His salutation pleased Loder. With a nod of acquiescence he crossed the office to the brisk fire that burned in, the grate.
For a minute or two Lakely worked steadily, occasionally breaking the quiet by an unintelligible remark or a vigorous stroke of his pencil. At last he dropped the paper with a gesture of satisfaction and leaned back in his chair.
“Well,” he said, “what d'you think of this? How's this for a complication?”
Loder turned round. “I think,” he said, quietly, “that we can't overestimate it.”
Lakely laughed and took a long pull at his cigar. “And we mustn't be afraid to let the Sefborough crowd know it, eh?” He waved his hand to the poster of the first edition that hung before his desk.
Loder, following his glance, smiled.
Lakely laughed again. “They might have known it all along, if they'd cared to deduce,” he said. “Did they really believe that Russia was going to sit calmly looking across the Heri-Rud while the Shah played at mobilizing? But what became of you last night? We had a regular prophesying of the whole business at Bramfell's; the great Fraide looked in for five minutes. I went on with him to the club afterwards and was there when the news came in. 'Twas a great night!”
Loder's face lighted up. “I can imagine it,” he said, with an unusual touch of warmth.
Lakely watched him intently for a moment. Then with a quick action he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.
“It's going to be something more than imagination for you, Chilcote,” he said, impressively. “It's going to be solid earnest!” He spoke rapidly and with rather more than his usual shrewd decisiveness; then he paused to see the effect of his announcement.