"I'm afraid——" began the man.
"Never mind what you're afraid of," said John Dene, "just you take my name up to the First Lord. Here, I'll write it down." Seizing a pen he wrote his name, "John Dene of Toronto," and then underneath, "I've come three thousand miles to tell you something; perhaps it's worth three minutes of your time to listen."
"There, take that up and I'll wait," he said.
The attendant read the message, then beckoning to another frock-coated servitor, he handed him the paper, at the same time whispering some instructions. John Dene looked about him with interest. He was frankly disappointed. He had conceived the administrative buildings of the greatest navy in the world as something grand and impressive; yet here was the British Admiralty with an entrance that would compare unfavourably with a second-rate hotel in Toronto.
He turned suddenly and almost ran into a shifty-eyed little man in a grey tweed suit, who had entered the Admiralty a moment after him. The man apologised profusely as John Dene eyed him grimly. He had become aware of the man's interest in his colloquy with the attendant, and of the way in which he had endeavoured to catch sight of what was written on the slip of paper.
John Dene proceeded to stride up and down with short, jerky steps, twirling his unlit cigar round in his mouth.
"Excuse me, sir," said the attendant, approaching, "but smoking is not permitted."
"That so?" remarked John Dene without interest, as he continued to roll his cigar in his mouth.
"Your cigar, sir," continued the man.
"It's out." John Dene still continued to look about him.