"I had eight hours' warning, madam. The buildings can hold out until Lord Mendip's patrol ships come to the rescue."
"I have called them, madam," old Mendip touched his aerograph. "The Departments will be relieved in an hour."
"These Republicans, Sir Myles—are there many of them?"
"Twenty-eight thousand," answered the Secretary for War. "They're bringing up their batteries, and certainly, madam, we depend on the ships."
The firing slackened now, and Margaret, returning to her seat, questioned Lord Mendip as to affairs in the Midlands. It was true, he admitted, that the Republicans had attacked the power station, and, in the event of its capture, nothing could save the Fleet. But the position was an impregnable fortress, the Channel Squadron had been ordered north, and, indeed, there was nothing to fear.
"Nothing to fear," our Lady muttered to herself. "Nothing to fear. Then, my lord, are these Republicans mad? The Departments impregnable, the power station impregnable, the ships expected; on these conditions the Republicans would never dare to attack. They would not dare to attack unless they knew the Fleet could be destroyed. They expect to capture the power station; they're sure of it—they stake their lives on that. Are you sure, Lord Mendip, of this power station?"
"There's no stronger fortress in Europe."
"My lord, is any fortress proof against treachery? These rebels have staked their lives that the place will be betrayed to them. Call up the officer commanding."
The old lord, with tremulous fingers, signalled by aerograph, but there was no answer. Again and again he called, but there was no answer.
"Madam," he said, "I fear——"