Of a sudden an idea crossed his mind. He knew a certain man—his intimate friend. Could he help him? Dare he reveal his suspicions without being laughed at for his pains?
Yes. He would risk being derided, because the safety of the Empire was now at stake.
After all, he—Jack Sainsbury—was a well-bred Briton, without a strain of the hated Teutonic blood in his veins.
He would speak the truth, and expose that man who was so cleverly luring the Empire to its doom.
He passed before the little pigeonhole of the booking-office and took his ticket—an action which was destined to have a greater bearing upon our national defence than any person even with knowledge of the facts could ever dream.
Chapter Three.
The House in Wimpole Street.
Just before eleven o’clock that night Jack Sainsbury stopped at a large, rather severe house half-way up Wimpole Street—a house the door of which could be seen in the daytime to be painted a royal blue, thus distinguishing it from its rather dingy green-painted neighbours.