The Admiralty inspector had arrived three weeks before he was due.
"Confound the fellow!" ejaculated Pengelly. "What's to be done now?"
The spasm of rage evident in Trevorrick's face had passed. He was smiling grimly.
"Make yourself scarce," he ordered. "I'll deal with him."
Pengelly knew that tone. He went.
"Stand by when I call you," called out his partner.
Left alone, Trevorrick preened himself and stood up to wait the uninvited visitor.
Briskly the little man came into the office. The two shook hands—Trevorrick cool and collected, towering a good seven inches over the self-important little Chamfer. A hawk confronting a cock-sparrow would have been an apt simile.
"This is an unexpected visit, Mr. Trevorrick," began the inspector. "We officials like to have our little jokes, eh, what? Take you on the hop, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Not my fault, though. Another Admiralty minute—confound 'em. I've got to send in a report upon the condition of R 81's Diesel engines. If disposed of, I must have the name and address of the purchaser."
Trevorrick realised that he was in a fix. He could neither produce the machinery (unless he gave the show away by taking Chamfer on board the Alerte) nor could he offer his sales book for inspection, since there was no record of the engines being sold.