"We have been a little late in supervising her letters," said Dacent Smith, looking across at Captain X. "However," he said suddenly, turning the conversation, "that is a matter outside Treves's duties. I have other and more important work for both of you. This afternoon," he went on, "I have submitted a number of reports to the War Council, showing that certain of our defences are in a sensitive condition. Something is occurring, and news is leaking out at a serious rate." He was speaking particularly to John. But it was evident that he wished Captain X. to listen to the conversation. "There is a leakage of news from certain fortified zones on the South Coast. In the case of some of the lesser forts it matters not a brass farthing what the enemy discovers, but at other places—well," he continued, "it has been decided this afternoon that a department is to direct its special attention to the South Coast. Both of you gentlemen will resume uniform almost at once. You will like that, eh, Treves?"
"Very much indeed, sir."
"The War Council," went on Dacent Smith, "was inclined to treat my fears a little lightly, but I am sure I am right. There are secret operations preparing against us on the South Coast, which are of a greater magnitude than anything that has yet been attempted by German espionage. I want you"—he suddenly rose and took John's hand in his—"I want you, Treves, to put everything into this—all your shrewdness and all your tact. You will need every quality of nerve and mind in the work I am going to entrust to you. And believe me," he said, lowering his voice a little, "matters are very serious indeed. We are out against a secret enemy, who has of late increased his power amazingly. There is some one—a new power—directing German espionage in this country, which is a real menace to us. Up to now we have done very well, but at present, I will quite frankly admit to you, our position is delicate in the extreme. I dislike preaching," he concluded in a lighter tone, "but I think you know what I mean."
John, who had gripped his hand cordially, answered simply, "Yes, sir; I think I appreciate the danger."
The clock on the little mantelshelf chimed the half-hour. Grew knocked at the door.
"Dinner's ready," exclaimed Dacent Smith. "Come this way, and I'll show you how a miserable old bachelor lives."
CHAPTER XII
On the Saturday following John's first experience of his Chief's excellent bachelor cuisine, two men sat in a little, barely furnished room, four hundred feet above the sea. There was no view from the single window of the little apartment, the one-story building of which it formed a part was deeply embedded and concealed between high grass-covered mounds. Both men were beyond middle age, one of them, in fact, wearing the gold stripes of a naval commander, was over sixty years of age, a trim-bearded, well-preserved officer, drawn for war service from the reserve.
Lieutenant-Commander Grieves was chief naval officer attached to the fort. His companion, Colonel Hobin, was ten years his junior—a sharp, nervous, over-strung little man. Hobin held the reputation of a first-class officer; he knew every yard of Heatherpoint Fort, which was his present charge. His big guns were as children to him, and in regard to his subordinates he was a strict disciplinarian, with a reputation for fairness both to officers and to men.
At the present moment he was consuming marmalade, which he took from its jar with a dessert-spoon and spread on thick bread and butter. There were none of the refinements of home in the mess-room at Heatherpoint. A tablecloth existed, and a limited number of knives, forks, and spoons. The chef of the fort was a gloomy looking individual who had joined up at Liverpool and plain and good was his motto.