He puzzled for a moment then broke into a fresh grin for a dainty little code had suggested itself. It would be rather amusing to talk to a group of financiers in the language of flowers. A memory of Isabel's last words put the idea into his head when she had given him the dog rose on the evening of his departure.
"It means hope, Tony," and "Hope it is," he had replied.
He turned to the little companion ladder and shouted into the dark beneath.
"Ohe, Jean Prevost, half a minute."
And in answer appeared the head and shoulders of a short, thick-set, twinkly eyed, unshaven man who gruffly demanded "Quoi?"
Jean Prevost, skipper of the "Felice," was not an "oil painting" to look at but he was just as reliable as the craft he commanded. He and Barraclough had had dealings together during the war and they respected each other. If Jean Prevost were proud of anything it was of his acquaintance with Barraclough and the knowledge he esteemed himself to possess of the English tongue.
"Fizz me off a message on the wireless, there's a good soul."
"Hah!"
"Gerard, Regent Street, W. Deliver immediately single dog rose to Lord
Almont Frayne, Park Lane Mansions."
Jean Prevost nodded and repeated the message verbatim.