Those words he had heard in the boardroom in the City that afternoon had burned themselves deeply into his brain. Lewin Rodwell was, it seemed, a personal friend of Charles Trustram, the well-known and trusted official to whose push-and-go the nation had been so deeply indebted—the man who had transported so many hundreds of thousands of our Expeditionary Force across the Channel, with all their guns, ammunition and equipment, without a single mishap. It was both curious and startling. What could it all mean?
Thomasson again hammered upon the stout old-fashioned door of polished mahogany.
“Speak, sir! Do speak!” he implored. “Are you all right?”
Still there was no reply.
“He may have fainted!” Jack suggested. “Something may have happened to him!”
“I hope not, sir,” replied the man very anxiously. “I’ll just run outside and see whether the window is open. If so, we might get a ladder.”
The man dashed downstairs and out into the street, but a moment later he returned breathlessly, saying—
“No. Both windows are closed, just as I closed them at dusk. And the curtains are drawn; not a chink of light is showing through. All we can do, I fear, is to force the door.”
“You are quite sure he’s in the room?”
“Positive, sir.”