Naturally, this state of affairs set the whole country by the ears and evoked a panicky condition which was not lessened by the Press’ frothing and screaming.
Thus matters stood on the evening of Wednesday, the twenty-second of May, and thus they still stood on the morning of the twenty-third, when the telephone rang and Dollops rushed into Cleek’s bedroom crying excitedly and disjointedly:
“Mr. Narkom, sir. Ringing up from his own house. Wants you in a hurry. National case, he says, and not a minute to lose.”
Cleek was out of bed and at the instrument in a winking; but he had no more than spoken the customary “Hello!” into the receiver, when the superintendent’s voice cut in cyclonically and swept everything before it in a small tornado of excited words.
“Call of the Country, dear chap!” he cried. “That infernal dockyard business at Portsmouth. Sir Charles Fordeck just sent through a call for you. Rush like hell! Don’t stop for anything! Train it over to Guildford if you have to charter a special. Meet you there—in the Portsmouth Road—with the limousine—at seven-thirty. We’ll show ’em—by God, yes! Good-bye!”
Then “click!” went the instrument as the communication was cut off, and away went Cleek, like a gunshot, on a wild rush for his clothes.
The sun was but just thrusting a crimson arc into view in the transfigured east when he left the house—on a hard run; for part at least of the way must be covered afoot, and the journey was long—but by four o’clock it was almost as bright as midday, and the possibility of securing a conveyance for the rest of the distance was considerably increased by that fact; by five, he had secured one, and by seven he was in the Portsmouth Road at Guildford munching the sandwiches Dollops had thoughtfully slipped into his pocket and keeping a sharp lookout for the coming of the red limousine.
It swung up over the rise of the road and came panting toward him at a nerve-racking pace while it still lacked ten minutes of being the appointed half-hour, and so wild was the speed at which Lennard, in his furious interest, was making it travel that Cleek could think of nothing to which to liken it but a red streak whizzing across a background of leaf-green with splatters of mud flying about it and an owl-eyed demon for pilot.
It pulled up with a jerk when it came abreast of him, but so great was Lennard’s excitement, so deep seated his patriotic interest in the business he had in hand, he seemed to begrudge even the half-minute it took to get his man aboard; and before you could have turned around twice the car was rocketing on again at a demon’s pace.
“Gad! but he’s full of it, the patriotic beggar!” said Cleek with a laugh, as he found himself deposited in Narkom’s lap instead of on the seat beside him, so sudden was the car’s start the instant he was inside. “It might give our German friends pause, don’t you think, Mr. Narkom, if they could get an insight into the spirit of the race as a fighting unit?”