“Therefore,” Mortimer resumed, “our former activities on the coast will practically be paralyzed. We shall have to confine our operations to London while Max and Mr. Behrend here will be entrusted with the task of getting the news out to our submarines.”
No. 13 broke in excitedly.
“Vork in London, vork in London!” he cried. “It is too dangerous, my vriend. Vot do I know of London? Portsmouth” (he called it Portsmouse), “Sout’ampton, the Isle of Vight... good... it is my province. But, London... it is senseless!”
Mortimer turned his gig-lamps on the interrupter.
“You will take your orders from me as before,” he said quietly.
Behrend adjusted his pince-nez.
“No. 13 is perfectly right,” he remarked, “he knows his territory, and he should be allowed to work there.”
“You, too,” Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before, “will take your orders from me!”
With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out of his eyes.
“Maybe,” he replied, “but only as long as I feel sure that your orders are worth following.