“Of course they’ll have escorts,” Rodwell remarked, making a mental note of that most important information.
“As far as Gibraltar.”
“Not farther? Aren’t you afraid of German submarines?”
“Not after they have passed the Straits. The drafts we are sending out this week are the most important we have yet despatched. The American liners Ellenborough and Desborough are also taking out troops to Egypt to-morrow.”
“From Plymouth, I suppose?”
“Yes. All the drafts for Egypt and Gallipoli are going via Plymouth in future,” was Trustram’s innocent reply.
Those few unguarded words might cost the British Empire several thousand officers and men, yet it seemed as though Trustram never dreamed the true character of the unscrupulous spy with whom he was seated, or the fact that the woman Kirby—whom he had never seen—was seated in an adjoining room, patiently awaiting his departure.
What, indeed, would Charles Trustram have thought had he known the true import of that vital information which he had imparted to his friend, under the pledge of confidence. The bombardment of Scarborough, Hartlepool and Whitby had been directly due to what he had divulged, though he was in ignorance of the truth. More than once, however, he had reflected upon it and wondered.
Yet after all he had dismissed such suspicion as utterly absurd. To suspect Lewin Rodwell of any dealings with the enemy was utterly ridiculous. No finer nor truer Englishman had ever breathed. The very thought of such a thing caused him to ridicule himself.
He rose at half-past eleven, and, warmly shaking his friend’s hand, asked: