“Damning—I should rather think they were!” answered the man who posed as the great British patriot, and hid his real profession beneath the cloak of finance and platform-speaking. “Two of them were letters which our friend Wentzel, at Aldershot, had received from the Insurance Company at Amsterdam—you know the little institution I mean, in the Kalverstraat. Wentzel is known as ‘Jack,’ and in one of these he is addressed as such. So it came in very useful. The letter enclosed a Bank of England note for ten pounds.”
“The monthly payment of his little annuity—eh?” laughed the woman. “I understand. I had a letter only this morning from the same Insurance Company.”
“Well,” laughed the man, “we all have dealings with the same office. I have had many. The organisation there is perfect—not a soul in the Censor’s department suspects. Truly, one must admire such perfect organisation as that established by ‘Number Seventy.’”
“I do. My husband always declared the arrangements in Holland to be perfect—and they are perfect, even to-day, while we are at war in England—the great Ruler of the Seas, as she calls herself, has already fallen from her height. Britannia’s trident is broken; her rulers know, and quite appreciate the fact. That is why they establish a censorship in order to keep the truth regarding our submarines from what they term the man-in-the-street. As soon as he knows the truth—if he ever will—then Heaven help Great Britain!”
“Meanwhile we are all working towards one end, my dear Molly—victory for our Fatherland!”
“Certainly. We shall conquer. The great Russian steam-roller—as the English journalists once called it—is already rusty at its joints. The rust has eaten into it, and soon its engineers will fail to make it move—except in its reverse-gear,” and the woman laughed. “But tell me,” she added: “of what does the evidence against Sainsbury exactly consist?”
Lewin Rodwell reflected seriously for a few moments. Then he slowly replied:
“Well, there are several things—things which he will have great difficulty in explaining away. I’ve taken good care of that. First, there is the letter from the Dutch Insurance Company sending him a ten-pound note. Secondly, there is a letter from a certain Carl Stefansen, living at Waxholm, on the Baltic, not far from Stockholm, asking for details regarding the movements of certain regiments of Kitchener’s Army, and thanking him for previous reports regarding the camps at Watford, Bramshott and elsewhere. Thirdly, there is an acknowledgment of a report sent to a lock-box address in Sayville, in the United States, on the second of last month, and promising to send, by next post, a remittance of five pounds in payment for it. A letter from Halifax, Nova Scotia, also requests certain information as to whether the line of forts from Guildford to Redhill—part of the ring-defences of London—are yet occupied.”
“Forts? What do you mean?”
“Those forts established years ago along the Surrey hills as part of the scheme for the defence of the Metropolis, but never manned or equipped with guns. They cost very many thousands to construct—but were never fully equipped.”