his left hand.
A quarter of an hour later Special Service Officer Thompson entered with a long list of figures, which he handed to Malcolm Sage.
"You've hit it, Thompson," said Sage, glancing swiftly down the list.
"Have I, sir?" said Thompson, not quite sure what it was he was supposed to have hit.
"They are——"
At that moment the telephone bell rang. Malcolm Sage put the receiver to his ear.
"Yes, Malcolm Sage, speaking," he said. There was a pause. "Yes." Another pause. "Good, continue to record in that manner;" and once more he replaced the receiver.
"Vanity, Thompson, is at the root of all error."