Warner seated himself, glanced over the inky little provincial newspaper, then laid it aside. There was in its columns nothing definite concerning the threatened rupture of the peace of Europe.
"Halkett," he said almost solemnly, "this crime with which they say our civilization is menaced can never be consummated. There will be no World War, because the world dares not acquiesce in such an outrage. The eleventh hour has struck, I know; but salvation exists only because there is a twelfth hour on the dial; otherwise the preordained end of everything would be hell."
Halkett smiled slightly.
"I've just had another letter," he said. "I'm likely to remain here for a few days more.... Which means only one thing."
"What does it mean?"
"War."
Warner smiled incredulously.
"Anyway, there will be one compensation for the general smash if you remain here," he said gayly.
"You're very good to take it that way.... You and I—and to hell with the Deluge!" But his face sobered while the jest was spoken; he leaned rather wearily on the iron table and rested his forehead in one hand. "I wish I knew what has happened to Reginald Gray," he repeated.
"What is it that worries you about your friend Gray?"