“Well, they’ll have to wait, my dear Molly. If I can’t get it till to-morrow—I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, what’s the good of explaining? Heinrich has gone off down to Brighton with a little friend of his—that’s all. He’s motored her down to the Metropole, and won’t be back till to-morrow. How, in Heaven’s name, can I help it?”
“I don’t suppose you can, my dear boy,” laughed the big, overbearing woman, who held the son of the “naturalised” German financier in the grip of her white, bejewelled fingers. “But, all the same, we have both to remember our duty to the Fatherland. We are at war.”
“True! And haven’t I helped the Fatherland? Was it not from information given by me that you knew the truth of the blowing up of the battleship Bulwark off Sheerness, and of the loss of the Formidable on New Year’s day? Have I and my friends in Jermyn Street been inactive?”
“No, you haven’t. Our dear Fatherland owes you and your friends a deep debt of gratitude. But—Well, I tell you, I’m annoyed because my plans have been upset by your failure to-day.”
“Rodwell’s plans, you mean! Not yours!” cried the young fellow, his jealousy apparent.
“No, not at all. I don’t see why you should so constantly refer to Mr Rodwell. He is our superior, as you know, and in its wisdom Number Seventy has placed him in supreme command.”
“Then why do you complain of my failure?” protested the young man viciously, placing his cigarette-end in the silver ash-tray.
“I don’t. I only tell you that it has upset my personal plans. I had hoped to get away down to Torquay to-morrow. I must have a change. I’m run down.”