"Well," answered Morden, "old Brailton's the startling image of Dickie Hafton. You'll like him. He goes down."
"All right," said the Home Secretary, hugely satisfied. "That's settled! I'm off; I leave it to you to make arrangements. The six-thirty."
But to make his chief quite at ease, Morden whispered something in his ear.
"Really?" said the Home Secretary, as he struggled into his coat—and he said it very loudly, so that everyone could hear it in the next room, to Morden's horror. "Not old Dickie's son? There wouldn't be time for it!"
Morden nodded mysteriously, and whispered again: "Yes, there is! He was only eighteen.... It was the housemaid at his grandmother's." And the Home Secretary went out bemused and marvelling at the strange revelations of this pur world.
[CHAPTER EIGHT]
Many of our most important modern inventions have been forestalled by the Chinese, for whom we should have the greater regard in that they are not Christians. Gunpowder, False Money, the art of Printing, Diplomacy, Propaganda, Prison Fortunes, Taximeters and the Strike—all these are of the extreme Orient. But what have I to do with all these? It is of the Mariner's Compass that I sing—which also was first spotted by the Chink.
Now of the various forms of Mariner's Compass there is one with which some few of my readers may be acquainted. It is used in certain scientific experiments which have nothing to do with pointing to the North, but with the measurement of delicate electrical hints. The needle swings on a jewelled pivot, very nicely balanced, encased in a small round box about an inch across, covered in with glass so that no dust can affect the very sensitive affair; and at the side there is a little stud on a spring which you press with your finger when you want to fix and register the pointing of the needle. So long as you press the stud the needle stands firm. When you release the stud the needle trembles again.
All very interesting. But what of it?