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John Dene of Toronto: A Comedy of Whitehall

by Herbert George Jenkins · English · Gutenberg #33277 · 432,196 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: John Dene of Toronto: A Comedy of Whitehall

Author: Herbert George Jenkins


        
Release date: July 27, 2010 [eBook #33277]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Al Haines, from scans obtained from The Internet Archive.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN DENE OF TORONTO: A COMEDY OF WHITEHALL ***




Produced by Al Haines, from scans obtained from The Internet Archive.








JOHN DENE

of TORONTO


A COMEDY OF WHITEHALL


BY

HERBERT JENKINS


AUTHOR OF "BINDLE"




HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED

3 YORK STREET LONDON S.W.1

1920




  A
  HERBERT
  JENKINS'
  BOOK



_Fifth printing_



Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London




  TO
  MY FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE
  CHARLES ASKEW
  WHO HAS BEEN AS STRENUOUS
  AS THE TIMES THEMSELVES
  AND INFINITELY MORE CHEERFUL

  MCMXV-MCMXIX




CONTENTS


CHAP.

     I.  THE COMING OF JOHN DENE
    II.  JOHN DENE'S WAY
   III.  DEPARTMENT Z.
    IV.  GINGERING UP THE ADMIRALTY
     V.  JOHN DENE LEAVES WHITEHALL
    VI.  MR. MONTAGU NAYLOR OF STREATHAM
   VII.  MR. NAYLOR RECEIVES A VISITOR
  VIII.  DOROTHY WEST AT HOME
    IX.  DEPARTMENT Z. AT WORK
     X.  JOHN DENE GOES TO KEW
    XI.  THE STRANGENESS OF JOHN DENE
   XII.  THE _DESTROYER_ READY FOR SEA
  XIII.  THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JOHN DENE
   XIV.  THE HUE AND CRY
    XV.  MR. LLEWELLYN JOHN BECOMES ALARMED
   XVI.  FINLAY'S S.O.S.
  XVII.  MALCOLM SAGE CASTS HIS NET
 XVIII.  THE RETURN OF JOHN DENE
   XIX.  COMMANDER JOHN DENE GOES TO BOURNEMOUTH
    XX.  JOHN DENE'S PROPOSAL
   XXI.  MARJORIE ROGERS PAYS A CALL




WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT

John Dene comes to England with a great invention, and the intention of
gingering-up the Admiralty.  His directness and unconventional methods
bewilder and embarrass the officials at Whitehall, where, according to
him, most of the jobs are held by those "whose great-grandfathers had a
pleasant way of saying how-do-you-do to a prince."

Suddenly John Dene disappears, and the whole civilised world is amazed
at an offer of L20,000 for news of him.  Scotland Yard is disorganised
by tons of letters and thousands of callers.  Questions are asked in
the House, the Government becomes anxious, only Department Z. retains
its equanimity.

By the way, what did happen to John Dene of Toronto?


For list of books by the same author, see page 319.




JOHN DENE OF TORONTO


CHAPTER I

THE COMING OF JOHN DENE

"Straight along, down the steps, bear to the left and you'll find the
Admiralty on the opposite side of the way."

John Dene thanked the policeman, gave the cigar in his mouth a twist
with his tongue, and walked along Lower Regent Street towards Waterloo
Place.

At the bottom of the Duke of York's steps, he crossed the road, turned
to the left and paused.  Nowhere could he see an entrance sufficiently
impressive to suggest the Admiralty.  Just ahead was a dingy and
unpretentious doorway with a policeman standing outside; but that he
decided could not be the entrance to the Admiralty.  As he gazed at it,
a fair-haired girl came out of the doorway and walked towards him.

"Excuse me," said John Dene, lifting his hat, "but is that the
Admiralty you've just come out of?"

There was an almost imperceptible stiffening in the girl's demeanour;
but a glance at the homely figure of John Dene, with its ill-made
clothes, reassured her.

"Yes, that is the Admiralty," she replied gravely in a voice that
caused John Dene momentarily to forget the Admiralty and all its works.

"Much obliged," he said, again lifting his hat as she walked away; but
instead of continuing on his way, John Dene stood watching the girl
until she disappeared up the Duke of York's steps.  Then once more
twirling his cigar in his mouth and hunching his shoulders, he walked
towards the doorway she had indicated.

"This the Admiralty?" he enquired of the policeman.

"Yes, sir," was the reply.  "Did you want to see any one?"

John Dene looked at the man in surprise.

"Why should I be here if I didn't?" he asked.  "I want to see the First
Lord."

The man's manner underwent a change.  "If you'll step inside, sir,
you'll see an attendant."

John Dene stepped inside and repeated his request, this time to a
frock-coated attendant.

"Have you an appointment?" enquired the man.

"No," responded John Dene indifferently.

The attendant hesitated.  It was not customary for unknown callers to
demand to see the First Lord without an appointment.  After a momentary
pause the man indicated a desk on which lay some printed slips.

"Will you please fill in your name, sir, and state your business."

"State my business," exclaimed John Dene, "not on your life."

"I'm afraid----" began the man.

"Never mind what you're afraid of," said John Dene, "just you take my
name up to the First Lord.  Here, I'll write it down."  Seizing a pen
he wrote his name, "John Dene of Toronto," and then underneath, "I've
come three thousand miles to tell you something; perhaps it's worth
three minutes of your time to listen."

"There, take that up and I'll wait," he said.

The attendant read the message, then beckoning to another frock-coated
servitor, he handed him the paper, at the same time whispering some
instructions.  John Dene looked about him with interest.  He was
frankly disappointed.  He had conceived the administrative buildings of
the greatest navy in the world as something grand and impressive; yet
here was the British Admiralty with an entrance that would compare
unfavourably with a second-rate hotel in Toronto.

He turned suddenly and almost ran into a shifty-eyed little man in a
grey tweed suit, who had entered the Admiralty a moment after him.  The
man apologised profusely as John Dene eyed him grimly.  He had become
aware of the man's interest in his colloquy with the attendant, and of
the way in which he had endeavoured to catch sight of what was written
on the slip of paper.

John Dene proceeded to stride up and down with short, jerky steps,
twirling his unlit cigar round in his mouth.

"Excuse me, sir," said the attendant, approaching, "but smoking is not
permitted."

"That so?" remarked John Dene without interest, as he continued to roll
his cigar in his mouth.

"Your cigar, sir," continued the man.

"It's out."  John Dene still continued to look about him.

The attendant retired nonplussed.  The rule specifically referred to
smoking, not to carrying unlit cigars in the mouth.

At the end of five minutes, the attendant who had taken up John Dene's
name returned, and whispered to the doorkeeper.

"If you will follow the attendant, sir, he will take you to see Sir
Lyster's secretary, Mr. Blair."

"Mr.----" began John Dene, then breaking off he followed the man up the
stairs, and along a corridor, at the end of which another frock-coated
man appeared from a room with a small glass door.  He in turn took
charge of the visitor, having received his whispered instructions from
the second attendant.  John Dene was then shown into a large room with
a central table, and requested to take a seat.  He was still engaged in
gazing about him when a door at the further end of the room opened and
there entered a fair man, with an obvious stoop, a monocle, a heavy
drooping moustache, and the nose of a duke in a novelette.

"Mr. John Dene?" he asked, looking at the slip of paper in his hand.

"Sure," was the response, as John Dene continued to twirl the cigar in
his mouth, with him always a sign either of thought or of irritation.

"You wish to see the First Lord?" continued the fair man.  "I am his
secretary.  Will you give me some idea of your business?"

"No, I won't," was the blunt response.

Mr. Blair was momentarily disconcerted by the uncompromising nature of
the retort, but quickly recovered himself.

"I am afraid Sir Lyster is very busy this morning," he said,
diplomatically.  "If you----"

"Look here," interrupted John Dene, "I've come three thousand miles to
tell him something; if he hasn't time to listen, then I'll not waste my
time; but before you decide to send me about my business, you just ring
up the Agent-General for Can'da and ask who John Dene of T'ronto is;
maybe you'll learn something."

"But will you not give me some idea----" began the secretary.

"No, I won't," was the obstinate reply.  "Here," he cried with sudden
inspiration, "give me some paper and a pen, and I'll write a note."

Mr. Blair sighed his relief; he was a man of peace.  He quickly
supplied the caller's demands.  Slowly he indited his letter; then,
taking a case from his pocket, he extracted an envelope which he
enclosed with the letter in another envelope, and finally addressed it
to "The First Lord of the Admiralty."

"Give him this," he said, turning to Mr. Blair, "and say I'm in a
hurry."

Nothing but a long line of ancestors prevented Mr. Blair from gasping.
Instead he took the note with a diplomatic smile.

"You wouldn't do for T'ronto," muttered John Dene as the First Lord's
private secretary left the room.  Two minutes later he returned.

"Sir Lyster will see you, Mr. Dene," he said with a smile.  "Will you
come this way?  I'm sorry if----"

"Don't be sorry," said John Dene patiently; "you're just doing your job
as best you can."

Whilst John Dene was being led by Mr. Blair to the First Lord's private
room, Sir Lyster was re-reading the astonishing note that had been sent
in to him, which ran:

"DEAR SIR,--

"I am John Dene of Toronto, I have come three thousand miles to tell
you how to stop the German U-boats.  If I do not succeed, you can give
the enclosed L50,000 to the Red Cross.

"Yours faithfully,
  "JOHN DENE."


Sir Lyster Grayne was a man for whom tradition had its uses; but he
never allowed it to dictate to him.  The letter that had just been
brought in was, he decided, written by a man of strong individuality,
and the amazing offer it contained, to forfeit fifty thousand pounds,
impressed him.  These were strange and strenuous days, when every
suggestion or invention must be examined and deliberated upon.  Sir
Lyster Grayne prided himself upon his open-mindedness; incidentally he
had a wholesome fear of questions being asked in the House.

As the door opened he rose and held out his hand.  Sir Lyster always
assumed a democratic air as a matter of political expediency.

"Mr. Dene," he murmured, as he motioned his visitor to a seat.

"Pleased to meet you," said John Dene as he shook hands, and then took
the seat indicated.  "Sorry to blow in on you like this," he continued,
"but my business is important, and I've come three thousand miles about
it."

"So I understand," said Sir Lyster quietly.

John Dene looked at him, and in that look summed him up as he had
previously summed up his secretary.  "You wouldn't do for T'ronto," was
his unuttered verdict.  John Dene "placed" a man irrevocably by
determining whether or no he would do for Toronto.

"First of all," said Sir Lyster, "I think I will return this," handing
to John Dene the envelope containing the cheque for fifty thousand
pounds.

"I thought it would tickle you some," he remarked grimly as he replaced
the cheque in his pocket-book; "but I'll cash in if I don't make good,"
he added.  "You know anything about submarines?" he demanded;
directness was John Dene's outstanding characteristic.

"Er----" began the First Lord.

"You don't," announced John Dene with conviction.

"I'm afraid----" began Sir Lyster.

"Then you'd better send for someone who does," was the uncompromising
rejoinder.

Sir Lyster looked at his visitor in surprise, hesitated a moment, then
pressing a button said, as Mr. Blair appeared:

"Will you ask Admiral Heyworth to come here immediately?" Mr. Blair
retired.  "Admiral Heyworth," explained Sir Lyster, "is the Admiralty
authority on submarines."

John Dene nodded.  There was a pause.

"Wouldn't you like to ring up the Agent-General for Can'da and find out
who I am?" suggested John Dene.

"I don't think that is necessary, Mr. Dene," was the reply.  "We will
hear what you have to say first.  Ha, Heyworth!" as the Admiral
entered, "this is Mr. John Dene of Toronto, who has come to tell us
something about a discovery of his."

Admiral Heyworth, a little bald-headed man with beetling brows and a
humorous mouth, took the hand held out to him.

"Pleased to meet you," said John Dene, then without a pause he
continued: "I want your promise that this is all between us three, that
you won't go and breeze it about."  He looked from Sir Lyster to
Admiral Heyworth.  Sir Lyster bowed, Admiral Heyworth said, "Certainly."

"Now," said John Dene, turning to the Admiral, "what's the greatest
difficulty you're up against in submarine warfare?"

"Well," began Admiral Heyworth, "there are several.  For instance----"

"There's only one that matters," broke in John Dene; "your boats are
blind when submerged beyond the depth of their periscopes.  That so?"

The Admiral nodded.

"Well," continued John Dene, "I want you to understand I'm not asking a
red cent from anybody, and I won't accept one.  What I'm going to tell
you about has already cost me well over a million dollars, and if you
look at me you'll see I'm not the man to put a million dollars into
patent fly-catchers, or boots guaranteed to button themselves."

Sir Lyster and the Admiral exchanged puzzled glances, but said nothing.

"Suppose the Germans were able to sink a ship without even showing
their periscopes?"  John Dene looked directly at the Admiral.

"It would place us in a very precarious position," was the grave reply.

"Oh, shucks!" cried John Dene in disgust.  "It would queer the whole
outfit.  You soldiers and sailors can never see beyond your own
particular backyards.  It would mighty soon finish the war."  He almost
shouted the words in the emphasis he gave them.  "It would mean that
troops couldn't be brought from America; it would mean that supplies
couldn't be brought over here.  It would mean good-bye to the whole
sunflower-patch.  Do you get me?"  He looked from Sir Lyster to the
Admiral.

"I think," said Sir Lyster, "that perhaps you exaggerate a lit----"

"I don't," said John Dene.  "I know what I'm talking about.  Now, why
is the submarine blind?  Because," he answered his own question, "no
one has ever overcome the difficulty of the density of water.  I have."

Admiral Heyworth started visibly, and Sir Lyster bent forward eagerly.

"You have!" cried Admiral Heyworth.

"Sure," was the self-complacent reply.  "I've got a boat fitted with an
apparatus that'll sink any ship that comes along, and she needn't show
her periscope to do it either.  What's more, she can see under water.
If I don't deliver the goods"--John Dene rummaged in his pocket once
more and produced the envelope containing the cheque--"here's fifty
thousand pounds you can give to the Red Cross."

Sir Lyster and Admiral Heyworth gazed at each other wordless.  John
Dene sat back in his chair and chewed the end of his cigar.  Sir Lyster
fumbled for his eye-glass, and when he had found it, stuck it in his
eye and gazed at John Dene as if he had been some marvellous being from
another world.  The Admiral said nothing and did nothing.  He was
visualising the possibilities arising out of such a discovery.

It was John Dene who broke in upon their thoughts.

"The Huns have got it coming," he remarked grimly.

"But----" began Admiral Heyworth.

"Listen," said John Dene.  "I'm an electrical engineer.  I'm worth more
millions than you've got toes.  I saw that under water the submarine is
only a blind fish with a sting in its tail.  Give it eyes and it
becomes a real factor--_under water_."  He paused, revolving his cigar
in his mouth.  His listeners nodded eagerly.

"Well," he continued, "I set to work to give her eyes.  On the St.
Lawrence River, just below Quebec, I've got a submarine that can see.
Her search-lights----"

"But how have you done it?" broke in the Admiral.

"That," remarked John Dene drily, "is my funeral."

"We must put this before the Inventions Board," said Sir Lyster.  "Let
me see, this is Friday.  Can you be here on Tuesday, Mr. Dene?"

"No!"

Sir Lyster started at the decision in John Dene's tone.

"Would Wednesday----"

"Look here," broke in John Dene, "I come from T'ronto, and in Can'da
when we've got a good thing we freeze on to it.  You've got to decide
this thing within twenty-four hours, yes or no.  Unless I cable to my
agent in Washin'ton by noon to-morrow, he'll make the same offer I've
made you to the States, and they'll be that eager to say 'Yep,' that
they'll swallow their gum."

"But, Mr. Dene----" began Sir Lyster.

"I've been in this country fourteen hours," proceeded John Dene calmly,
"and I can see that you all want gingering-up.  Why the hell can't you
decide on a thing at once, when you've got everything before you?  If a
man offers you a pedigree-pup for nothing, and you want a pedigree-pup,
wouldn't you just hold out your hand?"

John Dene looked from one to the other.

"But this is not exactly a matter of a pedigree-pup," suggested Admiral
Heyworth diplomatically.  "It's a matter of--er----"

"I see you haven't got me," said John Dene with the air of a patient
schoolmaster with a stupid pupil.  "You," he addressed himself in
particular to Sir Lyster, "have said in public that the most difficult
spot in connexion with the submarine trouble is between the Shetlands
and the Norwegian coast.  You can't help the U-boats slipping through
submerged.  Suppose the _Destroyer_--that's the name of my boat--is
sort of hanging around there, _with eyes_ and some other little things
she's got, what then?"

"Both Sir Lyster and I appreciate all you say," said the Admiral; "but,
well, we are a little old fashioned perhaps in our methods here."  He
smiled deprecatingly.

"Well," said John Dene, rising, "you lose the odd trick, that's all;
and," he added significantly as he took a step towards the door, "when
it all comes out, you'll lose your jobs too."

"Really, Mr. Dene," protested Sir Lyster, flushing slightly.

John Dene swung round on his heel.  "If you'd spent three years of your
life and over a million dollars on a boat, and come three thousand
miles to offer it to someone for nothing, and were told to wait till
God knows which day what week, well, you'd be rattled too.  In T'ronto
we size up a man before he's had time to say he's pleased to meet us,
and we'd buy a mountain quicker than you'd ask your neighbour to pass
the marmalade at breakfast."

Whilst John Dene was speaking, Sir Lyster had been revolving the matter
swiftly in his mind.  He was impressed by his visitor's fearlessness.
A self-made man himself, he admired independence and freedom of speech
in others.  He was not oblivious to the truth of John Dene's hint of
what would happen if another nation, even an allied nation, were to
acquire a valuable invention that had been declined by Great Britain.
He remembered the Fokker scandal.  He decided to temporise.

"If," continued John Dene, "I was asking for money, I'd understand; but
I won't take a red cent, and more than that I go bail to the tune of a
quarter of a million dollars that I deliver the goods."

He strode up and down the room, twirling his cigar, and flinging his
short, sharp sentences at the two men, who, to his mind, stood as
barriers to an Allied triumph.

"If you will sit down, Mr. Dene," said Sir Lyster suavely, "I'll
explain."

John Dene hesitated for a moment, then humped himself into a chair,
gazing moodily before him.

"We quite appreciate your--er--patriotism and public-spiritedness
in----"

"Here, cut it out," broke in John Dene.  "Do you want the _Destroyer_
or don't you?"

Sir Lyster recoiled as if he had been struck.  He had been First Lord
too short a time for the gilt to be worn off his dignity.  Seeing his
Chief about to reply in a way that he suspected might end the
interview, Admiral Heyworth interposed.

"May I suggest that under the circumstances we consult Mr. Llewellyn
John?"

"That's bully," broke in John Dene without giving Sir Lyster a chance
of replying.  "They say he's got pep."

Bowing to the inevitable, Sir Lyster picked up the telephone-receiver.

"Get me through to the Prime Minister," he said.

The three men waited in silence for the response.  As the bell rang,
Sir Lyster swiftly raised the receiver to his ear.

"Yes, the Prime Minister.  Sir Lyster Grayne speaking."  There was a
pause.  "Grayne speaking, yes.  Can I come round with Admiral Heyworth
and an--er--inventor?  It's very important."  He listened for a moment,
then added, "Yes, we'll come at once."

"Now, Mr. Dene," said Sir Lyster, as he rose and picked up his hat, "I
hope we shall be able to--er----"  He did not finish the sentence; but
led the way to the door.

The three men walked across the Horse Guards Quadrangle towards Downing
Street.  The only words uttered were when Sir Lyster asked John Dene if
he had seen the pelicans.

John Dene looked at him in amazement.  He had heard that in British
official circles it was considered bad taste to discuss the war except
officially, and he decided that he was now discovering what was really
the matter with the British Empire.

As the trio crossed the road to mount the steps leading to Downing
Street, the girl passed of whom John Dene had asked the way.  Her eyes
widened slightly as she recognised John Dene's two companions; they
widened still more when John Dene lifted his hat, followed a second
later by Sir Lyster, whilst Admiral Heyworth saluted.  In her surprise
she nearly ran into a little shifty-eyed man, in a grey suit, who, with
an elaborate flourish of his hat, hastened to apologise for her
carelessness.

"That's the girl who showed me the way to your back-door," John Dene
announced nonchalantly.  Sir Lyster exchanged a rapid glance with the
Admiral.  "If I was running this show," continued John Dene, "I'd get
that door enlarged a bit and splash some paint about;" and for the
first time since they had met John Dene smiled up at Sir Lyster, a
smile that entirely changed the sombre cast of his features.

On arriving at no, Downing Street, the three callers were conducted
straight into Mr. Llewellyn John's room.  As they entered, he rose
quickly from his table littered with papers, and with a smile greeted
his colleagues.  Sir Lyster then introduced John Dene.

Mr. Llewellyn John grasped John Dene's hand, and turned on him that
bewilderingly sunny smile which Mr. Chappeldale had once said ought in
itself to win the war.

"Sit down, Mr. Dene," said Mr. Llewellyn John, indicating a chair;
"it's always a pleasure to meet any one from Canada.  What should we
have done without you Canadians?" he murmured half to himself.

"Mr. Dene tells us that he has solved the submarine problem," said Sir
Lyster, as he and Admiral Heyworth seated themselves.

Instantly Mr. Llewellyn John became alert.  The social smile vanished
from his features, giving place to the look of a keen-witted Celt,
eager to pounce upon something that would further his schemes.  He
turned to John Dene interrogatingly.

"Perhaps Mr. Dene will explain," suggested Sir Lyster.

"Sure," said John Dene, "your submarine isn't a submarine at all, it's
a submersible.  Under water it's useless, because it can't see.  As
well call a seal a fish.  A submarine must be able to fight under
water, and until it can it won't be any more a submarine than I'm a
tunny fish."

Mr. Llewellyn John nodded in eager acquiescence.

"I've spent over a million dollars, and now I've got a boat that can
see under water and fight under water and do a lot of other fancy
tricks."

Mr. Llewellyn John sprang to his feet.

"You have.  Tell me, where is it?  This is wonderful, wonderful!  It
takes us a year forward."

"It's on the St. Lawrence River, just below Quebec," explained John
Dene.

"And how long will it take to construct say a hundred?" asked Mr.
Llewellyn John eagerly, dropping back into his chair.

"Longer than any of us are going to live," replied John Dene grimly.

Mr. Llewellyn John looked at his visitor in surprise.  Sir Lyster and
the Admiral exchanged meaning glances.  The Prime Minister was
experiencing what in Toronto were known as "John's snags."

"But if you've made one----" began Mr. Llewellyn John.

"There's only going to be one," announced John Dene grimly.

"But----"

"You can but like a he-goat," announced John Dene, "still there'll be
only our _Destroyer_."

Sir Lyster smiled inwardly.  His bruised dignity was recovering at the
sight of the surprised look on the face of the Prime Minister at John
Dene's comparison.

"Perhaps Mr. Dene will explain to us the difficulties," insinuated Sir
Lyster.

"Sure," said John Dene; then turning to Admiral Heyworth, "What would
happen if Germany got a submarine that could see and do fancy stunts?"
he demanded.

"It might embarrass----" began the Admiral.

"Shucks!" cried John Dene, "it would bust us up.  What about the
American transports, food-ships, munitions and the rest of it.  They'd
be attacked all along the three thousand miles route, and would go down
like neck-oil on a permit night.  You get me?"

Suddenly Mr. Llewellyn John struck the table with his fist.

"You're right, Mr. Dene," he cried; "they might capture one and copy
it.  You remember the Gothas," he added, turning to Sir Lyster.

"Sure," was John Dene's laconic reply.

"But how can we be sure they will not capture the _Destroyer_?"
enquired Sir Lyster.

"Because there'll be John Dene and a hundred-weight of high-explosive
on board," said John Dene drily as he chewed at the end of his cigar.

"Then you propose----" began Admiral Heyworth.

"I'll put you wise.  This is my offer.  I'm willing to send U-boats to
merry hell; but only on my own terms.  I won't take a cent for my boat
or anything else.  It's my funeral.  The _Destroyer_ is now in Canada,
with German spies buzzing around like flies over a dead rat.  If you
agree, I'll cable to my boys to bring the _Destroyer_, and it won't be
done without some fancy shooting, I take it!  You," turning to Admiral
Heyworth, "will appoint an officer, two if you like, to come aboard and
count the bag.  I'll supply the crew, and you'll give me a commander's
commission in the Navy.  Now, is it a deal?"

"But----" began Sir Lyster.

"You make me tired," said John Dene wearily.  "Is it or is it not a
deal?" he enquired of Mr. Llewellyn John.

With an effort the Prime Minister seemed to gather himself together.
He found the pace a little breathless, even for him.

"I think it might be arranged, Grayne," he said tactfully.  "Mr. Dene
knows his own invention and we might enrol his crew in the Navy; what
do you think?"  Mr. Llewellyn John abounded in tact.

"I take it that you understand navigation, Mr. Dene?" ventured the
Admiral.

"Sure," was the reply.  "You come a trip with me, and I'll show you
navigation that'll make your hair stand on end.  Sorry," he added a
moment after, observing that Admiral Heyworth was almost aggressively
bald.

"That's all right," laughed the Admiral; "they call me the coot."

"Well, is it a deal?" demanded John Dene, rising.

"It is," said Mr. Llewellyn John, "and a splendid deal for the British
Empire, Mr. Dene," he added, holding out his hand.  "It's a great
privilege to meet a patriot such as you.  Sir Lyster and Admiral
Heyworth will settle all details to your entire satisfaction."

"If they do for me, I want you to give the command to Blake, then to
Quinton, and so on, only to my own boys; is that agreed?"

"Do for you?" queried Mr. Llewellyn John.

"Huns, they're after me every hour of the day.  There was a little chap
even in your own building."

"We really must intern these Germans----" began Mr. Llewellyn John.

"You're barking up the wrong tree, over here," said John Dene with
conviction.  "You think a German spy's got a square head and says 'Ach
himmel' and 'Ja wohl' on street-cars.  It's the neutrals mostly, and
sometimes the British," he added under his breath.

"In any case you will, I am sure, find that Sir Lyster will do whatever
you want," said Mr. Llewellyn John as they walked towards the door.

For the second time that morning John Dene smiled as he left No. 110,
Downing Street, with Sir Lyster and Admiral Heyworth, whilst Mr.
Llewellyn John rang up the chief of Department Z.




CHAPTER II

JOHN DENE'S WAY

As Sir Lyster entered Mr. Blair's room, accompanied by John Dene and
Admiral Heyworth, he was informed that Sir Bridgman North, the First
Sea Lord, was anxious to see him.

"Ask him if he can step over now, Blair," said Sir Lyster, and the
three men passed into the First Lord's room.  Two minutes later Sir
Bridgman North entered, and Sir Lyster introduced John Dene.

For a moment the two men eyed one another in mutual appraisement; the
big, bluff Sea Lord, with his humorous blue eyes and ready laugh, and
the keen, heavy-featured Canadian, as suspicious of a gold band as of a
pickpocket.

"Pleased to meet you," said John Dene perfunctorily, as they shook
hands.  "Now you'd better give me a chance to work off my music;" and
with that he seated himself.

Sir Bridgman exchanged an amused glance with Admiral Heyworth, as they
too found chairs.

In a few words Sir Lyster explained the reason of John Dene's visit.
Sir Bridgman listened with the keen interest of one to whom his
profession is everything.

"Now, Mr. Dene," said Sir Lyster when he had finished, "perhaps you
will continue."

In short, jerky sentences John Dene outlined his scheme of operations,
the others listening intently.  From time to time Sir Bridgman or
Admiral Heyworth would interpolate a question upon some technical
point, which was promptly and satisfactorily answered.  John Dene
seemed to have forgotten nothing.

For two hours the four sat discussing plans for a campaign that was
once and for all to put an end to Germany's submarine hopes.

During those two hours the three Englishmen learned something of the
man with whom they had to deal.  Sir Bridgman's tact, cheery
personality and understanding of how to handle men did much to improve
the atmosphere, and gradually John Dene's irritation disappeared.

It was nearly three o'clock before all the arrangements were completed.
John Dene was to receive a temporary commission as commander as soon as
the King's signature could be obtained.  The _Destroyer_ was entered on
the Navy List as H4, thus taking the place of a submarine that was
"missing."  John Dene had stipulated that she should be rated in some
existing class, so that the secret of her existence might be preserved.
In short, sharp sentences he had presented his demands, they were
nothing less, and the others had acquiesced.  By now they were all
convinced that he was right, and that the greatest chance of success
lay in "giving him his head," as Sir Bridgman North expressed it in a
whisper to Sir Lyster.

A base was to be selected on some island in the North of Scotland, and
fitted with wireless with aerials a hundred and fifty feet high, "to
pick up all that's going," explained John Dene, conscious of the
surprise of his hearers at a request for such a long-range plant.  Here
the _Destroyer_ was to be based, and stores and fuel sufficient for six
months accumulated.  This was to be proceeded with at once.

"I shall want charts of the minefields," he said, "and full particulars
as to patrol flotillas and the like."

Admiral Heyworth nodded comprehendingly.

"By the way," he said, "there's one thing I do not quite understand."

"Put a name to it," said John Dene tersely.

"How do you propose to keep at sea for any length of time without
recharging your batteries?"

"We shall be lying doggo most of the time," was the reply.

"Then in all probability the U-boats will pass over you."

"We shan't be lying at the bottom of the sea, either," said John Dene.

"What!" exclaimed Admiral Heyworth, "but if your motor's cut off,
you'll sink to the bed of the sea--the law of gravity."

"The _Destroyer_ is fitted with buoyancy chambers, and she can generate
a gas that will hold her suspended at any depth," he explained.  "This
gas can be liquefied in a few seconds.  Her microphone will tell her
when the U-boats are about; it's my own invention."

Sir Lyster looked from one to the other, unable to grasp such
technicalities; but conscious that Admiral Heyworth seemed surprised at
what he heard.

"It's up to you to see that none of your boys start dropping
depth-charges around," said John Dene.

He went on to explain that he proposed a certain restricted area for
operations, and that the Admiralty should issue instructions that no
depth charges were to be dropped on any submarine within that area
until further notice.

"There's one thing I must leave you to supply," said John Dene, as he
leaned back in his chair smoking a cigar.  John Dene chewed the end of
a cigar during the period of negotiations, and smoked it when the deal
was struck.

"And what is that?" asked Sir Bridgman.

"I shall want a 'mother'----"

"A mother!" ejaculated Sir Lyster, looking from John Dene to the First
Sea Lord, who laughed loudly.  Sir Lyster always felt that Sir Bridgman
should have left his laugh on the quarter-deck when he relinquished
active command.

"A 'mother,'" he explained, "is a kangaroo-ship, a dry-dock ship for
salvage and repair of submarines.  Yes, we'll fit you out."

Sir Lyster looked chagrined.  He had found some difficulty in mastering
naval technicalities.  When war broke out he was directing a large dock
from which vast numbers of troops were shipped to France.  He had shown
such administrative genius, that Mr. Llewellyn John had selected him
for the post of First Lord of the Admiralty, with results that
satisfied every one, even the Sea Lords.

John Dene then proceeded to indicate the nature of the alterations he
would require made in the vessel, showing a remarkable knowledge of the
British type of mother-ship.

"You ought either to be shot as a spy or made First Sea Lord," said Sir
Bridgman, looking up from a diagram that John Dene had produced.

"The Hun'll try to do the shooting; and as for my becoming Sea Lord, I
should be sorry for some of the plugs here."

John Dene's thoroughness impressed his three hearers.  Everything had
been foreseen, even the spot where the _Destroyer_ was to be based.
The small island of Auchinlech possessed a natural harbour of
sufficient size for the mother-ship to enter, after which the entrance
was to be guarded by a defensive boom as a safeguard against U-boats.

John Dene explained that a month or five weeks must elapse before the
_Destroyer_ would be ready for action.  In about three weeks she could
be at Auchinlech, crossing the Atlantic under her own power.  Another
week or ten days would be required for refitting and taking in stores.

"When you've delivered the goods you can quit, and I shall be pleased
to see your boys again in four months."

John Dene regarded his listeners with the air of a man who had just
thrown a bombshell and is conscious of the fact.

"Four months!" ejaculated Sir Lyster.

"Yep!"  He uttered the monosyllable in a tone that convinced at least
one of his listeners that expostulation would be useless.

"But," protested Sir Lyster, "how shall we know what is happening?"

"You won't," was the laconic reply.

"But----" began Sir Lyster again.

"If no one knows what is happening," interrupted John Dene, "no one can
tell anyone else."

"Surely, Mr. Dene," said Sir Lyster with some asperity in his voice,
"you do not suspect the War Cabinet, for instance, of divulging secrets
of national importance."

"I don't suspect the War Cabinet of anything," was the dry retort, "not
even of trying to win the war."  John Dene looked straight into Sir
Lyster's eyes.

There was an awkward pause.

"Who's going to guarantee that the War Cabinet doesn't talk in its
sleep?" he continued.  "I'm not out to take risks.  If this country
doesn't want my boat on my terms, then I shan't worry, although you
may," he added as an afterthought.  "No, sir," he banged his fist on
the table vehemently.  "This is the biggest thing that's come into the
war so far, and I'm not going to have anyone monkeying about with my
plans.  I'm going to have a written document that I've got a free hand,
otherwise I don't deal, that's understood."

"But----" began Sir Lyster once more.

"Excuse me, Grayne," broke in Sir Bridgman, "may I suggest that, as we
are all keenly interested parties, Mr. Dene might give us his reasons."

"Sure," said John Dene without waiting for Sir Lyster's reply.  "In
Can'da a man gets a job because he's the man for that job, leastwise if
he's not he's fired.  Here I'll auction that half the big jobs are held
by mutts whose granddad's had a pleasant way of saying how d'ye do to a
prince.  If any of them came around you'd have me skippin' like a
scalded cat, and when I'm like that I'm liable to say things.  I'm my
own man and my own boss, and I take a man's size in most things.  I'm
too old to feel meek at the sight of gold bands.  I want to feel kind
to everybody, and I find I can do that in this country better when
everybody keeps out of my way."

John Dene paused, and the others looked at each other, a little
nonplussed how to respond to such directness.

"It's been in my head-fillin' quite a while to tell you this;" and John
Dene suddenly smiled, one of those rare smiles that seemed to take the
sting out of his words.  "I'd be real sorry to hurt anybody's
feelings," he added, "but we've got different notions of things in
Can'da."

It was Sir Bridgman who eased the situation.

"If ever you want a second in command, I'm your man," he laughed.
"Straight talk makes men friends, and if we do wrap things up a bit
more here, we aren't so thin-skinned as not to be able to take it from
the shoulder.  What say you, Grayne?"

"Yes--certainly," said Sir Lyster with unconvincing hesitation.

"You were mentioning spies," said Admiral Heyworth.

"So would you if they'd plagued you as they've plagued me," said John
Dene.  "They've already stolen three sets of plans."

"Three sets of plans!" cried Sir Lyster, starting up in alarm.

John Dene nodded as he proceeded to relight the stump of his cigar.
"One set in T'ronto, one on the steamer and the other from my room at
the Ritzton."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Sir Lyster in alarm, "what is to be done?"

"Oh!  I've got another three sets," said John Dene calmly.

Sir Lyster looked at him as if doubtful of his sanity.

"Don't you worry," said John Dene imperturbably, "one set of plans was
of the U1, the first boat the Germans built, the second set was of the
U2, and the third of the U9."

Sir Bridgman's laugh rang out as he thumped the table with his fist.

"Splendid!" he cried.  Sir Lyster sank back into his chair with a sigh
of relief.

"By the way, Dene," said Sir Bridgman casually, "suppose the
_Destroyer_ was--er--lost and you with her."

"I've arranged for a set of plans to be delivered to the First Lord,
whoever he may be at the time," said John Dene.

"Good!" said Sir Bridgman.  "You think of everything.  We shall have
you commanding the Grand Fleet before the war's over."'

Sir Lyster said nothing.  He did not quite relish the qualification
"whoever he may be at the time."

"About the spies," he said after a pause.  "I think it would be
advisable to arrange for your protection."

"Not on your life!" cried John Dene with energy.  "I don't want any
policemen following me around.  I've got my own--well," he added, "I've
fixed things up all right, and if the worst comes to the worst, well
there aren't many men in this country that can beat John Dene with a
gun.  Now it's up to me to make good on this proposition."  He looked
from one to the other, as if challenging contradiction.  Finding there
was none, he continued: "But there are a few things that I want before
I can start in, and then you won't see me for dust.  You get me?"  He
looked suddenly at Sir Lyster.

"We'll do everything in our power to help you, Mr. Dene," said Sir
Lyster, reaching for a clean sheet of paper from the rack before him.

"Well, I've got it all figured out here," said John Dene, taking a
paper from his jacket pocket.  "First I want a written undertaking,
signed by you," turning to Sir Lyster, "and Mr. Llewellyn John that I'm
to have four months to run the _Destroyer_ with no one butting in."

Sir Lyster nodded and made a note.

"Next," continued John Dene, "I want a mothership fully equipped with
stores and fuel sufficient for four months."

Again Sir Lyster inclined his head and made a note.

"I'll give you a schedule of everything I'm likely to want.  Then I
want an undertaking that if anything happens to me the command goes to
Blake and then to Quinton.  If I don't get these things," he announced
with decision, "I'll call a halt right here."

"I think you can depend upon Sir Lyster doing all you want, Mr. Dene,"
said Sir Bridgman; "and when you see the way he does it, perhaps you'll
have a better opinion of the Admiralty."

Sir Lyster smiled slightly.  He had already determined to show John
Dene that nowhere in the world was there an organisation equal to that
of the Admiralty Victualling and Stores Departments.

"You help John Dene and he's with you till the cows come to roost," was
the response; "and now," he added shrewdly, "you'd better get the
cables to work and find out something about me."

"Something about you!" queried Sir Lyster.

"You're not going to trust a man because he talks big, I'll gamble on
that.  Well, you'll learn a deal about John Dene, and now it's time you
got a rustle on."

"In all probability our Intelligence Department knows all about you by
now, Mr. Dene," said Sir Bridgman with a laugh.  "It's supposed to be
fairly up to date in most things."

"Well," said John Dene, as he leaned back in his chair, puffing
vigorously at his cigar, "you've treated me better'n I expected, and
you won't regret it.  Remembering's my long suit.  I don't want any
honour or glory out of this stunt, I just want to get the job done.  If
there are any garters, or collars going around, you may have 'em,
personally I don't wear 'em,--garters, I mean.  A couple of
rubber-bands are good enough for me."

Sir Bridgman laughed, Sir Lyster smiled indulgently, and Admiral
Heyworth rose to go.

"There's only one thing more; I want a room here and someone to take
down letters."

"I will tell my secretary to arrange everything," said Sir Lyster.
"You have only to ask for what you require, Mr. Dene."

"Well, that's settled," said John Dene, rising.  "Now it's up to me,
and if the _Destroyer_ doesn't give those Huns merry hell, then I'm
green goods;" and with this enigmatical utterance he abruptly left the
room, with a nod, and a "See you all in the morning."

As the door closed, the three men gazed at each other for a few seconds.

"An original character," said Sir Lyster indulgently.  "Going,
Heyworth?" he enquired, as Admiral Heyworth moved towards the door.

"Yes, I've hardly touched the day's work yet," was the reply.

"Never mind," said Sir Bridgman, "you've done the best day's work
you're likely to do during this war."

"I think I agree with you," said Admiral Heyworth as he left the room.

"Well, Grayne, what do you think of our friend, John Dene?" inquired
Sir Bridgman as he lighted a cigarette.

"He's rather abrupt," said Sir Lyster hesitatingly, "but I think he's a
sterling character."

"You're right," said Sir Bridgman heartily.  "I wish we had a dozen
John Denes in the Service.  When the colonies do produce a man they do
the thing in style, and Canada has made no mistake about John Dene.
He's going nearer to win the war than any other man in the Empire."

"Ah! your incurable enthusiasm," smiled Sir Lyster.

"What I like about him," remarked Sir Bridgman, "is that he never waits
to be contradicted."

"He certainly does seem to take everything for granted," said Sir
Lyster, with a note of complaint in his voice.

"The man who has all the cards generally does," said Sir Bridgman
drily.  "Dene will always get there, because he has no axe to grind,
and the only thing he respects is brains.  That is why he snubs us all
so unmercifully," he added with the laugh that always made Sir Lyster
wish he wouldn't.

"Now I want to consult you about a rather embarrassing question that's
on the paper for Friday," said Sir Lyster.

Unconscious that he was forming the subject of discussion with the
heads of the Admiralty, John Dene, on leaving the First Lord's room,
turned to the right and walked quickly in the direction of the main
staircase.  As he reached a point where the corridor was intersected by
another running at right angles, the sudden opening of a door on his
left caused him to turn his head quickly.  A moment later there was a
feminine cry and a sound of broken crockery, and John Dene found
himself gazing down at a broken teapot.

"Oh!"

He looked up from the steaming ruin of newly brewed tea into the violet
eyes of the girl who had directed him to the Admiralty.  He noticed the
purity of her skin, the redness of her lips and the rebelliousness of
her corn-coloured hair, which seeming to refuse all constraint clung
about her head in little wanton tendrils.

"That's my fault," said John Dene, removing his hat.  "I'm sorry."

"Yes; but our tea," said the girl in genuine consternation; "we're
rationed, you know."

"Rationed?" said John Dene.

"Yes; we only get two ounces a week each," she said with a comical look
of despair.

"Gee!" cried John Dene, then he asked suddenly: "What are you?"

The girl looked at him in surprise, a little stiffly.

"Can you type?  Never mind about the tea."

"But I do mind about the tea."  She found John Dene's manner disarming.

"I take it you're a stenographer.  Now tell me your name.  I'll see
about the tea."  He had whipped out a note-book and pencil.  "Hurry,
I've got a cable to send."

Seeing that she was reluctant to give her name, he continued: "Never
mind about your name.  Be in the First Lord's room to-morrow at eleven
o'clock; I'll see you there;" and with that he turned quickly, resumed
his hat and retraced his steps.

Without knocking, he pushed open the door of Mr. Blair's room, walked
swiftly across and opened the door leading to that of the First Lord.

"Here!" he cried, "where can I buy a pound of tea?"

If John Dene had asked where he could borrow an ichthyosaurus, Sir
Lyster and Sir Bridgman could not have gazed at him with more
astonishment.

"You can't," said Sir Bridgman, at length, his eyes twinkling as he
watched the expression on Sir Lyster's face.

"Can't!" cried John Dene.

"Tea's rationed--two ounces a week," explained Sir Bridgman.

"Anyhow I've got to buy a pound of tea.  I've just smashed up the
teapot of a girl in the corridor."

"I'm afraid it's impossible," said Sir Lyster with quiet dignity.

"Impossible!" said John Dene irritably.  "Here am I giving more'n a
million dollars to the country and I can't get a pound of tea.  I'll
see about that.  She'll be here in this room to-morrow at eleven
o'clock," and with that the door closed and John Dene disappeared.

"I've told a girl to be here at eleven o'clock to-morrow.  She's going
to be my secretary," he explained to Mr. Blair as he passed through his
office.

Mr. Blair blinked his eyes vigorously.  He had seen Sir Lyster and
Admiral Heyworth leave the Admiralty with John Dene, he gathered that
they had had a long interview with the Prime Minister, then they had
returned again and, for two hours, had sat in consultation with the
First Sea Lord.  Now the amazing John Dene had made an appointment to
meet some girl in the First Lord's room at eleven o'clock the next
morning.

As John Dene left the Admiralty puffing clouds of blue content from his
cigar, the shifty-eyed man, in a grey suit, who had been examining the
Royal Marines statue, drew a white handkerchief with a flourish from
his pocket and proceeded to blow his nose vigorously.  The act seemed
to pass unnoticed save by a young girl sitting on a neighbouring seat.
She immediately appeared to become greatly interested in the movements
of John Dene, whilst the man in the grey suit walked away in the
direction of Birdcage Walk.


"Where's the tea?" was the cry with which Dorothy West was greeted as
she entered the room she occupied with a number of other girls after
her encounter with John Dene.

"It's in the corridor," she replied.

"Oh! go and get it, there's a dear; I'm simply parched," cried Marjorie
Rogers, a pretty little brunette at the further corner.

"It's all gone," said Dorothy West; "a Hun just knocked it out of my
hand.  He smashed the teapot."

"Smashed the teapot!" cried several girls in chorus.

"Oh!  Wessie," wailed the little brunette, "I shall die."

"Why did you let him do it?" asked a fair girl with white eyelashes and
glasses.

"I didn't," said Dorothy; "he just barged into me and knocked the
teapot out of my hand, and then made an assignation for eleven o'clock
to-morrow in the First Lord's room."

"An assignation!  The First Lord's room!" cried Miss Cunliffe, who by
virtue of a flat chest, a pair of round glasses, and an uncompromising
manner made an ideal supervisor.  She was known as "Old Goggles."
"What do you mean, Miss West?"

"Exactly what I say, Miss Cunliffe.  He asked me if I was a
stenographer, and then said that I was to see him at eleven o'clock
to-morrow morning in the First Lord's room.  What do you think I had
better do?"

"Who is he?  What is he?  Do tell us, Wessie, dear," cried Marjorie
Rogers excitedly.

"Well, I should think he's either a madman or else he's bought the
Admiralty," said Dorothy West, her head on one side as if weighing her
words before uttering them.  "He's the man I saw this morning with Sir
Lyster Grayne and Admiral Heyworth, going to call on the Prime
Minister--at least, I suppose they were; they went up the steps into
Downing Street.  But ought I to go at eleven o'clock, Miss Cunliffe?"
she queried.

"I'll make enquiries," said Miss Cunliffe.  "I'll see Mr. Blair.
Perhaps he's mad."

"But what are we going to do about our tea?" wailed Marjorie.  "I'd
sooner lose my character than my tea."

"Miss Rogers!" said Miss Cunliffe, whose conception of supervisorship
was that she should oversee the decorum as well as the work of the
other occupants of the room.

"I believe she did it on purpose," said she of the white eyelashes
spitefully to a girl in a velvet blouse.

"You had better brew to-morrow's tea to-day, Miss West," said Miss
Cunliffe.

"Yes, do, there's a darling," cried Marjorie.  "I simply can't wait
another five minutes.  Why, I couldn't lick a stamp to save my life.
Borrow No. 13's pot when they've finished with it, and pinch some of
their tea, if you can," she added.

And Dorothy West went out to interview the guardian of No. 13's teapot.




CHAPTER III

DEPARTMENT Z.


I

"Mr. Sage there?  Very well, ask him to step in and see me as soon as
he returns."

Colonel Walton replaced the telephone-receiver and continued to draw
diagrams upon the blotting-pad before him, an occupation in which he
had been engaged for the last quarter of an hour.

Since its creation two years before, he had been Chief of Department
Z., the most secret section of the British Secret Service, with Malcolm
Sage as his lieutenant.

Department Z. owed its inception to an inspiration on the part of Mr.
Llewellyn John.  He had conceived the idea of creating a secret service
department, the working of which should be secret even from the Secret
Service itself.  Its primary object was that the Prime Minister and the
War Cabinet might have a private means of obtaining such special
information as it required.  Department Z. was unhampered by rules and
regulations, as devoid of conventions as an enterprising flapper.

In explaining his scheme to Mr. Thaw, the Chancellor of the Exchequer,
Mr. Llewellyn John had said, "Suppose I want to know what Chappeldale
had for lunch yesterday, and don't like to ask him, how am I to find
out?  I want a Department that can tell me anything I want to know, and
will be surprised at nothing."

With Mr. Llewellyn John to conceive a thing was to put it into
practice.  He did not make the mistake of placing Department Z. under
the control of a regular secret service man.

"I'm tired of red-tape and traditions," he had remarked to Mr. Thaw.
"If I go to the front, they won't let me speak to a man lower than a
brigadier, whereas I want the point-of-view of the drummer-boy."

Mr. Llewellyn John had heard of Colonel Walton's exploits in India as
head of the Burmah Police, had seen him, and in five minutes the first
Chief of Department Z. was appointed.  From the Ministry of Supply, Mr.
Llewellyn John had plucked Malcolm Sage, whom he later described as
"either a ferret turned dreamer, or a dreamer turned ferret," he was
not quite sure which.

In discovering Malcolm Sage, Mr. Llewellyn John had achieved one of his
greatest strokes of good fortune.  When Minister of Supply his notice
had been attracted to Sage, as the man who had been instrumental in
bringing to light--that is official light, for the affair was never
made public--the greatest contracts-scandal of the war.  It was due
entirely to his initiative and unobtrusive enquiries that a gigantic
fraud, diabolical in its cleverness, had been discovered--a fraud that
might have involved the country in the loss of millions.

Mr. Llewellyn John had recognised that this young accountant had done
him a great service, perhaps saved him from a serious political
set-back.  Incidentally he discovered that Sage was a very uneasy
person to have in a Government-department.  Sage cared nothing for
tradition, discipline, or bureaucracy.  If they interfered with the
proper performance of his duties, overboard they went.  He was the most
transferred man in Whitehall.  No one seemed to want to keep him for
longer than the period necessary for the formalities of his transfer.

"Uneasy lies the Head that has a Sage," was a phrase some wag had
coined.  If a man wanted to condemn another as too zealous,
unnecessarily hard-working, or as a breaker of idols, he likened him to
Sage.

The chief of the department from which Mr. Llewellyn John took Malcolm
Sage when Department Z. was formed is said to have wept tears of joy at
the news.  For months he had striven to transfer his unconventional
subordinate; but there was none who would have him.  This unfortunate
chief of department had gone through life like a man wanting to sell a
dog of dubious pedigree.  In the Ministry he was known as Henry II, and
Sage came to be referred to as Beckett.

In Department Z. Sage found his proper niche.  Under Colonel Walton, a
man of few words and great tact, he had found an ideal chief, one who
understood how to handle men.

As John Dene had left 110, Downing Street, with Sir Lyster and Admiral
Heyworth, Mr. Llewellyn John had rung up Colonel Walton and requested
that full enquiries be made at once as to John Dene of Toronto, and a
report submitted to him in the morning.  That was all.  He had given no
indication of why he wanted to know, or what was John Dene's business
in London.

Hardly a day of his life passed without Mr. Llewellyn John having cause
to be thankful for the inspiration that had resulted in the founding of
Department Z.  Nothing seemed to come amiss, either to the Department
or its officials.  They never required an elaborate filling-up of
forms, they never asked for further particulars as did other
departments.  They just got to work.

Mr. Llewellyn John had, once and for all, defined Department Z. when he
said to Mr. Thaw, "If I were to ask Scotland Yard if Chappeldale had
gone over to the Bolshevists, or if Waytensee had become an Orangeman,
they would send a man here, his pockets bulging with note-books.
Department Z. would tell me all I wanted to know in a few hours."

In his first interview with Mr. Llewellyn John, previous to being
appointed to Department Z., Malcolm Sage had bluntly criticised the
Government's methods of dealing with the spy peril.

"You're all wrong, sir," he had said.  "If you spot a spy, you arrest,
imprison or deport him, according to the degree of his guilt.  Any fool
could do that," he had added quietly.

"And what would you do, Sage?" inquired Mr. Llewellyn John, who never
took offence at the expression of any man's honest opinion, no matter
how emphatically worded.

"I should watch him," was the laconic reply.  "Just as was done before
the war.  You didn't arrest spies then, you just let them think they
were safe."

For a few moments Mr. Llewellyn John had pondered the remark, and then
asked for an explanation.

"If you arrest, shoot or intern a spy, another generally springs up in
his place, and you have to start afresh to find him; he may do a lot of
mischief before that comes about."  Sage gazed meditatively at his
finger-nails, a habit of his.  "On the other hand," he continued, "if
you know your man, you can watch him and generally find out what he's
after.  Better a known than an unknown danger," he had added oracularly.

"I'm afraid they wouldn't endorse that doctrine at Scotland Yard,"
smiled Mr. Llewellyn John.

"Scotland Yard is a place of promoted policemen," replied Sage,
"regulation intellects in regulation boots."

Mr. Llewellyn John smiled.  He always appreciated a phrase.  "Then you
would not arrest a burglar, but watch him," he said, glancing keenly at
Sage.

"The cases are entirely different, sir," was the reply; "a burglar
invariably works on his own, a spy is more frequently than not a cog of
a machine and must be replaced.  He seldom works entirely alone."

"Go on," Mr. Llewellyn John had said, seeing that Sage paused and was
intently regarding his finger-nails of his right hand.

"Even when burglars work in gangs, there is no superior organisation to
replace destroyed units," continued Sage.  "With international secret
service it is different; its casualties are made good as promptly as
with a field army."

"I believe you're right," said Mr. Llewellyn John.  "If you can
convince Colonel Walton, then Department Z. can be run on those lines."

Malcolm Sage had found no difficulty in convincing his chief, a man of
quiet demeanour, but unprejudiced mind.  The result had been that
Department Z. had not so far caused a single arrest, although it had
countered many clever schemes.  Its motto was "The Day" when it could
make a really historical haul.

The progress of Malcolm Sage had been remarkable.  Colonel Walton had
quickly seen that his subordinate could work only along his own lines,
and in consequence he had given him his head.  Sage, on his part, had
discovered in his chief a man with a sound knowledge of human nature,
generously spiced with the devil.

As Sage entered, Colonel Walton ceased his diagrams and looked up.
Sage was as unlike the "sleuth hound" of fiction as it is possible for
a man to be.  At first glance he looked like the superintendent of a
provincial Sunday-school.  He was about thirty-five years of age,
sandy, wore gold-rimmed glasses and possessed a conical head,
prematurely bald.  He had a sharp nose, steel-coloured eyes and large
ears; but there was the set of his jaw which told of determination.

Seating himself in his customary place, Sage proceeded to pull at the
inevitable briar, without which he was seldom seen.  For a full minute
there was silence.  Colonel Walton deliberately lighted a cigar and
leaned back to listen.  He knew his man and refrained from asking
questions.

"They're puzzled, chief"--Sage knocked the ashes from his pipe into the
ash-tray on the table--"and they're getting jumpy," he added.

Colonel Walton nodded.

"Twice they've ransacked John Dene's room at the Ritzton and found
nothing."

"Does he know?" enquired Colonel Walton.

Sage nodded.

"John Dene's a dark horse," he remarked with respect in his voice, "and
the Huns can't make up their minds."

"To what?" enquired the chief.

"To give up the shadow for the substance," he remarked, as he pressed
down the tobacco in his pipe.  "They want the plans, and they want to
prevent the boat from putting to sea."

Colonel Walton nodded comprehendingly.

"They'll probably try to scotch her on the way over; but they won't
know her route.  They'll be lying in wait, however, in full strength in
home waters.  He's a bad psychologist," added Sage, as he knocked the
ashes out of his pipe.

"Who?" enquired Colonel Walton.

"The Hun," replied Sage, as he sucked away contentedly at his pipe.
"He's never content to go for a single issue, or he'd probably have got
the Channel ports.  He's not content with concentrating on John Dene
and his boat, he's after the plans.  That's where he'll fail.  Smart
chap, John Dene."

For some moments the two men smoked in silence, which was finally
broken by Sage.

"They'll try to get hold of John Dene, unless he's very careful, and
hold him to ransom, the price being the plans."

"Incidentally, Sage, where did you get all this from?" enquired Walton.

Sage gazed at his chief through his gold-rimmed spectacles.  "About
three hundred yards west of the Temple Station on the Underground."

Colonel Walton glanced across at his subordinate; but refrained from
asking further questions.  "Have you warned Dene?" he enquired instead.

"No use," replied Sage with conviction.  "Might as well warn a fly."

Colonel Walton nodded understandingly.  "Still," he remarked, "I think
he ought to be told."

"Why not have a try yourself?"  Sage looked up swiftly from the
inevitable contemplation of his finger-nails.

For fully a minute Colonel Walton sat revolving the proposal in his
mind.  "I think I will," he said later.

"He'll treat you like a superannuated policeman," was the grim retort.

"The Skipper wants to see us at eleven," said Colonel Walton, looking
at his watch and rising.  The "Skipper" was the name by which Mr.
Llewellyn John was known at Department Z.  Names were rarely referred
to, and very few documents were ever exchanged.  Colonel Walton picked
up his hat from a bookcase and, followed by Sage, who extracted a cap
from his pocket, left the room and Department Z. and walked across to
Downing Street.

As Colonel Walton and Malcolm Sage were shown into Mr. Llewellyn John's
room, the Prime Minister gave instructions that he was not to be
disturbed for a quarter of an hour.

"Was the John Dene Report what you wanted, sir?" enquired Colonel
Walton, as he took the seat Mr. Llewellyn John indicated.

"Excellent," cried Mr. Llewellyn John; then with a smile he added, "I
was able to tell Sir Lyster quite a lot of things this morning.  The
Admiralty report was not ready until late last night.  It was not
nearly so instructive."

The main facts of John Dene's career had not been difficult to obtain.
His father had emigrated to Canada in the early eighties; but,
possessing only the qualifications of a clerk, he had achieved neither
fame nor fortune.  He had died when John Dene was eight years old, and
his wife had followed him within eighteen months.  After a varied
career John Dene had drifted to the States, where as a youth he had
entered a large engineering firm, and was instantly singled out as an
inventor in embryo.

Several fortunate speculations had formed the foundation of a small
fortune of twenty thousand dollars, with which he returned to Toronto.
From that point his career had been one continual progression of
successes.  Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, until "John's
luck" became a well-known phrase in financial circles.

Unlike most successful business-men, he devoted a large portion of his
time to his hobby, electrical engineering, and when the war broke out
he sought to turn this to practical and patriotic uses.

"And when may we expect Mr. Dene's new submarine over?" enquired
Malcolm Sage casually.

"Mr. Dene's new submarine!"  Mr. Llewellyn John's hands dropped to his
sides as he gazed at Sage in blank amazement.  "His new submarine," he
repeated.

"Yes, sir."

"What on earth do you know about it?" demanded Mr. Llewellyn John,
looking at Sage with a startled expression.

"John Dene has invented a submarine," proceeded the literal Sage, "with
some novel features, including a searchlight that has overcome the
opacity of water.  The thing is lying on the St. Lawrence River just
below Quebec.  Yesterday he called to see Sir Lyster Grayne, who
brought him here with Admiral Heyworth."

Mr. Llewellyn John gazed in bewilderment at Malcolm Sage, his eyes
shifted to Colonel Walton and then back again to Sage.

"But," he began, "you're watching us, not the enemy.  Did you know of
this?" he turned to the chief of Department Z.

Colonel Walton shook his head.  "I haven't seen Sage since you
telephoned yesterday until a few minutes ago," he said.

"Where--how----?"  Mr. Llewellyn John paused.

"It's our business to know things, sir," was Sage's quiet reply.

"And yet you didn't report this to----" began Mr. Llewellyn John.

"It saves time telling you both at once," responded Sage, looking at
his chief with a smile.

"Suppose you tell us how you found out," suggested Mr. Llewellyn John a
little irritably.

"Does that matter, sir?"  Sage looked up calmly from an earnest
examination of the nail of his left forefinger.

For some moments Mr. Llewellyn John gazed across at Malcolm Sage,
frowning heavily.

"Sage has his own methods," remarked Colonel Walton tactfully.

"Methods," cried Mr. Llewellyn John, his brow clearing, "it's a good
job he didn't live in the Middle Ages, or else he'd have been burned.
I'm not so sure that he ought not to be burned now."  He turned on Sage
that smile that never failed in its magical effect.

"There are one or two links missing," said Sage.  "I want to know where
and when the _Destroyer_ will arrive, and what steps you are taking in
regard to John Dene."

"All arrangements will be left in Mr. Dene's hands.  He is----"  Mr.
Lewellyn John paused.

"A little self-willed," suggested Sage.

"Self-willed!" exclaimed Mr. Llewellyn John.  "He is a dictator in
embryo."

"He happens also to be a patriot," said Sage quietly.

"Wait until you meet him," said the Prime Minister grimly.

"I have met him," said Sage quietly.  "I trod on his toe last night at
'Chu Chin Chow.'  We had quite a pleasant little chat about it.  I
think that is all I need trouble you with, sir," he concluded.

"And we are to see the thing through?" interrogated Colonel Walton, as
Mr. Llewellyn John rose.  "There won't be any----"

"No one else knows anything about it except Sir Lyster, Sir Bridgman
and Admiral Heyworth.  By the way," Mr. Llewellyn John added, "our
Canadian friend has an idea that our Secret Service is run by
superannuated policemen in regulation boots."

"I know," said Sage, as he followed his chief towards the door.

"Good-bye," cried Mr. Llewellyn John.  "I'm sure I shall have to send
you to the Tower, Sage, before I've finished with you."

"Then I'll spend the time writing the History of Department Z., sir,"
was the quiet reply.  The two men went out, and Mr. Llewellyn John rang
for his secretary.

"You have rather----" began Colonel Walton, but he stopped short.  Sage
suddenly knocked him roughly with his elbow.

"I have never seen the Mons Star," he said.  "Can we go round by
Whitehall?  The Horse Guards sentries, I believe, wear it."

The two men had reached the top of the steps leading down into St.
James's Park.  Without a moment's pause Sage turned quickly, and nearly
cannoned into a pretty and stylishly dressed girl, who was walking
close behind them.  He lifted his hat and apologised, and he and
Colonel Walton passed up Downing Street into Whitehall.  For the rest
of the walk back to St. James's Square, Sage chatted about medals.

Seated once more one on either side of Colonel Walton's table, Sage
proceeded to light his pipe.

"Clever, wasn't it?" he asked.  "She's fairly new, too."

"Who was she?"

"Vera Ellerton, employed as a Temporary Ministry typist," Sage replied
drily.

"So that was it," remarked Colonel Walton, cutting the end of a cigar
with great deliberation.

"She was following us on the chance of catching any odd remarks that
might be useful.  On the way back here two others picked us up on the
relay system."

"Do you think she knew who we were?" enquired Colonel Walton.

"No, just an off chance.  We were callers on the Skipper, and might let
something drop.  It's a regular thing, picking up the callers,
generally when they've got some distance away though."

"They must have learned quite a deal about numismatics," said Colonel
Walton drily.

"A constitutional government is a great obstacle to an efficient Secret
Service, it imposes limitations," remarked Sage regretfully.

Colonel Walton looked across in the act of lighting his cigar.

"There are six hundred and seventy of them at Westminster.  In war-time
we require a system of the _lettre-de-cachet_.  And now," said Sage,
rising, "I think I'll get a couple of hours' sleep, I've been pretty
busy.  By the way," he said, with his hand upon the door-handle, "I
think we might get the papers of that fellow on the Bergen boat, also a
photograph, clothing, and full details of his appearance."

Colonel Walton nodded and Malcolm Sage took his departure.


II

"It's curious."

Malcolm Sage was seated at his table carefully studying several sheets
of buff-coloured paper fastened together in the top left-hand corner
with thin green cord.  In a tray beside him lay a number of similar
documents.

He glanced across at a small man with a dark moustache and determined
chin sitting opposite.  The man made a movement as if to speak, then
apparently thinking better of it, remained silent.

"How many false calls did you say?" enquired Sage.

"Nine in five days, sir," was the response.

Malcolm Sage nodded his head several times, his eyes still fixed on the
papers before him.

One of his first acts on being appointed to Department Z. was to give
instructions, through the proper channels, that all telephone-operators
were to be warned to report to their supervisors anything that struck
them as unusual, no matter how trivial the incident might appear,
carefully noting the numbers of the subscribers whose messages seemed
out of the ordinary.  This was quite apart from the special staff
detailed to tap conversations, particularly call-box conversations
throughout the Kingdom.

A bright young operator at the Streatham Exchange, coveting the reward
of five pounds offered for any really useful information, had called
attention to the curious fact that Mr. Montagu Naylor, of "The Cedars,"
Apthorpe Road, was constantly receiving wrong calls.

This operator's report had been considered of sufficient importance to
send to Department Z.  Instructions had been given for a complete
record to be kept of all Mr. Montagu Naylor's calls, in-coming and
out-going.  The first thing that struck Sage as significant was that
all these false calls were made from public call-boxes.  He gave
instructions that at the Streatham Exchange they were to enquire of the
exchanges from which the calls had come if any complaint had been made
by those getting wrong numbers.  The result showed that quite a number
of people seemed content to pay threepence to be told that they were on
to the wrong subscriber.

"What do you make of it, Thompson?"  Malcolm Sage looked up in that
sudden way of his, which many found so disconcerting.

Thompson shook his head.  "I've had enquiries made at all the places
given, and they seem quite all right, sir," was his reply.  "It's
funny," he added after a pause.  "It began with short streets and small
numbers, and then gradually took in the larger thoroughfares with
bigger numbers."

"The calls have always come through in the same way?" queried Malcolm
Sage.  "First the number and then the street and no mention of the
exchange."

"Yes, sir," was the response.  "It's a bit of a puzzle," he added.

Malcolm Sage nodded.  For some minutes they sat in silence, Sage
staring with expressionless face at the papers before him.  Suddenly
with a swift movement he pushed them over towards Thompson.

"Get out a list of the whole range of numbers immediately, and bring it
to me as soon as you can.  Tell them to get me through to Smart at the
Streatham Exchange."

"Very good, sir;" and the man took his departure.

A minute later the telephone bell rang.

Malcolm Sage took up the receiver.  "That you, Smart?" he enquired, "re
Z.18, in future transcribe figures in words exactly as spoken, thus
double-one-three, one-hundred-and-thirteen, or one-one-three, as the
case may be."  He jammed the receiver back again on to the rest, and
proceeded to gaze fixedly at the finger-nails of his left hand.

A quarter of an hour later Special Service Officer Thompson entered
with a long list of figures, which he handed to Malcolm Sage.

"You've hit it, Thompson," said Sage, glancing swiftly down the list.

"Have I, sir?" said Thompson, not quite sure what it was he was
supposed to have hit.

"They are----"

At that moment the telephone bell rang.  Malcolm Sage put the receiver
to his ear.

"Yes, Malcolm Sage, speaking," he said.  There was a pause.  "Yes."
Another pause.  "Good, continue to record in that manner;" and once
more he replaced the receiver.

"Vanity, Thompson, is at the root of all error."

"Yes, sir, said Thompson dutifully.

"Those figures," continued Sage, "are times, not numbers."

With a quick indrawing of breath, which with Thompson always indicated
excitement, he reached across for the list, his eyes glinting.

"That was Smart on the telephone, another call just come through,
three-twenty Oxford Street, not three-two-o, but three-twenty.  Make a
note of it."

Thompson produced a note-book and hastily scribbled a memorandum.

"At three-twenty this afternoon you will probably find Mr. Montagu
Naylor meeting somebody in Oxford Street.  Have both followed.  If by
chance they don't turn up, have someone there at three-twenty every
afternoon and morning for a week; it may be the second, third, fourth,
or fifth day after the call for all we know, morning or evening."

"It's the old story, Thompson," said Sage, who never lost a chance of
pointing the moral, "over confidence.  Here's a fellow who has worked
out a really original means of communication.  Instead of running it
for a few months and then dropping it, he carries on until someone
tumbles to his game."

"Yes, sir," said Thompson respectfully.  It was an understood thing at
Department Z. that these little homilies should be listened to with
deference.

"It's like a dog hiding a bone in a hat-box," continued Sage.  "He's so
pleased with himself that he imagines no one else can attain to such
mental brilliancy.  He makes no allowance for the chapter of accidents."

"That is so, sir."

"We mustn't get like that in Department Z., Thompson."

Thompson shook his head.  Time after time Sage had impressed upon the
staff of Department Z. that mentally they must be elastic.  "It's only
a fool who is blinded by his own vapour," he had said.  He had pointed
out the folly of endeavouring to fit a fact by an hypothesis.

"That's all," and Malcolm Sage became absorbed in the paper before him.
As he closed the door behind him Thompson winked gravely at a print
upon the wall of the corridor opposite.  He was wondering how it was
possible for one man to watch the whole of Oxford Street for a week.




CHAPTER IV

GINGERING-UP THE ADMIRALTY

"Boss in?"

Mr. Blair started violently; he had not heard John Dene enter his room.

"Er--yes, Mr. Dene," he replied, "I'll tell him."  He half rose; but
before he could complete the movement John Dene had opened the door
communicating with Sir Lyster's private room.

Mr. Blair sank back in his chair.  He was a man who assimilated
innovation with difficulty.  All his life he had been cradled in the
lap of "as it was in the beginning."  He was a vade-mecum on procedure
and the courtesies of life, which made him extremely valuable to Sir
Lyster.  He was a gentle zephyr, whereas John Dene was something
between a sudden draught and a cyclone.

Mr. Blair fixed his rather prominent blue eyes on the door that had
closed behind John Dene.  He disliked colonials.  They always said what
they meant, and went directly for what they wanted, all of which was in
opposition to his standard of good-breeding.

As he continued to gaze at the door, it suddenly opened and John Dene's
head appeared.

"Say," he cried, "if that yellow-headed girl comes, send her right in,"
and the door closed with a bang.

Inwardly Mr. Blair gasped; it was not customary for yellow-haired girls
to be sent in to see the First Lord.

"The difference between this country and Can'da," remarked John Dene,
as he planted upon Sir Lyster's table a large, shapeless-looking
parcel, from which he proceeded to remove the wrapping, "is that here
every one wants to know who your father was; but in Can'da they ask
what can you do.  I got that pound of tea," he added inconsequently.

"The pound of tea!" repeated Sir Lyster uncomprehendingly, as he
watched John Dene endeavouring to extract a packet from his pocket with
one hand, and undo the string of the parcel with the other.

"Yes, for that yellow-headed girl.  I ran into her in the corridor and
smashed her teapot yesterday.  I promised I'd get her some more tea.
Here it is;" and John Dene laid the package on the First Lord's table.
"If she comes after I'm gone, you might give it to her.  I told her to
run in here and fetch it.  This is the pot," he added, still struggling
with the wrappings.

Presently he disinterred from a mass of paper wound round it in every
conceivable way, a large white, pink and gold teapot.

Sir Lyster gazed from the teapot, terrifying in the crudeness of its
shape and design, to John Dene and back again to the teapot.

"Like it?" asked John Dene, as he looked admiringly at his purchase.
"Ought to cheer those girls up some."

Sir Lyster continued to gaze at the teapot as if fascinated.

"I told her to run in here and fetch it," continued John Dene,
indicating the packet of tea.  "She doesn't know about the pot," he
added with self-satisfaction.

"In here," repeated Sir Lyster, unwilling to believe his ears.

"Sure," replied John Dene, his eyes still fixed admiringly upon the
teapot, "at eleven o'clock.  It's that now," he added, looking at his
watch.

As he did so Mr. Blair entered and closed the door behind him.  He was
obviously embarrassed.

"A young person----" he began.

"Send her right in," cried John Dene.

Mr. Blair glanced uncertainly from Sir Lyster to John Dene, then back
again to his chief.  Seeing no contradiction in his eye, he turned and
held open the door to admit Dorothy West.

"Ah! here you are," cried John Dene, rising and indicating that the
girl should occupy his chair.  "There's your pound of tea," pointing to
the package lying before Sir Lyster, "and there's a new teapot for
you," he added, indicating that object, which seemed to flaunt its pink
and white and gold as if determined to brazen things out.

The girl looked at the teapot, at Sir Lyster and on to John Dene, and
back to the teapot.  Then she laughed.  She had pretty teeth, John Dene
decided.

"It's very kind of you," she said, "but there wasn't a pound of tea in
the teapot you broke yesterday, and--and----"

"Never mind," said John Dene, "you can keep the rest.  Now see here, I
want someone to take down my letters.  You're a stenographer?" he asked.

The girl nodded her head.

"Speeds?" enquired John Dene.

"A hundred and twenty----" was the response.

"Typing?"

"Sixty-five words----"

"You'll do," said John Dene with decision.  "In future you'll do my
work only.  Nine o'clock, every morning."

The girl looked enquiringly at Sir Lyster, who coughed slightly.

"We will take up your references, Miss--er----"

"Oh! cut it out," said John Dene impatiently, "I don't want references."

"But," replied Sir Lyster, "this is work of a confidential nature.".

"See here," cried John Dene.  "I started life selling newspapers in
T'ronto.  I never had a reference, I never gave a reference and I never
asked a reference, and the man who can get ahead of John Dene had
better stay up all night for fear of missing the buzzer in the morning.
That girl's straight, else she wouldn't be asked to do my letters," he
added.  "Now, don't you wait," he said to Dorothy, seeing she was
embarrassed at his remark; "nine o'clock to-morrow morning."

"I think it will be necessary to take up references," began Sir Lyster
as John Dene closed the door on Dorothy.

John Dene span round on his heel.  "I run my business on Canadian
lines, not on British," he cried.  "If you're always going to be around
telling me what to do, then I'll see this country to hell before they
get my _Destroyer_.  The man who deals with John Dene does so on his
terms," and with that he left the room, closing the door with a bang
behind him.

For a moment he stood gazing down at Mr. Blair.  "Can you tell me," he
asked slowly, "why the British Empire has not gone to blazes long ago?"

Mr. Blair gazed at him, mild surprise in his prominent eyes.

"I am afraid I don't--I cannot----" he began.

"Neither can I," said John Dene.  "You're all just about as cute as
dead weasels."

John Dene walked along the corridor and down the staircase in high
dudgeon.

"Ha!  Mr. Dene, what's happened?" enquired Sir Bridgman, who was
mounting the stairs as John Dene descended.

"I've been wondering how it is the British Empire has hung together as
long as it has," was the response.

"What have we been doing now?" enquired Sir Bridgman.

"It's my belief," remarked John Dene, "that in this country you
wouldn't engage a janitor without his great-grandmother's
birth-certificate."

"I'm afraid we are rather a prejudiced nation," said Sir Bridgman
genially.

"I don't care a cousin Mary what you are," responded John Dene, "so
long as you don't come up against me.  I'm out to win this war; it
doesn't matter to me a red cent who's got the most grandmothers, and
the sooner you tell the First Lord and that prize seal of his, the
better we shall get on;" and John Dene abruptly continued on his way.

Sir Bridgman smiled as he slowly ascended the stairs.

"I suppose," he murmured, "we are in the process of being gingered-up."

The rest of the day John Dene devoted to sight-seeing and wandering
about the streets, keenly interested in and critical of all he saw.

The next morning he was at the Admiralty a few minutes to nine, and was
conducted by an attendant to the room that had been assigned to him.
He gave a swift glance round and, apparently satisfied that it would
suit his purpose, seated himself at the large pedestal table and took
out his watch.  As he did so, he noticed an envelope addressed to him
lying on the table.  Picking it up he tore off the end, extracted and
read the note.  Just as he had finished there came a tap at the door.

"Come," he called out.

The door opened and Dorothy West entered, looking very pretty and
business-like with a note-book and pencil in her hand.

"Good morning," she said.

"Mornin', Miss West," he replied, gazing at her apparently without
seeing her.  He was obviously thinking of something else.

She seated herself beside his table and looked up, awaiting his signal
to begin the day's work.

"There are some things in this country that get my goat," he remarked.

John Dene threw down the letter he was reading, twirled the cigar
between his lips and snorted his impatience, as he jumped from his
chair and proceeded to stride up and down the room.

"There are quite a lot that get mine," she remarked demurely, as she
glanced up from her note-book.

"A lot that get yours," he repeated, coming to a standstill and looking
down at her.

"Things that get my goat."  There was the slightest possible pause
between the "my" and the "goat."

Then John Dene smiled.  In Toronto it was said that when John Dene
smiled securities could always be trusted to mount at least a point.

"Well, listen to this."  He picked up the letter again and read:


"DEAR MR. DENE,--

"Sir Lyster desires me to write and express it as his most urgent wish
that you will pay special regard to your personal safety.  He fears
that you may be inclined to treat the matter too lightly, hence this
letter.

"Yours truly,
  "REGINALD BLAIR."


"If that chap hadn't such a dandy set of grandmothers and first
cousins, he'd be picking up cigarette-stubs instead of wasting his time
telling me what I knew a year ago."

"But he's only carrying out Sir Lyster's instructions," suggested
Dorothy.

"There's something in that," he admitted grudgingly, "but if they're
going to be always running around warning me of danger I know all
about----"  He broke off.  "Why," he continued a moment later, "I was
shot at on the steamer, nearly hustled into the docks at Liverpool, set
on by toughs in Manchester and followed around as if I was a bell-mule.
I tell you it gets my goat.  This country wants gingering-up."  John
Dene continued his pacing of the room.

"Couldn't you wear a red beard and blue glasses and----"

"What's that?"  John Dene span round and fixed his eyes on the girl.

"I mean disguise yourself," said Dorothy, dropping her eyes beneath his
gaze.

"Why?"  The interrogation was rapped out in such a tone as to cause the
girl to shrink back slightly.

"They wouldn't know and then it wouldn't----" she hesitated.

"Wouldn't what?" he demanded.

"Get your goat," said Dorothy after a moment's hesitation.

He continued to gaze intently at Dorothy, who was absorbed in a blank
page of her note-book.

"Here, take this down;" and he proceeded to dictate.

"MY DEAR MR. BLAIR,--

"I am in receipt of yours of to-day's date.  Will you tell Sir Lyster
that I have bought a machine-gun, a blue beard, false eyebrows, and
Miss West and I are going to do bayonet drill every morning with a
pillow.

"With kind regards,
  "Yours sincerely."


For a few moments Dorothy sat regarding her book with knitted brows.
"I don't think I should send that, if I were you, Mr. Dene," she said
at length.

"Why not?" he demanded, unaccustomed to having his orders questioned.

"It sounds rather flippant, doesn't it?"

John Dene smiled grimly, and as he made no further comment, Dorothy
struck out the letter from her note-book.

All through the morning John Dene threw off letters.  The way in which
he did his dictating reminded Dorothy of a retriever shaking the water
from its coat after a swim.  He hurled short, sharp sentences at her,
as if anxious to be rid of them.  Sometimes he would sit hunched up at
his table, at others he would spring up and proceed feverishly to pace
about the room.

As she filled page after page of her note-book, Dorothy wondered when
she would have an opportunity of transcribing her notes.  Hour after
hour John Dene dictated, in short bursts, interspersed with varying
pauses, during which he seemed to be deep in thought.  Once Sir
Bridgman looked in, and Dorothy had a space in which to breathe; but
with the departure of the First Sea Lord the torrent jerked forth
afresh.

At two o'clock Dorothy felt that she must either scream or faint.  Her
right hand seemed as if it would drop off.  At last she suggested that
even Admiralty typists required lunch.  In a flash John Dene seemed to
change into a human being, solicitous and self-reproachful.

"Too bad," he said, as he pulled out his watch.  "Why, it's a quarter
after two.  You must be all used up.  I'm sorry."

"And aren't you hungry as well, Mr. Dene?" she asked, as she closed her
note-book and rose.

"Hungry!" he repeated as if she had asked him a surprising question.
"I've no use for food when I'm hustling.  Where do you go for lunch?"

"I go to a tea-shop," said Dorothy after a moment's hesitation.

"And what do you eat?" demanded John Dene, with the air of a
cross-examining counsel.

"Oh, all sorts of things," she laughed; "buns and eggs and--and----"

"That's no good," was the uncompromising rejoinder.

"They're really quite nourishing," she said with a smile.  At the
Admiralty it was not customary for the chiefs to enquire what the
typists ate.

"You'd better come with me and have a good meal," he said bluntly,
reaching for his hat.

Dorothy flushed.  The implication was too obvious to be overlooked.
Drawing herself up slightly, and with her head a little thrown back,
she declined.

"I'm afraid I have an engagement," she said coldly.

John Dene looked up, puzzled to account for her sudden hauteur.  He
watched her leave the room, and then, throwing down his hat, reseated
himself at his table and once more became absorbed in his work.

Dorothy went to the Admiralty staff-restaurant and spent a week's lunch
allowance upon her meal.  It seemed to help her to regain her
self-respect.  When she returned to John Dene's room some forty minutes
later, determined to get some of her notes typed before he returned,
she found him still sitting at his table.  As she entered he took out
his watch, looked at it and then up at her.  Dorothy crimsoned as if
discovered in some illicit act.  She was angry with herself for her
weakness and with John Dene--why, she could not have said.

"You've been hustling some," he remarked, as he returned the watch to
his pocket.

"We've both been quick," said Dorothy, curious to know if John Dene had
been to lunch.

"Oh, I stayed right here," he said, still gazing up at her.

Dorothy felt rebuked.  He had evidently felt snubbed, she told herself,
and it was her fault that he had remained at work.

"See here," said John Dene, "I can't breathe in this place.  It's all
gold braid and brass buttons.  I'm going to rent my own offices, and
have lunch sent in and we'll get some work done.  You can get a rest or
a walk about three.  I don't like breaking off in the midst of things,"
he added, a little lamely, Dorothy thought.

"Very well, Mr. Dene," she said, as she resumed her seat.

"Do you mind?  Say right out if you'd hate it."  There was a suspicion
of anxiety in his tone.

"I'm here to do whatever you wish," she said with dignity.

With a sudden movement John Dene sprang up and proceeded to pace up and
down the room.

From time to time he glanced at Dorothy, who sat pencil and note-book
ready for the flood of staccatoed sentences that usually accompanied
these pacings to and fro.  At length he came to a standstill in the
middle of the room, planted his feet wide apart as if to steady the
resolution to which he had apparently come.

"Say, what's all this worth to you?" he blurted out.

Dorothy looked up in surprise, not grasping his meaning.

"Worth to me?" she queried, her head on one side, the tip of her pencil
resting on her lower lip.

"Yes; what do they pay you?"

"Oh!  I see.  Thirty-five shillings a week and, if I become a
permanent, a pension when I'm too old to enjoy it," she laughed.  "That
is if the Hun hasn't taken us over by then."

"That'll be about nine dollars a week," mumbled John Dene, twisting his
cigar round between his lips.  "Well, you're worth twenty dollars a
week to me, so I'll make up the rest."

"I'm quite satisfied, thank you," she said, drawing herself up slightly.

"Well, I'm not," he blurted out.  "You're going to work well for me,
and you're going to be well paid."

"I'm afraid I cannot accept it," she said firmly, "although it's very
kind of you," she added with a smile.

He regarded her in surprise.  It was something new to him to find
anyone refusing an increase in salary.  His cigar twirled round with
remarkable rapidity.

"I suppose I'm getting his goat," thought Dorothy, as she watched him
from beneath lowered lashes.

"Why won't you take it?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid I cannot accept presents," she said with what she thought a
disarming smile.

"Oh, shucks!"  John Dene was annoyed.

"If the Admiralty thought I was worth more than thirty-five shillings a
week, they would pay me more."

"Well, I'm not going to have anyone around that doesn't get a living
wage," he announced explosively.

"Does that mean that I had better go?" she inquired calmly.

"No, it doesn't.  You just stay right here till I get back," was the
reply, and he opened the door and disappeared, leaving Dorothy with the
conviction that someone was to suffer because, in John Dene's opinion,
she was inadequately paid.

As she waited for John Dene's return, she could not keep her thoughts
from what an extra forty-five shillings a week would mean to her.  She
could increase the number and quality of the little "surprises" she
took home with her to the mother in whose life she bulked so largely.
Peaches could be bought without the damning prefix "tinned"; salmon
without the discouraging modification "Canadian"; eggs that had not
long since forgotten what hen had laid them and when.  She could take
her more often to a theatre, or for a run in a taxi when she was tired.
In short, a hundred and seventeen pounds a year would buy quite a lot
of rose-leaves with which to colour her mother's life.

Whilst Dorothy was building castles in Spain upon a foundation of
eleven dollars a week, John Dene walked briskly along the corridor
leading to Sir Lyster's room.  Mr. Blair was seated at his desk reading
with calm deliberation and self-evident satisfaction a letter he had
just written for Sir Lyster to one of his constituents.  He had devoted
much time and thought to the composition, as it was for publication,
and he was determined that no one should find in it flaw or ambiguity.
The morning had been one of flawless serenity, and he was looking
forward to a pleasant lunch with some friends at the Berkeley.

"Here, what the hell do you mean by giving that girl only nine dollars
a week?"

Suddenly the idyllic peaceful ness of his mood was shattered into a
thousand fragments.  John Dene had burst into the room with the force
of a cyclone, and stood before him like an accusing fury.

"Nine dollars a week!  What girl?" he stuttered, looking up weakly into
John Dene's angry eyes.  "I--I----"

"Miss West," was the retort.  "She's getting nine dollars a week, less
than I pay an office boy in T'ronto."

"But I--it's nothing to do with me," began Mr. Blair miserably.  He had
become mortally afraid of John Dene, and prayed for the time to come
when the Hun submarine menace would be ended, and John Dene could
return to Toronto, where no doubt he was understood and appreciated.

"Well, it ought to be," snapped John Dene, just as Sir Bridgman North
came out of Sir Lyster's room.

"Good morning, Mr. Dene," he cried genially.  "What are you doing to
poor Blair?"

John Dene explained his grievance.  "I'd pay the difference myself,
just to make you all feel a bit small, only she won't take it from me."

"Well, I think I can promise that the matter shall be put right, and
we'll make Blair take her out to lunch by way of apology, shall we?" he
laughed.

"I'd like to see him ask her," said John Dene grimly.  "That girl's a
high-stepper, sir.  Nine dollars a week!" he grumbled as he left the
room to the manifest relief of Mr. Blair.

"You're being gingered-up, Blair," said Sir Bridgman; "in fact, we're
all being gingered-up.  It's a bit surprising at first; but it's a
great game played slow.  You'll get to like it in time, and it's all
for the good of the British Empire."

Mr. Blair smiled weakly as Sir Bridgman left the room; but in his heart
he wished it were possible to have a sentinel outside his door, with
strict injunctions to bayonet John Dene without hesitation should he
seek admittance.

"I've fixed it," announced John Dene, as he burst in upon Dorothy's day
dream.  "You'll get twenty dollars in future."

She looked up quickly.  "You're very kind, Mr. Dene," she said, "but is
it--is it----?" she hesitated.

"It's a square deal.  I told them you wouldn't take it from me, and
that I wasn't going to have my secretary paid less than an office boy
in T'ronto.  I gingered 'em up some.  Nine dollars a week for you!"

The tone in which the last sentence was uttered brought a slight flush
to Dorothy's cheeks.

"Now you can get on," he announced, picking up his hat.  "I'm going to
find offices;" and he went out like a gust of wind.

Dorothy typed steadily on.  Of one thing she had become convinced, that
the position of secretary to John Dene of Toronto was not going to
prove a rest-billet.

At a little after four Marjorie Rogers knocked at the door and,
recognising Dorothy's "Come in," entered stealthily as if expecting
someone to jump out at her.

"Where's the bear, Wessie?" she enquired, keeping a weather eye on the
door in case John Dene should return.

"Gone out to buy bear-biscuits," laughed Dorothy, leaning back in her
chair to get the kink out of her spine.

"Do you think he'll marry you?" enquired the little brunette
romantically, as she perched herself upon John Dene's table and swung a
pretty leg.  "They don't usually, you know."

"He'll probably kill you if he catches you," said Dorothy.

"Oh, if he comes I'm here to ask if you would like some tea," was the
airy reply.

"You angel!" cried Dorothy.  "I should love it."

"Has he tried to kiss you yet?" demanded the girl, looking at Dorothy
searchingly.

"Don't be ridiculous," cried Dorothy, conscious that she was flushing.

"I see he has," she said, regarding Dorothy judicially and nodding her
head wisely.

Dorothy re-started typing.  It was absurd, she decided, to endeavour to
argue with this worldly child of Whitehall.

"They're all the same," continued Marjorie, lifting her skirt slightly
and gazing with obvious approval at the symmetry of her leg.  "You
didn't let him, I hope," continued the girl.  "You see, it makes it bad
for others."  Then a moment later she added, "It should be chocs.
before kisses, and they've got to learn the ropes."

"And you, you little imp, have got to learn morals."  Dorothy laughed
in spite of herself at the quaint air of wisdom with which this girl of
eighteen settled the ethics of Whitehall.

"What's the use of morals?" cried the girl.  "I mean morals that get in
the way of your having a good time.  Of course I wouldn't----"  She
paused.

"Never mind what you wouldn't do, Brynhilda the Bold," said Dorothy,
"but concentrate on the woulds, and bring me the tea you promised."

The girl slipped off the table and darted across the room, returning a
few minutes later with a cup of tea and a few biscuits.

"I can't stop," she panted.  "Old Goggles has been giving me the bird;"
and with that she was gone.

It was a quarter to seven before John Dene returned.  Without a word he
threw his hat on the bookcase and seated himself at his table.  For the
next quarter of an hour he was absorbed in reading the lists and
letters Dorothy had typed.  At seven o'clock Dorothy placed the last
list on the table before him.

"Is there anything more, Mr. Dene?" she enquired.  She was conscious of
feeling inexpressibly weary.

"Yes," said John Dene, without looking up.  "You're coming out to have
some dinner."

"I'm afraid I can't, thank you," she said.  "My mother is waiting."

"Oh shucks!" he cried, looking up quickly.

"But it isn't!" she said wearily.

"Isn't what?" demanded John Dene.

"Shucks!" she said; then, seeing the absurdity of the thing, she
laughed.

"We'll send your mother an express message or a wire.  You look dead
beat."  He smiled and Dorothy capitulated.  It would be nice, she told
herself, not to have to go all the way to Chiswick before having
anything to eat.

"But where are you taking me, Mr. Dene?" enquired Dorothy, as they
turned from Waterloo Place into Pall Mall.

"To the Ritzton."

"But I'm--I'm----" she stopped dead.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, looking at her in surprise.

"I--I can't go there," she stammered.  "I'm not dressed for----"  She
broke off lamely.

"That'll be all right," he said.  "It's my hotel."

"It may be your hotel," said Dorothy, resuming the walk, "but I don't
care to go there in a blouse and a skirt to be stared at."

"Who'll stare at you?"

"Not at me, at my clothes," she corrected.

"Then we'll go to the grill-room," he replied with inspiration.

"That might be----" She hesitated.

"You're not going home until you have something to eat," he announced
with determination.  "You look all used up," he added.

Dorothy submitted to the inevitable, conscious of a feeling of content
at having someone to decide things for her.  Suddenly she remembered
Marjorie Rogers' remarks.  What was she doing?  If any of the girls saw
her they would----  She had done the usual thing, sent a telegram to
her mother to say she should be late, and was dining out with her chief
on the first day----  Oh! it was horrible.

"Would you--would you?"--she turned to John Dene appealingly,--"would
you mind if I went home," she faltered.  "I'm not feeling--very well."
She gulped out the last words conscious of the lie.

"Why sure," he said solicitously.  "I'm sorry."

To her infinite relief he hailed a taxi.

"I'll come along and see you safe," he announced in a matter-of-fact
tone.

"Oh, please no," she cried, "I'd much sooner----"  She broke off
distressed.

Without a word he handed her into the taxi.

"Where am I to tell him?" he enquired.

"Douglas Mansions, Chiswick, please," gasped Dorothy, and she sank back
in the taxi with a feeling that she had behaved very ridiculously.




CHAPTER V

JOHN DENE LEAVES WHITEHALL


I

"Come," shouted John Dene irritably.

The door opened and Mr. Blair entered.  John Dene swung round from his
table and glared at him angrily.

"I tried to telephone," began Mr. Blair.

"Well, you can't," snapped John Dene, "receiver's off.  Your boys have
been playing dido all morning on my 'phone."

"I'm sorry if----"

"That don't help any.  Why don't you stop 'em?  Seem to think I'm a
sort of enquiry bureau."

Dorothy bent low over her notes to hide the smile she could not
restrain at the sight of the obvious wretchedness of Mr. Blair.

"Sir Lyster would like you to step round----"

"Well, I won't; tell him that," was the irascible reply.

"He wants you to meet Sir Harold Winn, the chief naval constructor,"
explained Mr. Blair.

"Tell him to go to blazes and take his constructions with him.  Now
vamoose."

Mr. Blair hesitated, glanced at John Dene, seemed about to speak, then
evidently thinking better of it withdrew, closing the door noiselessly
behind him.

As John Dene swung round once more to his table, he caught Dorothy's
eye.  She smiled.

With a little grumble in his throat John Dene became absorbed in his
papers.  Dorothy decided that he was a little ashamed of his outburst.

All the day he had shown marked irritability under the constant
interruptions to which he had been subjected.

They worked on steadily for a quarter of an hour.  Presently there was
a gentle tap at the door.  With one bound John Dene was out of his
chair and across the room.  A second later he threw open the door,
ready to annihilate whoever might be there, from the First Lord
downwards.

"Oo--er!"

Marjorie Rogers stood there, her pretty eyes dilated with fear as John
Dene glared at her.  His set look relaxed at the sight of the girl.

"Is--is--Miss West here?" she enquired timidly.

"Sure, come right in," he said.

Dorothy was surprised at the change produced by the appearance of
Marjorie Rogers.

The girl came a few steps into the room, then seeing Dorothy tripped
over to her and, turning to John Dene, said, still a little nervously:

"I--I came to ask Miss West if she would like some tea."  She smiled up
at John Dene, a picture of guileless innocence.

"Sorry if I scared you," he said awkwardly.

"Oh, you didn't frighten me," she said, regaining confidence at the
sight of John Dene's embarrassment.

"Perhaps Mr. Dene would like a cup of tea too, Rojjie," suggested
Dorothy.

"Oh, would you?" cried the girl eagerly.

"Why, sure," said John Dene and he smiled, for the first time that day,
Dorothy mentally noted.

In a flash Marjorie disappeared.

"I'm--I'm sorry," said John Dene to Dorothy.  "I didn't know she was a
friend of yours."

"She's in the room I used to be in, and--she's very sweet and brings me
tea."

He nodded comprehendingly.  "They do a lot of that here, don't they?"

"A lot of what?" asked Dorothy.

"Drinking tea."

"We only have it in the afternoon, and----"

At that moment Marjorie entered with a small tray containing three cups
of tea and a plate of biscuits.  These she placed on John Dene's table.

Dorothy gasped at the sight of the three cups, wondering what John Dene
would think.

"I brought mine in to have with you," said Marjorie with perfect
self-possession, as she handed Dorothy her cup, then turning to John
Dene she smiled.  He nodded, as if she had done a most ordinary thing.

Perching herself upon the corner of John Dene's table, Marjorie chatted
brightly, having apparently quite overcome her fears.

"You know, Mr. Dene," she said, "we're all dreadfully intrigued about
you."

John Dene looked at her with a puzzled expression.

"All the other girls are terribly afraid of you," she continued.  "I'm
not."

"Of me?"  He looked at her in surprise, as if he regarded himself as
the last person in the world to inspire fear.

"They say you glare at them."  She smiled a wicked little smile that
she called "the rouser."  As John Dene did not reply Marjorie
continued: "They call you 'the bear.'"

"Rojjie!" gasped Dorothy in horror.

"The bear?" repeated John Dene.  "Why?"

"Oh, but I am going to tell them you're not," said Marjorie, nibbling
at a biscuit and looking across at John Dene appraisingly.  "I think
you're really rather nice."

John Dene glanced across at Dorothy, as if unable quite to classify the
girl before him.

"Of course they don't know that you can smile like that," added
Marjorie.

John Dene was about to make some remark when there came another knock.

"Come," he cried, and a moment later the door opened and Sir Lyster
entered, followed by a tall, sedate-looking man with a bulging forehead
and ragged moustache.

For a moment the two regarded the scene, Sir Lyster having recourse to
his monocle.

Marjorie slipped down from the table, all her self-possession deserting
her at the sight of Sir Lyster's disapproving gaze.  Dorothy bent over
her notes, conscious of her burning cheeks, whilst John Dene rose with
entire unconcern.

"I'm afraid we've interrupted you, Mr. Dene," said Sir Lyster.

"It's the one thing they do well in this shack," was John Dene's
uncompromising retort.

Sir Lyster gazed a little anxiously at his companion.

Taking advantage of the diversion, Marjorie slipped out and Dorothy,
deciding that she would not be wanted for at least a few minutes,
followed her.

"I want to introduce you to Sir Harold Winn," said Sir Lyster.

"Pleased to meet you," said John Dene, shaking Sir Harold vigorously by
the hand.  "Take a seat."

John Dene and the Chief Naval Constructor were soon deep in the
intricacies of submarine-construction.  When at length Sir Harold rose
to go, there was something like cordiality in John Dene's voice, as he
bade him good-bye.  Sir Harold had been able to meet him on common
ground, and show an intelligent and comprehensive interest in his work.

Immediately they had gone, Dorothy, who had been waiting in the
corridor, slipped back to her chair, first removing the tea tray from
John Dene's table.  Soon she was busily taking down notes.

While she was thus occupied, Sir Lyster was narrating to Sir Bridgman
North the latest John Dene outrage, first his open flouting of the
Chief Naval Constructor by refusing to see him, secondly the
interrupted tea, and the girl perched upon John Dene's table.

Sir Bridgman laughed loudly, as much at the expression on Sir Lyster's
face as at the occurrence itself.

"Such incidents," said Sir Lyster, "are, I think, very undesirable."

"It looks as if John Dene were a dark horse," suggested Sir Bridgman.
"Was the other girl pretty?"

"I really didn't notice," said Sir Lyster stiffly.  "I thought perhaps
you might"--he hesitated for a fraction of a second--"just drop him a
hint," he added.

"And be gingered-up as high as our own aerials," laughed Sir Bridgman.
"No, my dear Grayne," he added, "I find 'gingering-up' intensely
interesting in its application to others.  Get Blair to do it."

"But I'm afraid it may create a scandal," said Sir Lyster.

"Oh! another little scandal won't do us any harm," laughed Sir
Bridgman.  "Now I must be off.  By the way," he said, as he reached the
door, "what time did this little tea-fight take place?"

"It was about four o'clock when Winn and I----"

"Right," said Sir Bridgman, "I'll drop in about that time to-morrow and
see what's doing," and the door closed behind him.

A moment later he put his head round the door.  "One of these days
you'll be finding Blair with a girl on each knee," he laughed, and with
that he was gone.

John Dene's reason for wishing to have offices somewhere away from the
Admiralty had been twofold.  For one thing he did not desire those he
knew were closely watching should see him in close association with
Whitehall; for another he felt that he could breathe more freely away
from gold braid and those long dreary corridors, which seemed so out of
keeping with the headquarters of a Navy at war.  He now determined to
get out at once.  The constant interruptions to which he found himself
subjected, rendered concentration impossible.  He therefore informed
Dorothy that at nine o'clock next morning they would start work in the
new offices he had taken in Waterloo Place.  They consisted of two
rooms, one leading off the other.  The larger room John Dene decided to
use himself, the smaller he handed over to Dorothy.

With a celerity that had rather surprised John Dene the telephone had
been connected and a private wire run through to the Admiralty.

"The thing about a Britisher," he remarked to Dorothy, "is that he can
hustle, but won't."

She allowed the remark to pass unchallenged.

"Now things will begin to hum," he said, as he settled himself down to
his table.  Throwing aside his coat, he set to work.  There was little
over three weeks in which to get everything organised and planned.
Long lists of stores for the _Destroyer_ had to be prepared, the
details of the structural alterations to the _Toronto_, the name given
to the mother-ship that was to act as tender to the _Destroyer_,
instructions to the Canadian crew that was coming over, and a thousand
and one other things that kept them busily occupied.  He arranged to
have luncheon sent in from the Ritzton.  After the first day the
ordering of these meals was delegated to Dorothy.  John Dene's ideas on
the subject of food proved original, resulting in the ordering of about
five times as much as necessary.

Dorothy came to look forward to these dainty meals, which she could
order with unstinted hand, and she liked the tete-a-tete half-hours
during their consumption.  Then John Dene would unbend and tell her of
Canada, about his life there and in America, how he had planned and
built the _Destroyer_.  He seemed to take it for granted that she could
be trusted to keep her own counsel.

The night after John Dene's entry into his new offices the place was
burgled.  In the morning when he arrived he found papers tossed about
in reckless disorder.  The fourth set of plans of German U-boats had
disappeared.

With grim humour he drew a fifth set from his pocket, and placed it in
the safe, which he did not keep locked, as it contained nothing of
importance.  John Dene's method was to burn every paper or duplicate
that was no longer required, and to have sent over to the Admiralty
each day before five o'clock such documents as were of importance.

For the first time in her life Dorothy felt she was doing something of
national importance.  John Dene trusted her, and took her patriotism as
a matter of course.  Sometimes he would enquire if she were tired, and
on hearing that she was not he would nod his approval.

"You're some worker," he once remarked casually, whereat Dorothy had
flushed with pleasure.  Later she remembered that this was the first
word of praise she had heard him bestow on anything or anybody British.

At first a buttons had called from the Ritzton each morning and
afternoon for orders; but after the second day he had been superseded
by a waiter.  One morning, after the order had been given, John Dene
enquired of Dorothy if she had ever tasted lobster a l'Americaine.

"Typists don't eat lobster a l'Americaine in England, Mr. Dene," she
had replied.  "It's too expensive."

Whereupon he had told her to ring up the Ritzton and order lobster a
l'Americaine for lunch in place of the order already given.  Ten
minutes later a ring came through from the hotel to the effect that
there must be some mistake, as there was no lunch on order for Mr. John
Dene.  Dorothy protested that they had been supplied with lunch each
day for the last four days.  The management deprecatingly suggested
that there had been a mistake, as after the first two days the order
had been cancelled.  Dorothy repeated the information to John Dene, who
then took the receiver.

"If you didn't supply lunch yesterday, who the blazes did?" he
demanded, and a suave voice answered that it did not know who it was
that had that honour, but certainly it was not the Ritzton.

John Dene banged back the receiver impatiently.  "We'll wait and see
what happens at twelve o'clock," he exclaimed, as he turned once more
to the papers on his table.  "Somebody's feeding us," he muttered.

"Perhaps it's the ravens," murmured Dorothy to herself.

At twelve o'clock a waiter entered with a tray.  At the sound of his
knock, John Dene revolved round in his chair.

"Here, where do you come from?" he demanded, glaring as if he suspected
the man of being of German parentage.

The man started violently and nearly dropped the tray.

"I obey orders," he stammered.

"Yes; but whose orders?"

For a moment the man hesitated.

"Do you come from the Ritzton?" demanded John Dene aggressively.

"I obey orders," repeated the man.

John Dene looked from the tray to Dorothy, and then to the man; but
said nothing, contenting himself with waving the man out with an
impatient motion of his hand.

After the meal he picked up his hat, lighted a cigar and told Dorothy
he would be back in a quarter of an hour.  Five minutes later he burst
in upon Mr. Blair.

"Here, what the hell's all this about my meals?" John Dene seemed to
take a delight in descending upon Sir Lyster's secretary.

Mr. Blair turned towards him with that expression he seemed to keep
expressly for John Dene.  "Your meals," he stammered.

"Yes," replied John Dene, blowing volumes of acrid smoke towards the
sensitive nostrils of Mr. Blair.  "Why was my order to the Ritzton
cancelled?  That sort of thing rattles me."

"I'm afraid that I know nothing of this," said Mr. Blair, "but I will
enquire."

"Well, I'd like somebody to put me wise as to why he interferes with my
affairs," and John Dene stamped out of the room and back to Waterloo
Place.


II

"Shucks!" cried John Dene irritably.  "You make me tired."

"I doubt if you appreciate the seriousness of the situation," was
Colonel Walton's quiet retort.

"I appreciate the seriousness of a situation that turns my 'phone into
a sort of elevator-bell, and makes my office like a free-drink saloon
at an election."

Colonel Walton smiled indulgently, Dorothy kept her eyes upon her
note-book.

"You get your notion about spies from ten cent thrillers," continued
John Dene scornfully.  "Don't you worry about me.  If there's a hungry
dog I believe in feeding it," he added enigmatically.  "I might as well
be a lost baggage office.  Every mutt that has ten minutes to waste
seems to blow in on me.  You're the tenth this a.m."

"At that rate you will soon have exhausted all the Government
Departments," said Colonel Walton with a smile.  "I doubt if any will
venture a second visit," he added quietly.

John Dene glanced across at him quickly.  "Say, I didn't mean to make
you mad," he said in a conciliatory tone; "but all this rattles me.  I
can't get along with things while they're playing rags on my 'phone.
It makes me madder'n a wet hen."

"I quite understand, Mr. Dene," said Colonel Walton, with that
imperturbable good-humour that was the envy of his friends.  "You are
rather valuable to us, you see, and if we err on the side of
over-caution----"  He paused.

"Sure," cried John Dene, thawing under the influence of Colonel
Walton's personality, then after a pause he added.  "See here, your
boys seem to have a notion that I'm particular green goods.  You just
let one of 'em try and corral me one of these nights, and when you've
explained things to the widow, you can just blow in here and tell me
how she took it."

"It's the insidious rather than the overt act," began Colonel Walton.

"The what?"  John Dene looked at him with a puzzled expression.

Instead of replying Colonel Walton drew from his right-hand pocket
something in a paper bag, such as is used by confectioners.  This he
placed upon the table.  He then extracted from his other pocket a small
package rolled in newspaper, which he laid beside the paper bag.

John Dene stared at him as if not quite sure of his sanity.

"Perhaps you will open those packets."

With his eyes still on his visitor John Dene picked up the paper bag
and, turning it upside down, shook out upon the table a brown and white
guinea-pig--dead.  Dorothy drew back with a little cry.

"This some of your funny work?" demanded John Dene angrily.

"There's still the other parcel," said Colonel Walton, his eyes upon
the small roll done up in newspaper.

Very gingerly John Dene unrolled the paper, Dorothy watching from a
safe distance with wide-eyed curiosity.

"Gee!" he muttered, as a large dead grey rat lay exposed, its upper lip
drawn back from his teeth, giving it a snarling appearance.  He looked
interrogatingly at Colonel Walton.

"There; but for the grace of God lies John Dene of Toronto," he
remarked quietly, nodding in the direction of the two rodents.

"Here, what the hell----!" began John Dene, then catching sight of
Dorothy he stopped suddenly.

"Two days ago you ordered for lunch ris de veau and apple tart--among
other things.  The rat is the victim of the one, the guinea-pig of the
other."

Dorothy gave a little cry of horror.  John Dene looked across at her
quickly, then back to Colonel Walton.

"You mean----" he began.

"That a certain Department has assumed the responsibility of catering
for a distinguished visitor," was the quiet reply.  "It is but one of
the pleasant obligations of empire."

John Dene sat gazing at the dead animals as if fascinated.  With
distended eyes and slightly parted lips Dorothy looked from the table
to Colonel Walton, and then back to the table again, as if unable to
comprehend the full significance of what was taking place.

"I would suggest," said Colonel Walton, "that you never take food
regularly at any one hotel or restaurant.  Avoid being out late at
night, particularly raid-nights."

"Raid-nights!"

"You might be knocked on the head and removed as a casualty."

John Dene nodded, Dorothy gasped.

"Never take food or drink of any sort in your room at the hotel, and
don't travel on the Tube or Underground, at least never stand on the
edge of the platform, and don't use taxis."

"And what about a nurse?" demanded John Dene.

"If you observe these points I scarcely think one would be necessary,"
was the quiet rejoinder.  "It would also be advisable," continued
Colonel Walton, "for Miss West to be particularly careful about making
chance acquaintances."

Dorothy drew herself up stiffly.

"During the last few days," continued Colonel Walton, "a number of
attempts have been made by women as well as men."

"How did you know?" she cried in surprise.

"We have sources of information," smiled Colonel Walton.  "For
instance, the day before yesterday, at lunch, a pleasant-spoken old
lady asked you to go with her to the theatre one Saturday afternoon."

Dorothy gasped.

"You very rightly declined.  A few days ago a man ran after you just as
you had left the Tube train at Piccadilly Circus, saying that you had
left your umbrella."

"How funny that you should know!" cried Dorothy.  "Such a number of
people have spoken to me lately.  First it was men, and now it's always
women."

"Make no acquaintances at all, Miss West," said Colonel Walton.

"I'll remember," she said, nodding her head with decision.

"Well, Mr. Dene, I fear I mustn't take up any more of your time," said
Colonel Walton, rising, with that air of indolence which with him
invariably meant that something important was coming.  "If you will not
allow us to be responsible for your own safety, we must at least
provide for that of Government servants."

"What's that?"

"We should not like anything to happen to Miss West."

To Colonel Walton's "Good-day" John Dene made no response, he seemed
unaware that he had left the room.

"Gee!" he muttered at length, then swinging round to Dorothy with a
suddenness that caused her to start, "You had better vamoose," he cried.

"Vam----" she began.  "How do I do it?"

"Quit, clear out of here."  He sprang from his chair and proceeded to
pace up and down the room.

"Does that mean that I'm discharged?" she enquired, smiling.

"You heard what he said.  They're up to their funny work.  They missed
us this time and got the rat and guinea-pig.  They're always at it.  I
don't make a fuss; but I know.  There'll be a bomb in my bed one of
these nights.  You'd better call a halt right here."

"Shall we get on with the letters, Mr. Dene?" said Dorothy quietly.
"Father was a soldier."

For a moment he looked at her with his keen penetrating eyes, then
swinging round to his table caught sight of the two dead rodents.

"Here, what the blazes does he want to leave these things here for," he
cried irritably and, seizing a ruler, he swept them into the
waste-paper basket.

For the rest of the day Dorothy was conscious that John Dene's heart
was not in his work.  Several times, when happening to look up
unexpectedly, she found his eyes on her, and there was in them an
anxiety too obvious to be dissimulated.  John Dene was clearly worried.

"It's an extraordinary thing," Sage remarked later that afternoon to
Colonel Walton, "that apparently no one has ever thought of encouraging
a taste for apple-tart in guinea-pigs."




CHAPTER VI

MR. MONTAGU NAYLOR OF STREATHAM

Whilst John Dene was preparing interminable lists for the Victualling
and Stores Departments of the Admiralty, Department Z. was making
discreet and searching enquiries regarding Mr. Montagu Naylor of
Streatham.  Among other things it discovered that he was essentially
English.  The atrocities in Belgium and Northern France rendered him
almost speechless with indignation.  Wherever he went, and to
whomsoever he met, he proclaimed the German an enemy to civilisation.
It was his one topic of conversation, and in time his friends and
acquaintance came to regard the word "Hun" as a danger signal.

Mr. Naylor had arrived at Streatham towards the end of 1909, coming
from no one knew whither; but according to his own account from
Norwich.  He was of independent means, without encumbrances beyond a
wife, a deaf servant, registered as a Swiss, and a particularly
fierce-dispositioned chow, an animal that caused marked irregularity in
the delivery of his milk, newspapers and letters.  Sometimes the animal
chose to resent the approach of all comers, and after the postman had
lost a portion of his right trouser-leg, he had decided that whatever
might happen to His Majesty's mails, the postman's calf was sacred.
Thenceforth he never delivered letters when James was at large.

Without participating in the postman's mishap, the paper-boy and
milkman had adopted his tactics.  The dustman point-blank refused to
touch the refuse from "The Cedars" unless it were placed on the
pavement, and the gate securely closed.

Sometimes the readings of the electric and gas meters were formally
noted by officials, whose uniform began and ended with their caps;
sometimes they were not.  Everything depended upon the geographical
position of James at the moment of the inspector's call.

The baker who supplied Mr. Naylor had, as a result of a complaint from
his man, made a personal call of protest; but he had succeeded only in
losing his temper to Mr. Naylor and the seat of his trousers to James.
Thenceforth "The Cedars" had to seek its bread elsewhere.  Incidentally
the master-baker obtained a new pair of trousers at Mr. Naylor's
expense.

Why Mr. Naylor continued to keep James was a puzzle to all the
neighbours, who, knowing him as a champion of the rights of man, votes
for women, the smaller nations, and many other equally uncomfortable
things, were greatly surprised that he should keep a dog that was
clearly of a savage and dangerous disposition.

About Mr. Naylor himself there was nothing of the ferocity of his dog.
He was suave, with a somewhat deprecating manner, a ready, almost
automatic smile, in which his eyes never seemed to join, a sallow
complexion, large round glasses, a big nose and ugly teeth.  He had a
thick voice, thick ears and a thick skin--when it so served his purpose.

His love for England was almost alien, and he was never tired of
motoring from one part of the country to another, that is before the
war.  His car had been something unique, as in a few seconds it could
be turned into a moderately comfortable sleeping apartment.  Thus he
was independent of hotels, or lodgings.

Mrs. Naylor was a woman of negative personality.  She looked after the
house, fed James and never asked questions of Mr. Naylor, thus
justifying her existence.

Susan, the maid, was also negative, from her stupid round, moist face
to the shapeless feet that she never seemed to be able to lift from the
floor.  She had acquired great dexterity in shuffling out of the way
just before Mr. Naylor appeared.  This she seemed to have reduced to a
fine art.  If Mr. Naylor were going upstairs and Susan was about to
descend, by the time he was halfway up she would have disappeared as
effectively as if snatched away by some spirit agency.  Susan was dumb;
but her sense of sound was extremely acute.  It seemed as if, conscious
of her inability to hold her own verbally with her employer, she had
fallen back upon the one alternative, disappearance.

The Naylors were possessed of few friends, although Mr. Naylor had many
acquaintances, the result of the way in which he had identified himself
with local clubs and institutions.  It was largely due to him that the
miniature rifle-range had been started.  He was one of the governors of
the Cranberry Cottage Hospital.  He always subscribed to the annual
Territorial sports, patronised the boy scouts, openly advocated
conscription, and the two-power standard for the Navy.  There were
times when Streatham found it almost embarrassing to be possessed of a
patriot in its midst.

Never had a breath of scandal tarnished the fair name of Mr. Montagu
Naylor.  He was what a citizen should be and seldom is.  When war broke
out his activities became almost bewildering.  He joined innumerable
committees, helped to form the volunteers, and encouraged every one and
everything that was likely to make things uncomfortable for the enemy.
Later, he became a member of the local exemption tribunal, and earned
fame by virtue of his clemency.  It was he who was instrumental in
obtaining exemption for some of James's most implacable enemies.  The
baker, who had lost the whole of his temper and a portion of his
trousers, probably owed his life to the manner in which Mr. Naylor
championed his claim that bread is mightier than the sword.

Before the war the Naylors received twice each month, once their
friends and once their relatives.  Never were the two allowed to meet.
"Our friends we make ourselves, our relatives are given to us," Mr.
Naylor had explained with ponderous humour, "I hate to mix the two."
It was noticed that the relatives stayed much longer than the friends,
and some commiseration was felt for the Naylors by their immediate
neighbours.

There had been one curious circumstance in connection with these social
functions.  Whenever the friends were invited, James was always in the
front garden, restrained by a chain that allowed of the guests carrying
their calves into the hall with an eighteen inch margin of safety.
When, however, it was the turn of the relatives to seek the hospitality
of "The Cedars," James was never visible.  A cynic might have construed
this into indicating that from his relatives Mr. Naylor had
expectations.

Within his own home Mr. Naylor was a changed man.  He ruled Mrs.
Naylor, Susan and James with an iron hand.  They all fawned upon him,
vainly inviting the smiles that when others were present seemed never
to fail in the mechanical precision with which they illumined his
features at appropriate moments.  They gave the impression of being
turned on, as if controlled by a tap or switch.  Never was this smile
seen once the hall door was passed.  Then Mr. Naylor's jaw squared, and
his whole attitude seemed to become more angular.

A knock at the door would cause him to look up quickly from whatever he
was doing, just as a gamekeeper might look up at the report of a gun.
By his orders Mrs. Naylor and Susan between them kept a complete list
of all callers, even hawkers, if they were sufficiently courageous to
risk an encounter with the redoubtable James.

Mr. Naylor was a tall man of broad build, with a head that would
persist in remaining square, in spite of his best endeavours to grow
the hair upon it in such a way as to soften its angularity.  His eyes
were steely, his forehead low, his mouth hard and his manner furtive.
That was within doors.  The breath of heaven, however, seemed to
mitigate all these unamiable characteristics, and it was only on very
rare occasions that, once beyond his own threshold, an observer would
see the harshness of the man.  He smiled down at children, sometimes he
patted their heads, he was never lacking in a tip, appropriate or
inappropriate, he was the smoother out of discordant situations, he
nodded to all the tradespeople, smiled genially at his inferiors, and
saluted his superiors and equals.  In short he was an ideal citizen.

The outbreak of war in August, 1914, was responsible for two changes in
the Naylor menage.  First the at-home days were discontinued, secondly
James was more than ever in evidence.  Nobody, however, noticed the
changes, because in Streatham such things are not considered worthy of
notice.

Mr. Naylor received few letters, for which the postman was grateful to
providence.  Had Streatham been a little more curious, it would have
noticed that Mr. Naylor's comings and goings were fraught with some
curious and interesting characteristics.  For one thing he appeared
constitutionally unable to proceed direct to a given point.  For
instance, if Hampstead were his object, he would in all probability go
to Charing Cross, take a 'bus along Strand, the tube to Piccadilly
Circus, a taxi to Leicester Square, tube to Golders Green and 'bus to
Hampstead.

Another curious circumstance connected with Mr. Naylor was the number
of people who seemed to stop him to enquire their way, obviously people
who found it difficult to pronounce the names and addresses of those
they sought, for they invariably held in their hands pieces of paper,
which Mr. Naylor would read and then proceed to direct them.  This
would occur in all parts of London.

To the casual observer interested in the details of Mr. Naylor's life,
it would have appeared that London waited for his approach, and then
incontinently made a bee-line for him to enquire its way.  With smiling
geniality Mr. Naylor would read the paper offered to him, make one or
two remarks, then with a wave of his hand and a further genial smile
proceed on his way.

His courtesy was almost continental.  He would take great pains to
direct the enquirer, sometimes even proceeding part of the way with him
to ensure that he should not go astray.

Since the war Mr. Naylor had patriotically given up his car, handing it
over to the Red Cross, and receiving from the local secretary a letter
of very genuine thanks and appreciation.  There had also been a
paragraph in _The Streatham Herald_ notifying this splendid act of
citizenship.

In nothing was Mr. Naylor's sense of Christian charity so manifest as
in the patience with which he answered the number of false rings he
received on the telephone.  It was extraordinary the way in which wrong
numbers seemed to be put through to him; yet his courtesy never forsook
him.  His reply was always the same.  "No; I am Mr. Montague Naylor of
Streatham."  It frequently happened that shortly after such a call Mr.
Naylor would go out, when James would be left in the front garden.

Mrs. Naylor had particular instructions always to make a note of any
rings that came on the telephone during Mr. Naylor's absence, no matter
whether they were for him or for anyone else.  She was to take down
every word that was said, and always say in response that the
subscriber was on to Mr. Naylor of Streatham.

One morning whilst John Dene was giving down letters to Dorothy in his
customary jerky manner, Mr. Naylor sat at breakfast, his attention
equally divided between the meal and the morning paper.  Opposite sat
Mrs. Naylor, watching him as a dog watches a master of uncertain
temper.  She was a little woman with a colourless face, from which
sparse grey hair was drawn with puritan severity.  In her weak blue
eyes was fear--fear of her lord and master, and in her manner
deprecation and apology.

The only sound to be heard were the champing of Mr. Naylor's jaws, and
the occasional rustle of the newspaper.  Mr. Naylor was a hearty eater
and an omnivorous reader of newspapers.  In the front garden James gave
occasional tongue, protesting against the existence of some passer-by.

After a particularly vigorous bout of barking on James's part, Mr.
Naylor looked up suddenly and, fixing Mrs. Naylor with astern eye,
demanded, "Any post?"

"I haven't heard the post-woman yet," faltered Mrs. Naylor
apologetically.  She was at heart a pacifist in the domestic sense.

"Go and see," was the gruff retort, as Mr. Naylor thrust into his mouth
a large piece of bread, which he had previously wiped round his plate
to absorb the elemental juices of the morning bacon.

Mrs. Naylor rose meekly and left the room.  A few moments later she
returned, carrying in her hand two envelopes.  Mr. Naylor looked up
over his spectacles.

"They were on the path," she explained timidly.  "James is in the
garden."

The post-woman had tacitly carried on the tradition of her predecessor,
the postman.  If James were about, the letters went over the garden
gate; if James were not about, they went into the letter-box.

With a grunt Mr. Naylor snatched the letters from Mrs. Naylor's hand
and looked at them keenly.  One bore a halfpenny stamp, and was
consequently of no particular importance.  This he laid beside his
plate.  The other, however, he subjected to a rigorous and elaborate
examination.  He scrutinised the handwriting, examined carefully the
postmark, turned it over and gazed at the fastening.  Then taking a
letter-opener from his pocket, he slowly slit the top of the envelope,
and taking out a sheet of notepaper unfolded it.

"Gott----"  He bit off the phrase savagely, and looked up fiercely at
Mrs. Naylor, as if she was responsible for his lapse.  Instinctively
she shrank back.  From the garden James's vigorous barking swelled out
into a fortissimo of protest.

"Stop that dog," he shouted, whereat Mrs. Naylor rose and left the room.

With scowling eyebrows Mr. Naylor read his letter, and ground his teeth
with suppressed fury.

"Der mann muss verrueckt 'sein."

He re-read the letter, then placing it in his pocket looked across the
table, seeming for the first time to notice that Mrs. Naylor had left
the room.  Going to the door he opened it and shouted a peremptory
"Here!"

As Mrs. Naylor entered with obvious trepidation, he fixed her with a
stern disapproving eye.

"There's somebody coming this afternoon at four," he said.  "I'll see
him in the study," and with that he once more drew the letter from his
pocket and read it for the third time, whilst Mrs. Naylor withdrew.

The letter which was typewritten, even to the signature, ran:


'DEAR MR. NAYLOR,--

"I hope to call upon you on Thursday afternoon at four o'clock.  I
regret that unforseen circumstances have prevented me from giving
myself this pleasure before.

"Yours very truly,
  "J. VAN HELDER."


With a grumble in his throat Mr. Naylor walked out of the dining-room,
across the hall and into his study.  Closing and locking the door he
went over to his writing-table, and seemed to collapse into rather than
sit on the chair.  He was oblivious to everything except the scrap of
paper before him.  The cloud upon his brow seemed to intensify, his
face became more cruel.  The Mr. Naylor of Streatham, patriot,
philanthropist and good citizen, had vanished, giving place to a man in
whose heart was anger and fear.

At the end of five minutes he drew towards him a small metal tray.
Taking a match from a stand, he struck it and deliberately setting
light to the paper, held it while it burned.  When the flame seared his
fingers, he placed the whole upon the metal dish, scowling at the paper
as it writhed and crackled in its death agony.  He then proceeded to
burn the envelope.  When both were reduced to twisted shapes of carbon,
he opened a drawer, took from it a duster and pressed it down upon the
metal plate, reducing the contents to black powder.

Picking up the tray he carried it over to the grate, emptied the powder
into the fireplace, wiped the tray and replaced it upon the table,
thrusting the duster back into the drawer.  He then sank once more into
his chair, conscious that the morning had begun ill.

Ten minutes later he rose, unlocked the door and went out into the
hall.  He took his hat from the stand and brushed it carefully.
Picking up his gloves and umbrella, he gave a final look round, then
composing his features for the outside world, he opened the door and
passed out into Apthorpe Road.

For such of his neighbours as he encountered he had a cheery word, a
lifting of his hat, or a wave of the hand.  Housewives would sigh
enviously as they saw Mr. Naylor pass genially on his way.  He was
always the same, they told themselves, remembering with a little pang
the vagaries of their own husbands.

Before his return to "The Cedars" for lunch, Mr. Naylor with
unaccustomed emphasis foretold the doom of the Government unless it
immediately rushed a measure through Parliament for the internment of
all aliens.  He was nothing if not thorough.




CHAPTER VII

MR. NAYLOR RECEIVES A VISITOR


I

"Height five feet six and a half inches."

"Five feet eight, sir."

"Chest thirty-eight."

"Thirty-eight and a half, sir."

"Weight eleven stone nine."

"Twelve stone, sir."

"Near enough."

"Yes, sir," replied Thompson.

"You've got everything?"

"Down to his under-wear, sir," was the response.

"The ring?"

"Yes, sir."

Malcolm Sage looked up from the buff-coloured paper before him, then
picking up a photograph from the table, proceeded to study it with
great intentness.

"Yes," he said, "Finlay can do it."

At that moment Colonel Walton strode into the room, smoking the
inevitable cigar.  Thompson straightened himself to attention, Malcolm
Sage nodded, then once more became absorbed in the photograph.

"I hear Finlay's here," said Colonel Walton.

Sage looked up and nodded.  "We've just been checking his
measurements," he said.

"With that Bergen fellow's?"

Sage nodded.

"It's a considerable risk," said Colonel Walton.

"Finlay likes 'em," retorted Sage without looking up.  "I'd give a good
deal to solve that little mystery."

The mystery to which Malcolm Sage referred was the arrest of a man on a
Bergen-Hull boat some ten days previously.  Although his passport and
papers were in order, his story when he had been interrogated was not
altogether satisfactory.  It had been decided to deport him; but
Malcolm Sage, who had subjected him to a lengthy cross-examination, had
decided that it would be better to detain him for the time being, and
the suspect was consequently lodged in the Tower.  Both Malcolm Sage
and Colonel Walton were convinced that he had been sent over on a
special mission.

"Where's Finlay?" asked Colonel Walton.

"He's painting the lily," said Sage with a glint in his eye.

"In other words?" enquired Colonel Walton.

"Seeing how near he can get to this Bergen fellow.  I took him down to
the Tower to see the men together."

Colonel Walton nodded.

Malcolm Sage regarded disguise as exclusively the asset of the
detective of fiction.  A disguise, he maintained, could always be
identified, although not necessarily penetrated.  Few men could
disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how clever they might be with
the aid of false beards and wigs.

"You remember the lost code-book?" Sage queried.

"I do," said Colonel Walton.

"A remarkable piece of work of Finlay's," continued Sage.  "It wasn't a
disguise, it was an alteration; trim of moustache, cut and colour of
hair, darkened skin and such trifles."

"And the black eye, sir," interpolated Thompson.

"That was certainly a happy stroke," cried Colonel Walton.

"It takes a good deal of moral courage to black your own eye," said
Sage quietly.  "I tried it once myself."

"How do you plan to proceed?"  It was Colonel Walton who spoke.

"If Naylor is really the man we're after and this Bergen fellow is on a
secret mission, then it's pretty sure they were intended to get into
touch."  Sage paused for a moment, then added: "Anyhow, it's worth
trying.  It's a risk, of course.  Naylor may have met him before."

"The risk will be mainly Finlay's," said Colonel Walton drily, as he
smoked meditatively.

"It would be yours or mine, chief, only nature cast us in a different
mould."

For some moments Colonel Walton did not reply.

"I don't like sending a man on a----"  He paused.

"There's no question of sending Finlay; it's more a matter of holding
him back.  By the way," he continued casually, "Thompson burgled John
Dene's place last night, got a set of plans, the chit signed by Sir
Lyster and the Skipper, and one or two other papers that should be
useful."

"I don't quite like it, Sage."  Colonel Walton knitted his brows.

"It's giving the Yard something to do," was Sage's indifferent retort.
"They're buzzing about John Dene like flies to-day.  He's expressing
himself to them in choice Canadian too, so Thompson tells me."

Thompson gave an appreciative grin.

"I dropped in there this morning, sir, and----"  He did not conclude
his sentence; but his look was one of keen appreciation.  "He's got
some words, has Inspector Bluggers," he added, "but Mr. Dene left him
standing."

"We've just been going over the points of Finlay and the Bergen man,"
explained Sage.  "They're pretty well in agreement.  Personally I
believe there's a lot in that ring.  We stripped the other fellow of
his clothes, Finlay insisted on having them baked.  Fussy sort of chap
in things like that," he added, "but that ring.  Men don't generally
wear turquoises set in an eccentric pattern.  Ha!"  He looked up
suddenly.

Colonel Walton looked across at him interrogatingly.

"You remember the initials inside, chief?"

Colonel Walton nodded.

"D.U.A. weren't they?"

"What about Deutsches ueber alles?"

"A bit obvious," suggested Colonel Walton.

"The Hun always is."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," called Colonel Walton.

A moment later there entered a man of foreign appearance, with dark
well-brushed hair, sallow skin and the deprecating manner of one who is
in a country where he is not quite sure either of the customs or of the
language.  For a moment he stood smiling.

Malcolm Sage caught Colonel Walton's eye.  Upon Thompson's face there
spread a grin of admiration.

"Wonderful, Finlay," said Colonel Walton.  "Wonderful."

"You think it is like?" enquired he who had been addressed as Finlay.

"Wonderful," repeated Colonel Walton, "but," he added a moment after,
"it's a dangerous game."

Finlay shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was almost aggressively
un-English.  He possessed one remarkable characteristic, once he had
assumed a personality, he continued to be that man until he finally
relinquished the part.

"He'll put you to sleep if you make a mistake," said Sage with
uncompromising candour.

Again the shrug of the shoulders.

"That ring," said Sage, pointing to a flat gold band on the third
finger of the left hand in which were set three turquoises in the form
of a triangle.  "What do you make of the inscription?"

"I do not know," said Finlay with the finnicking inflection of one
talking in a strange tongue.

"What about Deutsches ueber alles?" suggested Walton.

"Ah! you have discovered."

"Perfect," said Sage, "absolutely perfect.  You're a genius, Finlay."

With a smile and a half-shrug of his shoulders, Finlay deprecated the
compliment.

"Where are you going to stay?" enquired Colonel Walton.

"At the Ritzton with John Dene, same floor if possible," said Sage.
"He starts from the Tower to-morrow.  Released, you know."

Colonel Walton nodded.  "By the way, Thompson, you didn't happen to
drop any finger prints about in Waterloo Place?"

"Rubber gloves, sir," said Thompson with a smile.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"It would embarrass us a bit if you got lodged in Brixton prison," said
Colonel Walton.

"No chance of that, sir," was the confident retort.

"The account will be in the papers this afternoon, I understand."

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"Well, Finlay," said Walton, "off you go and the best of luck.  If you
bring this off you ought to get a C.B.E."

"Gott in himmel!" cried Finlay in such tragic consternation, that both
Colonel Walton and Sage were forced to smile.

"No, sir," said Sage drily, "we must guard Department Z. against the
Order of the British Empire; it deserves well of the country.

"When does he go to Streatham?" enquired Colonel Walton.

"I go now," responded Finlay, "if I find the place.  These suburbs!"
He rolled his eyes expressively.

Malcolm Sage smiled grimly.


II

For some time Mr. Naylor had sat staring in front of him, immobile but
for the movement of his eyes and the compression of his pouch-like lips
as he swallowed.  Irritation or anxiety always caused him to swallow
with a noisy gulp-like sound.

Since lunch he had scowled impartially upon everything.  Mrs. Naylor,
Susan, James, the paper, his food, all seemed to come under the ban of
his displeasure.  From time to time he muttered under his breath.  He
made several efforts to concentrate upon the newspaper before him, but
without success.  His eyes would wander from the page and scowl into
vacancy.  The heavy jowls seemed to mould his face into a brutal
square, which with his persistent swallowing gave him the appearance of
a toad.

His original anger at the threatened advent of a visitor seemed to have
changed into irritation at his non-arrival.  From time to time he
looked at his watch.  A step echoing in the street brought him to a
listening attitude.  When at last a ring sounded at the bell, followed
by a peremptory "rat-tat," he started violently.  He listened intently
to the pad of Mrs. Naylor's footsteps along the passage, to the murmur
of voices that followed, and the sound of steps approaching.

When the door opened, the scowl had fled from Mr. Naylor's features,
the jowls had lifted, the set frown had passed from his brows.  His
mouth was pursed up into a smile only one degree less repellent than
the look that it had replaced.  Mr. Naylor had assumed his best
public-meeting manner.

"Mr. Van Helder?" he queried, as he shook hands and motioned his
visitor to a seat.

"We shall not be overheard, no?" interrogated Van Helder.

Mr. Naylor shook his head, transferring his eyes from a paper-weight
before him to his visitor's face and back again to the paper-weight.

"These London suburbs!" exclaimed Van Helder, as he drew a silk
handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his face.  "I seem
to have pursued you to everywhere.  I crossed from Bergen on the 21st,"
he added with a smile.

"The 21st," repeated Mr. Naylor.

"Just ten days ago," continued Van Helder.  "I came not before
because----"  He raised his eyes suddenly and looked straight at Mr.
Naylor, who smiled; but there was guile behind the momentary exposure
of his yellow teeth.

"The crossing," continued Van Helder, "three times the alarm of
U-boats."  He smiled a crafty little smile.  "The Germans they make the
sea unsafe."  Again he smiled.

"So you have been in London since the 21st."  Mr. Naylor's tone was
casual; but his eyes glinted.

Van Helder nodded indifferently.

"Where are you staying?"  Mr. Naylor's eyes never left his visitor's
face.

"At the Ritzton."

"You have been comfortable?"  The tone was conversational.

Again Van Helder shrugged his shoulders.

"You have been seeing the sights?"  Again the tone was casual; but in
Mr. Naylor's eyes there was a crafty look.

"It is as I have been told," said Van Helder with a smile.  "Always
cautious.  You are fond of dogs," he added irrelevantly, "I heard one."

"James does not like strangers."  This with a sinister smile.

"No?" continued the other; taking a cigarette-case from his pocket and
offering it to Mr. Naylor who declined.  "I may smoke?"

Mr. Naylor nodded.

Van Helder lighted a cigarette and proceeded to blow smoke rings with
quiet content.  He wanted to think.  It was obvious to him that
something was wrong, something lacking.  There was the suggestion in
his host's manner of a cat watching a mouse, watching and waiting.

"You are becoming, how do you call it, ungeschickt," he said with a
disarming smile, as he blew three rings in rapid succession.

"You think so?" Mr. Naylor smiled amiably.

"Yes, how do you call it, awkward, clumsy.  You have lived long in
England," he continued a little contemptuously, as he ejected more
smoke-rings.

"You find London interesting?" asked Mr. Naylor, with ominous calm.  He
was determined to pick up the thread of conversation that had been
snatched from his hand.

"You are a fool."  Van Helder turned just as he emitted a smoke-ring.
At the calm insolence of his tone Mr. Naylor started slightly, but
quickly recovered himself.

"What do you mean?"

"I have been in the Tower."  For the fraction of a second Van Helder's
eyes sought those of Mr. Naylor.  Was it relief that he saw?  The
change was only momentary, just a flash.

Van Helder continued to blow smoke-rings as if entirely indifferent
alike to his host's presence and emotions.  "I was released yesterday
morning.  They apologised for my detention."

"And you came here?" f Mr. Naylor's voice was even and devoid of
inflection.

Deliberately Van Helder took from his pocket a gold ring set with three
turquoises in the form of a triangle.  It was his last card.

"Ah!  I see you look at my ring," he said, seeing Mr. Naylor's eyes fix
greedily upon it.  "It was given to me by one whom I serve."
Deliberately he drew it from his finger again and handed it to Mr.
Naylor, who took it casually and proceeded to examine it.  The other
watched him closely.  Yes; he was looking at the inscription on the
inside.

"They are not my initials," said Van Helder.

Mr. Naylor looked up quickly.  "No," he said, returning the ring.

The other shrugged his shoulders without replying.  Mr. Naylor's manner
had undergone a change.

"And now about John Dene.  Ah!" as one smoke-ring passed through
another.

"John Dene!"

"Yes, of Toronto," continued Van Helder, smiling and continuing to blow
rings with apparent enjoyment.  "He is staying at the Ritzton, too."

"London is full of visitors."

"My friend, we waste time.  There is such a thing as over-caution.  As
I say you are ungeschickt.  There was that affair of John Dene's lunch.
Such things will not please those----"  He shrugged his shoulders.

For fully a minute Naylor gazed at him quietly, searchingly.

"There was then the chocolates and the girl."

"I do not understand."  Mr. Naylor looked across at him craftily.

"We waste time, I know.  I will tell you.  The secretary, you make your
woman offer her chocolates at a tea-shop, and to go for a ride in a
taxi.  The chocolates----"  He shrugged his shoulders expressively.
"She refuses.  You are clumsy."

The contemptuous insolence of his visitor seemed to impress Mr. Naylor.
The look of suspicion in his eyes became less marked.

"How did you know?" he asked, still wary.

"We waste time," was the response with a wave of the hand.

For a few moments Mr. Naylor sat watching Van Helder as he continued to
blow rings with manifest content.

"Listen," continued Van Helder.  "John Dene has brought over here an
invention, a submarine that is to end the war.  He has given it to the
Admiralty."

"Given it!" involuntarily repeated Mr. Naylor.

"Given it.  There are patriots even in England.  You think he is trying
to sell it, therefore you try to remove him."

"Not selling it."  Mr. Naylor leaned slightly forward.

"He gives it on condition that he commands it with his own men.  It
makes easy the matter."

"Then it is true what----"  Mr. Naylor stopped.

"How did you learn this?"  He slobbered his words slightly as he spoke.

"I know things, it is my duty," was the response.

"But what proof----?"

With great deliberation Van Helder drew from his pocket a large
envelope; extracting a single sheet of paper he handed it across the
table.  Mr. Naylor snatched it eagerly and proceeded to devour it with
his eyes.  "I also got a set of plans of a submarine; but it was one of
our own.  He is clever, this man."

"How did you get it?"

Van Helder smiled.  "How did you get the copy?" he enquired.

"The copy!  How did you know?"

Mr. Naylor stared at him, his jaw a little dropped.  He swallowed
noisily.

"You have been clumsy," repeated Van Helder.  "You try to kill the cock
that lays the eggs of gold."  He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

Mr. Naylor flushed angrily.  "And you?" he almost snarled.

"I am here to watch."  He looked across at Mr. Naylor with a cunning
smile.  He was at last sure of his ground.

"Watch who?"

Van Helder shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded to light a new
cigarette from the burning end of the old one.

"You must not kill--yet," he said, gazing at the end of his cigarette
to see that it was well alight.

"What then?" demanded Mr. Naylor.  His jowls had returned and the
yellow of his teeth was visible between his slightly parted lips.

"Wait and watch," was the reply.

"And let him go North," sneered the other.

"If you kill, where are the plans?  Do as you would," he continued
indifferently.  "There will be The Day for you, too.  Now I go."  He
made a movement to rise; but Mr. Naylor motioned him back into his
chair.

Two hours later Mr. Naylor himself let out his visitor.  Closing the
front door, he returned to his study, where for an hour he sat at his
table gazing straight in front of him.  Mr. Naylor was puzzled.

Conscious that he was being followed by a small man in a grey suit with
shifty eyes, James Finlay made his way leisurely to the High Road where
he took a 'bus bound for Piccadilly Circus.




CHAPTER VIII

DOROTHY WEST AT HOME

"Mother mine," cried Dorothy West, as she withdrew the pins from her
hat, "John Dene's a dear, and I think his passion for me is developing."

"Dorothy!" cried Mrs. West, a tiny white-haired lady whose face still
retained traces of youthful beauty.

"You needn't be shocked, lovie; John Dene is as worthy as his namesake
in _Evangeline_."  She laughed lightly.  "Now I must eat.  John Dene's
like sea air, he's so stimulating;" and she began to eat the dinner
that Mrs. West always prepared with such care.

For some minutes she watched with a smile of approval her daughter's
healthy appetite.

"I think I should like Mr. Dene, Dorothy," she said at length.  "I have
always heard that Canadians are very nice to women.  You must ask him
to call."

"Oh, you funny little mother!" she laughed.  "You forget that we have
come down in the world, and that I'm a typist."

"A secretary, dear," corrected Mrs. West gently.

"Well, secretary, then; but even a secretary doesn't invite her
employer to tea, even when the tea is as mother makes it.  It's not
done, so the less that's said of John, I think, the better," she quoted
gaily.  "Oh! by the way," she added, "you might get his goat; Sir
Lyster does."

"His goat, dear!"  Mrs. West looked up with a puzzled expression.

Dorothy explained the allusion.  She went on to tell of some of the
doings of John Dene, his impatience, his indifference to and contempt
for constituted authority.  In short she added a few vivid side-lights
to the picture she had already given her mother of how John Dene had
come and carried all before him.

"I think," she said in conclusion, screwing up her pretty features,
"that John Dene is rather a dear."  Then after a pause she added, "You
see, he is also a man."

"A man, my dear," questioned Mrs. West, looking at her daughter with a
smile.

"Yes, mother, he's so intensely masculine.  I get so fed up with----"

"Dorothy!" expostulated Mrs. West.

"Yes, I know it's trying, mother, but I get so weary of the subaltern
and junior naval officer.  Of course they're splendid and brave; but
they don't seem men."

"But think of how they have given their lives," began Mrs. West.

"Yes; but we see those who haven't, mother, and very few of them have
chevrons on their sleeves.  Now John Dene is quite different.  He
always seems to be a man; yet he never forgets that you are a woman,
although he never appears to be conscious of your being a woman."

Dorothy caught her mother's eye, and laughed.

"Of course it sounds utterly ridiculous I know; but there it is, and
then think of what----"  She suddenly broke off.

"Yes, dear," said Mrs. West gently.

"I was nearly letting out official secrets, mother.  Of course I
mustn't do that, must I?"

"Of course not, dear," said Mrs. West.

"Yes," continued Dorothy, her head on one side, "I like John Dene.  It
must be ripping to be able to bully a First Lord of the Admiralty," she
added irrelevantly.

"Bully a First Lord," said Mrs. West.  Mrs. West seemed to be in a
perpetual state of repeating in a bewildered manner her daughter's
startling statements.

"He doesn't care for anybody.  He calls Mr. Blair, that's Sir Lyster's
secretary, the prize seal, and I'm sure he takes a delight in
frightening the poor man.  That's the best of being a Canadian, you see
you don't care a damn----"

"Dorothy!"  There was horror in Mrs. West's voice.

"I'm so sorry, mother dear; but it slipped out, you know, and really
it's such an awfully convenient word, isn't it?  It's so different from
not caring a bother, or not caring a blow.  Anyway, when you're a
Canadian you don't care a--well you know, for anybody.  If a man
happens to be a lord or a duke, you're rude to him just to show that
you're as good as he is.  Sometimes, mother, I wish I were a Canadian,"
said Dorothy pensively.  "I should so like to 'ginger-up' Sir Lyster."

"Your language, my dear," said Mrs. West gently.

"Oh, that's John Dene," said Dorothy airily.  "That's his favourite
expression, 'ginger-up.'  He came over here to 'ginger-up' the
Admiralty, and in fact 'ginger-up' anybody who didn't very strongly
object to being 'gingered-up,' and those who did, well he gingers them
up just the same.  You should see poor Mr. Blair under the process."
Dorothy laughed as she thought of Mr. Blair's sufferings.  "The girls
call him 'Oh, Reginald!' and he looks it," she added.

Mrs. West smiled vaguely, finding it a little difficult to follow her
daughter along these paths of ultra-modernism.

"You see, if Sir Lyster says to me 'go,' I have to go," continued
Dorothy, "and if he says to me 'come,' I have to come; but if he says
to John Dene 'go,' he just says 'shucks.'"

"Says what, Dorothy?"

"Shucks!" she repeated with a laugh, "it means go to--well, you know,
mother."

"And does he say that to Sir Lyster?" enquired Mrs. West in awe-struck
voice.

Dorothy nodded vigorously.

"The only one that seems to understand him is Sir Bridgman North, and
he never stands on his dignity, you know.  If I were in the Navy," said
Dorothy meditatively, "I should like to be under Sir Bridgman, he's
really rather a dear."

"But why do----" began Mrs. West, "why does Sir Lyster allow----"

"Allow," broke in Dorothy.  "It doesn't matter what you allow with John
Dene.  If you agree with him he just grunts; if you don't he says
'shucks,' or else he questions whether you've got any head-filling."

"Any what?" asked Mrs. West.

"Head-filling, that means brains.  Oh, you've got an awful lot to
learn," she added, nodding at her mother in mock despair.  "I think
John Dene very clever," she added.

"Dorothy, you mustn't call him 'John Dene."

"He's always called 'John Dene,'" said Dorothy.  "You can't think of
him as anything but John Dene, and do you know, mother, all the other
girls are so intrigued.  They're always asking me how I get on with
'the bear,' as they call him.  That's because he doesn't take any
notice of them, except Marjorie Rogers, and she's as cheeky as a robin."

"But he isn't a bear, is he, Dorothy?"

"A bear?  He's the most polite creature that ever existed," said
Dorothy--"when he remembers it," she added after a moment's pause.
"You see they all expect me to marry him."

"Dorothy!"

"I'm not so sure that they're wrong, either," she added naively.  "You
see, he's got plenty of money and----"

"I don't like to hear you talk like that, dear," said Mrs. West gravely.

"Oh, I'm horrid, aren't I?" she cried, running over to her mother and
putting her arm round her neck.  "What a dreadful thing it must be for
you, poor mother mine, to have such a daughter!  She outrages all the
dear old Victorian conventions, doesn't she?"

"You mustn't talk like that, Dorothy dear," said Mrs. West.  There was
in her voice that which told her daughter she was in earnest.

"All right, mother dear, I won't; you know my bark is worse than my
bite, don't you?"

"Yes, but dear----"

"You see, way down, as John Dene would say, in his own heart there is
chivalry, and that is very, very rare nowadays among men.  He is much
nicer to me than he would be to Lady Grayne, or Mrs. Llewellyn John, or
to the Queen herself, I believe.  I'm sure he likes me," added Dorothy
half to herself.  "You see," she added, "he broke my teapot, and he
owes me something for that, doesn't he?"

"Dorothy, you are very naughty."  There was no rebuke in Mrs. West's
voice.

"And you're wondering how it came about that such a dear, sweet,
conventional, lovely, Victorian symbol of respectability and convention
should have had such a dreadfully outrageous daughter as Dorothy West.
Now confess, mother, aren't you?"

Mrs. West merely smiled the indulgent smile that Dorothy always
interpreted into forgiveness for her lapses, past, present and to come.

"You see, mother, John Dene has got it into his head that we're
hopelessly out of date," she said.  "He's quite sincere.  He thinks
we're fools, Sir Lyster, Sir Bridgman and the whole lot of us, and as
for poor Mr. Blair, he knows he's a fool.  He thinks that Mr. Llewellyn
John is almost a fool, in fact he's sure in his own mind that unless
you happen to be born a Canadian you're a fool and can't help it.  He's
quite nice about it, because it really isn't your fault."

"I'm afraid he must be very narrow-minded," said Mrs. West gently.

"No, he isn't, that's where it's so funny, it's just his idea.  He
looks upon himself as a heaven-sent corrective to the British
Government.  I'm afraid poor John Dene is going to have a nasty jar
before he's through, as he would say himself."

"How do you mean, Dorothy?" enquired Mrs. West.

"I mustn't say any more, because I should be divulging official
secrets.  The other girls are so curious to know what is happening.
Bishy, that's Miss Bishcroft, asked me whether John Dene made love to
me, and Rojjie is sure that he kisses me."  Dorothy rippled off into
laughter.

"How impertinent of her!"  Mrs. West was shocked.

"It wasn't impertinence, mother, it was funny.  If you could only see
John Dene, and imagine him making love to anyone.  It really is funny.
Sometimes I sit and wonder if he knows how to kiss a girl."

"Dorothy, you are----" began Mrs. West.

"Why shouldn't we be frank and open about such matters?  Every man
kisses a girl at some time during his life, except John Dene," she
added.  "In Whitehall it's nothing but minutes and kisses.  Why
shouldn't we talk about it?  It's helping to win the war.  It's so
silly to hide everything in that silly Victorian way of ours.  If a
nice girl meets a nice man she wants him to kiss her, and she's
disappointed if he doesn't.  Now isn't she?" challenged Dorothy as she
perched herself upon the arm of her mother's chair and looked down at
her, her eyebrows and mouth screwed up, impertinent and provocative.

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, dear," said Mrs. West, as she
regarded her daughter's pretty features.

"Why, mother?" she enquired, bending and brushing a swift kiss upon her
mother's white hair.

"It--it doesn't seem----" she paused, then added rather weakly, "it
doesn't seem quite nice."

Dorothy jumped up and stood before her mother, smiling mischievously.

"And so you don't think I'm quite nice, Mrs. West?"  She made an
elaborate curtsey.  "Thank you very much indeed.  At the Admiralty
there are quite a lot of young men, and some old ones, too, who don't
agree with you," she added, returning to her chair.

"But you mustn't say such--such things," protested Mrs. West weakly.

"But, mother, when you were a girl and knew a nice man, didn't you want
him to kiss you?"

"We never thought about such things.  We----"

"Didn't you want father to kiss you?" persisted Dorothy.

"We were engaged, my dear, and your dear father was so----"

"But before you were engaged.  Suppose father had tried to kiss you.
What would you have done?"

The girl's eyes were on her mother, mischievous and challenging.  A
faint blush tinged Mrs. West's cheeks.

"I'll tell you what you'd have done, you dear, naughty little mother.
You'd have pretended to be shocked, but in your heart you would have
been glad, and you'd have lain awake all night thinking what an awful
rip you had been."  She nodded her head wisely.

"Sometimes," said Mrs. West after a pause, "I wish it had not been
necessary for you to work.  Girls seem so different nowadays from what
they were when I was young."

"We are, you dear little mouse," smiled Dorothy.  "We know a lot more,
and to be forewarned is to be forearmed.  I'm glad I didn't live when
you had to faint at the sight of a mouse, or swoon when you were
kissed.  It would be such a waste," she added gaily.

Mrs. West sighed, conscious that a new age of womanhood had dawned with
which she was out of touch.

"Mother," said Dorothy presently, "what made you love father?"

Mrs. West looked up in surprise at her daughter, but continued to fold
her napkin and place it in her ring before replying.

"Because your father, Dorothy, was----" she hesitated.

"My father," suggested Dorothy.

Mrs. West smiled; but there was a far-away look in her eyes.
"Everybody loved your father," she went on a moment later.

"Yes, mother, but everybody didn't marry him," she said practically.

"Noooo----" hesitated Mrs. West.

"But you mean to say that everybody would have liked to marry him."

"He was very wonderful," said Mrs. West, a note of sadness creeping
into her voice.

"But you haven't answered my question," persisted Dorothy.  "Why is it
that we women love men?"

Mrs. West was not conscious of the quaint phrasing of her daughter's
remark.

"We don't love men, Dorothy," she cried, "we love a man, the right man."

"But," persisted Dorothy, "why do we do it?  They're not pretty and
they're not very interesting," she emphasised the "very," "and only a
few of them are clever.  Sometimes in the Tube coming home I see a girl
and a man holding hands.  What is it that makes them want to hold
hands?"

"It's natural to fall in love," said Mrs. West gently.

"But that's not falling in love," protested Dorothy scornfully.  "If I
fell in love with a man I shouldn't want to hold his hand in a train.
I should hate him if he expected it."

"It's a question of class," said Mrs. West a little primly.

"Oh! mother, what an awful snob you are," cried Dorothy, jumping up and
going round and giving her mother a hug.  "Let's go into the
drawing-room and be comfy and have a chat."

When they were seated, Mrs. West in an armchair and Dorothy on a stool
at her feet, the girl continued her interrogations.  "Now suppose," she
continued, "I were to fall in love with a man who was ugly,
ill-mannered, badly dressed, with very little to say for himself.  Why
should I do it?"  Dorothy looked challengingly up at her mother.

"But you wouldn't, dear," said Mrs. West with gentle conviction.

"Oh, mother, you're awfully trying you know," she cried in mock
despair.  "You've got to suppose that I have, or could.  Why should I
do it?"  Mrs. West gazed at her daughter a little anxiously, then shook
her head.

"Now I can quite understand," went on Dorothy, half to herself, "why a
man should fall in love with me.  I'm pretty and bright, wear nice
things, particularly underneath----"

"Dorothy!" broke in Mrs. West in a tone of shocked protest.

She laughed.  "Oh, mother, you're a dreadful prude.  Why do you think
girls wear pretty shoes and stockings, and low cut blouses as thin as a
cobweb?"

"Hush!  Dorothy, you mustn't say such things."  There was pain in Mrs.
West's voice.

"I wish we could face facts," said Dorothy with a sigh.  "You see,
mother dear," she continued, "when you're in a government office, with
heaps of other girls and men about, you get to know things, see things,
and sometimes you get to hate things."

"I have always regretted," began Mrs. West sadly.

"You mustn't do that, mother dear," cried Dorothy; "it has been an
education.  But what I want to know is, what is it in a man that
attracts a girl?"

"Goodness, honour and----" began Mrs. West.

"No, it isn't," said Dorothy, "at least they don't attract me."

Mrs. West looked pained but said nothing.

"You see," continued Dorothy, "there are such a lot of good men about,
and honourable men, and--and--they're so dreadfully dull and
monotonous.  I couldn't marry that sort of man," she added with
conviction.

"But----" began Mrs. West.  "You wouldn't----"

Then she paused.

"I can't explain it, mother," she said, "but I should hate to be doing
the same thing always."

"But we are doing the same things always, Dorothy," said Mrs. West.

"Oh! no we're not," protested Dorothy.  "I never know until I get home
on Saturday where I'm going to take you.  Now if I had a husband, a
good and honourable husband, he would begin about Thursday saying that
on Saturday afternoon we would go to Hampstead, or to Richmond, or
to--oh! anywhere.  Then when Saturday came I should hate the very name
of the place he had chosen.  Then on Sunday we should go to church in
the morning, for a walk in the afternoon, pay a call or two, then
church or a cinema in the evening.  That's good and honourable married
life," she concluded with decision.

Mrs. West looked down with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Wait a minute, mother," said Dorothy.  "Now we'll imagine the real me
married to a good and honourable man.  At twelve-thirty on the Saturday
that he has arranged to lose himself and me at the maze at Hampton
Court, I telephone to say that we're going to Brighton, and that he's
to meet me at Victoria at half-past one, and I'll bring his things.
Now what do you think he'd do?"  With head on one side she gazed
challengingly at her mother.

"I--I don't know," faltered Mrs. West.

"I do," said Dorothy with conviction.  "He'd have a fit.  Then if I
wanted him to come for a 'bus ride just as he was going to bed," went
on Dorothy, "he'd have another fit; and if one fine morning, just as he
was off to the office, I were to ask him not to go, but to take me to
Richmond instead, he'd have a third fit, and then I should be a widow."

"A widow!" questioned Mrs. West.  "What are you talking about?"

"Third fits are always fatal, mother," she said wisely.  Then with a
laugh she added, "Oh, there's a great time in store for the man who
marries Dorothy West.  He will have to have a strong heart, a robust
constitution and above all any amount of stamina," and she gave a
mischievous little chuckle of joy.  Then a moment after, looking
gravely at her mother she said, "You must have been very wicked, lovie,
or you'd never have had such a daughter to plague you.  I'm your
cross;" but Mrs. West merely smiled.




CHAPTER IX

DEPARTMENT Z. AT WORK

"Naylor isn't satisfied then."  Colonel Walton glanced across at
Malcolm Sage, who was gazing appreciatively at his long, lender fingers.

"He's the shyest bird I've ever come across," said Sage without looking
up.  "He gave Finlay a rare wigging for that call.  Now he's having him
watched."

"I expected that," said Colonel Walton, engrossed in cutting the end of
a cigar.

"I think it's jealousy," continued Sage.  "He's afraid of the special
agent getting all the kudos--and the plunder," he added.  "It was a
happy chance getting that Bergen chap."

"I'm rather concerned about Finlay," said Colonel Walton.

"Good man, Finlay."  There was a note of admiration in Sage's voice.
"He's quite cut adrift from us.  He's nothing if not thorough.  I can't
get in touch with him."

"Of course he knows?"

"That he's being watched?  Yes."

"Who's looking after him?"

"Hoyle."  Sage drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to charge it
from a chamois-leather tobacco-pouch.  "I've had to call Thompson off,
I think they linked him up with us."

"That's a pity," said Colonel Walton, gazing at the end of his cigar.
"He's a better man than Hoyle."

"It's that little chap they've got," continued Sage, "lives at
Wimbledon, retired commercial-traveller, clever devil."  Malcolm Sage
never grudged praise to an opponent.

"How about John Dene?"

"He's not taking any risks," said Sage, as he applied a match to his
pipe.  "But they'll never let him go north."

"Then we must prevent him."

"Perhaps you'd like to take on that little job, chief."  There was a
momentary suspicion of a twinkle in Sage's eye before a volume of
tobacco smoke blotted it out.

"I'm afraid it'll force our hand," said Colonel Walton.

"That burglary business complicated things," said Sage, as he sucked in
his lips, with him a sign of annoyance.  "It was a mistake to keep it
dark."

"That was Sir Lyster."

"It made Naylor suspicious."

"Has Finlay seen him since?" enquired Colonel Walton.

"Naylor must have given him the secret-code.  They've met several
times; but I believe Naylor is determined to act on his own.  He's a
weird creature.  I wish I could get in touch with Finlay, however."

"Why not try the taxi?"

"I've had Rogers following him round all the time; but Finlay hasn't
once taken a taxi."

"I'm afraid he's taking a big risk----" began Colonel Walton.  "That
Naylor fellow----"  He paused.

Sage nodded.

During the previous ten days Department Z. had learned a great deal
about the comings and goings of Mr. Montagu Naylor of Streatham.  It
had become manifest to Sage that he had to do with a man who had
reduced cunning and caution to a fine art.  His every act seemed to
have been carefully thought out beforehand, not only in relation to
himself, but to what might grow directly out of it.

During a walk he would sometimes turn suddenly and proceed swiftly in
the direction from which he had come, as if he had forgotten something,
looking keenly at every one he passed.  At others he would step into a
shop, where he could be seen keeping a careful watch through the
window.  A favourite trick was to walk briskly round a corner, then
stop and look in some shop window with a small mirror held in the palm
of his hand.

From the first Malcolm Sage had realised that the conventional methods
of shadowing a suspect would be useless for his purpose.  Those in whom
Department Z. were interested would be old hands at the game, and to
set a single person to watch them would inevitably result in the
discovery of what was afoot.  He therefore set at least three men, or
women, to dog the footsteps of the suspect.

These would follow each other at intervals of from twenty-five to a
hundred yards, according to the district in which they were operating.
At a signal that the first in the line was dropping out, the trail
would be taken up by number two, who in turn would relinquish the work
to number three.  Sometimes as many as six were allocated to one
shadowing.

This method had the additional advantage of enabling the Department to
assure itself that the watchers were not in turn being watched.

It was no uncommon thing for a suspect to arrange to have himself
shadowed in order to ascertain whether or no there were any one on his
track.  This was a favourite device with Mr. Naylor.

For nearly two years Department Z. had been endeavouring to solve the
problem of a secret organisation, with the offshots of which they were
constantly coming into contact.  The method this organisation adopted
was one of concentration upon a single object.  At one time it would be
at the sailing of vessels from home ports, at another the munitions
output, or again the anti-aircraft defences of London.

Malcolm Sage was convinced that somewhere there was at work a
controlling mind, one that weighed every risk and was prepared for all
eventualities.  Individuals had been shadowed, some had been arrested,
much to Sage's disgust.  The efforts of the organisation had frequently
been countered and its objects defeated; but Department Z. had hitherto
been unable to penetrate beyond the outer fringe.  The most remarkable
thing of all was that no document of any description had been
discovered, either on the person of those arrested, or through the
medium of the post.

Scotland Yard stoutly denied the existence of the organisation.  They
claimed to have made a clean sweep of all secret service agents in
their big round-up on the outbreak of war.  Whatever remained were a
few small fry that had managed to slip through the meshes of their net.
Malcolm Sage merely shrugged his shoulders and worked the harder.

When it had been discovered that the famous Norvelt aeroplane, which
was to give the Allies the supremacy of the air, had been copied by the
Germans, the War Cabinet regarded the matter as one of the gravest
setbacks the Allied cause had received.  Mr. Llewellyn John had openly
reproached Colonel Walton with failure.  Again when time after time a
certain North Sea convoy was attacked, the Authorities knew that it
could be only as a result of information having leaked out to the
enemy.  A raid into the Bight of Heligoland had been met in a way that
convinced those who had planned it that the enemy had been warned,
although the utmost secrecy had been observed.  All these things had
tended to cause the War Cabinet uneasiness, and Department Z. had been
urged to redouble its efforts to find out the means by which
information was conveyed to the enemy.

"We must watch and wait, just hang about on the outer fringe.  When we
find the thread it will lead to the centre of things," Sage had
remarked philosophically.  In the meantime he worked untiringly,
keeping always at the back of his mind the problem of this secret
organisation.

Day by day the record of Mr. Montagu Naylor's activities enlarged.
With him caution seemed to have become an obsession.  As Malcolm Sage
went through the daily reports of his agents he was puzzled to account
for many of Mr. Naylor's actions other than by the fact that
circumlocution had become with him a habit.

Among other things that came to light was Mr. Naylor's fondness for
open spaces, and the frequency with which he got into conversation with
strangers.  He would wander casually into Kew Gardens, or Waterlow
Park, or in fact anywhere, seat himself somewhere on a bench, and
before he had been there ten minutes, someone would inevitably select
the same bench on which to rest himself or herself, with the result
that they would soon drift into desultory conversation with Mr. Naylor.

The same thing would happen at a restaurant at which Mr. Naylor might
be lunching, dining or taking tea.  With strangers his manner seemed
irresistible.

It would sometimes happen that he would keep one of the telephone
appointments, pass through the thoroughfare indicated, and proceed
either to a park or a tea-shop, where later he would find himself in
casual conversation with someone who, curiously enough, had been in
that particular thoroughfare when he passed through it.

For some time Malcolm Sage was greatly puzzled by the fact that even
when the name of a long thoroughfare were indicated in one of the
telephone messages, such as Oxford Street, Marylebone Road, or even the
Fulham Road, Mr. Naylor never experienced any difficulty in locating
the whereabouts of his subordinate.  Sage gave instructions for the
exact position of each thoroughfare to be indicated.  As a result he
discovered that contact was always established in the neighbourhood of
the building numbered 10.

"It's the German mind," remarked Sage one day to Colonel Walton.  "It
leaves nothing to chance, or to the intelligence of the other fellow."

As each one of Mr. Naylor's associates was located, he or she was
continuously shadowed.  In consequence the strain upon the resources of
Department Z. became increasingly severe.  It was like an army
advancing into an enemy country, and having to furnish the lines of
communication from its striking force.  Sometimes Sage himself was
engaged in the shadowing, and once or twice even Colonel Walton.

"By the time we've finished, there won't be even the office cat left,"
Thompson one day remarked to Gladys Norman, a typist whom Malcolm Sage
had picked out of one of the Departments through which he had passed
during his non-stop career.  She had already shown marked ability by
her cleverness and resource, to say nothing of her impudence.

"Never mind, Tommy," she had replied.  "It's all experience, and after
the war, when I marry you and we start our private inquiry bureau----"
She nodded her head knowingly.  "Why, I've got enough facts from my own
department to divorce half the officers on the staff," she added.

The work of shadowing Mr. Naylor was not without its humours.
Sometimes Department Z. was led away on false scents.  On one occasion
a week was spent in tracking a venerable-looking old gentleman, he
turned out to be a quite respectable pensioned civil servant, who, out
of the kindness of his own heart, had passed the time of day with Mr.
Naylor.

The plan decided upon by Colonel Walton and Malcolm Sage was carefully
to watch all Mr. Naylor's associates and, at a given time, make a clean
sweep of the lot.  To achieve this effect a zero hour was to be
established on a certain day.  Each was to be arrested as soon after
that time as it was possible.  This was mainly due to Malcolm Sage's
suspicion that some scheme of warning existed between the various
members of the combination, whereby any danger threatening one was
quickly notified to all the others.

"In all probability we shall get a few harmless birds into the net,"
Malcolm Sage had remarked.  "Probably the sister of an M.P., or the
head of a department in one of the new Ministries; but that can't be
helped."

"Still I should prefer that it didn't happen," Colonel Walton had said
drily.  "You know the Skipper hates questions in the House."

"By the way," said Malcolm Sage to Colonel Walton one day, "Thompson
sent in an interesting report this morning."

"Naylor?" queried Colonel Walton.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"He's having a sort of small greenhouse arrangement fitted in the
window of the front-room of the basement.  It may be for flowers or for
salad."

"Or----?" interrogated Colonel Walton.

Malcolm Sage merely shrugged his shoulders as he proceeded to dig the
ashes out of his pipe.

The work of Department Z. continued quietly and unostentatiously.  John
Dene was never permitted out of sight, except when in some private
place.  This meant the constant changing of those responsible for
keeping him under observation.

The necessity of this was not more evident to Department Z. than to
John Dene himself.  In spite of his scornful manner, he was not lacking
in caution, as soon became obvious to Malcolm Sage.  At the hotel he
was careful, taking neither food nor drink in his room.  He never dined
two consecutive nights at the same restaurant, and he consistently
refused all overtures from strangers.

It soon became evident to Malcolm Sage that John Dene realised how
great was the danger by which he was threatened.

The ransacking of his room at the Ritzton left John Dene indifferent.
The fact that he never locked the small safe he kept at his office at
Waterloo Place was not without its significance for Malcolm Sage.

In the course of the next few weeks Malcolm Sage learned a great deal
about John Dene of Toronto.  Although proof against the wiles of
confidence men, always on the look-out for the colonials, he fell an
easy victim to the plausible beggar.  He never refused a request for
assistance, and the record of his unostentatious charities formed a no
inconsiderable portion of the rapidly increasing dossier at Department
Z.

Many were the incidents recorded of John Dene's kindness of heart.  A
child smiling up into his eyes would cause him to stop, bend down and
ask its name, or where it lived.  Whilst the little one was sucking an
embarrassed finger John Dene would be feeling in his pocket for a coin
that a moment later would cause the youngster to gaze after him in
speechless wonder, clutching in his grimy hand a shilling or a
half-a-crown.

Once he was observed leading a tearful little girl of about five years
old up the Haymarket.  The child had apparently become lost, and John
Dene was seeking a policeman into whose care to consign her.  It became
obvious to Malcolm Sage that John Dene's weak points were children and
"lame dogs."

Thompson, who first had charge of the guarding of John Dene, reported
that one of the most assiduous of those who seemed to interest
themselves in the movements of the Canadian, was a little man in a grey
suit, with a pair of shifty eyes that never remained for more than a
second on any one object.

"He's clever, sir," Thompson had remarked to Sage, "clever as a vanload
of monkeys, and he takes cover like an alien," he added grinning, at
his own joke.

"Has he linked up with Naylor yet?"

Thompson shook his head.  "The old bird's too crafty for that, sir," he
said.  "He only comes up against the small fry.  This little chap in
the grey suit is something bigger."

The officials at Department Z. soon discovered that the chiefs of the
organisation, against which they were working, never came into contact
with each other.  Communication was established verbally by
subordinates.  Another thing that added to the difficulties of Sage's
task was that a man, who had for some days been particularly active,
would suddenly drop out, apparently being superseded by someone else
with whom he had not previously been in contact.  Later, the man who
had dropped out would pick up an entirely different thread.  This meant
innumerable loose ends, all of which had to be followed up and then
held until they began to develop along new lines.

"It's a great game played slow, Gladys," Thompson remarked one day to
Gladys Norman as they sat waiting for Malcolm Sage.

"Slow," cried the girl.  "If this is slow, what's fast?"

"Her initials are G. N.," was the reply.

Malcolm Sage entered at the moment when Gladys had succeeded in making
her colleague's hair look like that of an Australian aborigine.




CHAPTER X

JOHN DENE GOES TO KEW

"And now we'll go to Kew and say how-do-you-do to the rhododendrons,"
cried Dorothy, as she rolled up her napkin and slipped it into the
silver ring that lay beside her plate.  "I'll go and make myself smart;
and mother"--she paused at the door--"mind you put on your new hat that
makes you look so wicked."

Mrs. West smiled what Dorothy called her "Saturday afternoon smile."

Half an hour later Dorothy was gazing at herself in the looking-glass
over the dining-room mantelpiece.  With a sigh half of content, half of
rebelliousness she turned as Mrs. West entered.  For a moment she stood
looking enquiringly at her daughter.

"Shall I do?" she demanded impudently.  "I've put on my very best,
undies and all."

"But why, Dorothy?" began Mrs. West.

"Oh, I just wanted to feel best to-day.  I wonder if John Dene notices
legs, mother," she added inconsequently.

"Really, Dorothy!" began Mrs. West, with widening eyes.

"Well, I've got rather nice legs, and--Oh! but I'm sure he doesn't.  We
had fillets of sole done up in a most wonderful way the other day, and
he asked if it was cod.  He's got cod on the brain, poor dear."  With a
sigh she turned once more to regard herself in the looking-glass.  "If
he could see me in this hat, it would be all 'u.p.' with Honest John;"
and she laughed wickedly as she caught her mother's eye.

"I wish you wouldn't use such expressions," protested Mrs. West gently,
"and--and----"  She stopped and looked appealingly at her daughter.

"I know I'm a horrid little beast," she cried, turning quickly, "and I
say outrageous things, don't I?"  Then with a sudden change of mood she
added: "But why shouldn't a girl be pleased because she's got nice
legs, mother?"

"It's not nice for a young girl to talk about legs," said Mrs. West a
little primly, making the slightest possible pause before the last
words.

"But why, mother?" persisted Dorothy.

"It's--it's not quite nice."

"Well, mine are, anyway," said Dorothy with a little grimace.  "Now we
must be off."

Mrs. West merely sighed, the sigh of one who fails to understand.

"Mother dear," said Dorothy, observing the sigh, "if I didn't laugh I'm
afraid I should cry."  All the brightness had left her as she looked
down at her mother.  "I wonder why it is?" she added musingly.

To Mrs. West, Saturday afternoons were the oases in her desert of
loneliness.  During the long and solitary days of the week, she looked
forward with the eagerness of a child to the excursions Dorothy never
failed to plan for her entertainment.  If it were dull or wet, there
would be a matinee or the pictures; if fine they would go to Kew,
Richmond, or the Zoo.  It was an understood thing that Mrs. West should
know nothing about the arrangement until the actual day itself.

"I think," remarked Dorothy, as they walked across Kew Bridge, "that I
must be looking rather nice to-day.  That's the third man who has given
me the glad-eye since----"

"Oh, Dorothy!  I wish you wouldn't say such dreadful things," protested
Mrs. West in genuine distress.

Slipping her arm through her mother's, the girl squeezed it to her side.

"I know I'm an outrageous little beast," she said, "but I love shocking
you, you dear, funny little mother, and--and you know I love you, don't
you?"

"But suppose anyone heard you, dear, what would they think?"  There was
genuine concern in Mrs. West's voice.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully respectable with other people.  I never talk to
John Dene about legs or glad-eyes, really."  Her eyes were dancing with
mischief as she looked down at her mother.  "Now I'll promise to be
good for the rest of the day; but how can a girl say prunes and prisms
with a mouth like mine.  It's too wide for that, and then there are
those funny little cuts at the corners; they are what make me wicked,"
she announced with a wise little nod.

Mrs. West sighed once more; she had learned that it was useless to
protest when her daughter was in her present mood.

They entered the Gardens, and for an hour walked about absorbing their
atmosphere of peace and warmth, sunlight and shadow and the song of
birds; the war seemed very far away.

Presently they seated themselves by the broad walk leading to the large
tropical greenhouse, and gazed idly at the stream of passers-by.

"I wish I were a girl bird," said Dorothy dreamily, as she listened to
the outpourings of a blackbird fluting from a neighbouring tree.

Mrs. West smiled.  She was very happy.

"It would be lovely to be made love to like that," continued Dorothy,
"so much nicer than----  Mother, darling, look!" she broke off
suddenly, clutching Mrs. West's arm.  "There's John Dene."

Following the direction of her daughter's eyes, Mrs. West saw a rather
thick-set man with hunched-up shoulders, looking straight in front of
him, a cigar gripped aggressively between his teeth.  He was walking in
the direction that would bring him within a few feet of the seat on
which they sat.

"He'll never see us," whispered Dorothy excitedly.  "He never sees
anything, not even a joke.  Oh!  I wish he would," she added.  "I
should so like you to meet him."

Mrs. West did not speak; she was gazing with interest at the
approaching figure.

"Mother dear, do you think you could faint?"  Dorothy's eyes were
shining with excitement.

"Faint!" echoed Mrs. West.

"Yes, then I could call for help and John Dene would come, and you
would get to know him.  I'm sure he'll never see us."

"Hush, dear, he might hear what you are saying," said Mrs. West.

When John Dene was within a few feet of them, Dorothy's sunshade fell
forward, seeming to bring him back with a start to his surroundings.
Instinctively he stepped forward, picked up the sunshade and lifting
his hat handed it to Dorothy.  For a moment there was a puzzled
expression in his eyes, followed instantly by one of recognition; and
then John Dene smiled, and Mrs. West liked him.

"You see, I found my way," he said to Dorothy when she had introduced
him to her mother, and for some reason she blushed.

"We often come here," said Dorothy lamely, conscious that her mother's
eyes were upon her.

"It's fine.  I've just been looking around," he remarked, as he took a
seat beside Mrs. West.  "We haven't anything like this in Can'da," he
added generously.

"I suppose you have parks, though," said Mrs. West conversationally.

"Sure," he replied; "but this is way beyond anything we've got."

"You don't think it wants gingering-up then, Mr. Dene," asked Dorothy
demurely.

"Dorothy!" expostulated Mrs. West in shocked tones; but John Dene
merely looked at her, at first without understanding and then, seeing
the point of her remark, he smiled right into her eyes, and again
Dorothy blushed and dropped her eyes.

"You see," he said, turning to Mrs. West, "we're a new country and it
doesn't matter a bean to us how a thing was done yesterday, if some one
comes along and tells us how we can do it better to-morrow, and we
don't mind its getting known.  That's what she meant," he added,
nodding in Dorothy's direction.

"You must all feel delightfully free," murmured Mrs. West tactfully.

"Free," echoed John Dene in a tone of voice that seemed to suggest that
in no place of the world was freedom so well understood as in the
Dominion.  "In Can'da we're just about as free as drinks at an
election."

Dorothy giggled; but John Dene seemed to see nothing strange in the
simile.

"You see, mother, Mr. Dene thinks we're all hopelessly old-fashioned,"
said Dorothy with a mischievous side-glance at John Dene; then, as he
made no response, she added, "Mr. Dene can do three or four different
things at the same time and--and----"

She broke off and began to poke holes in the gravel with the point of
her sunshade.

"And what?" he demanded peremptorily.

"Well, we're not all so clever," she concluded, angry to feel herself
flushing again.  "Oh----"

Suddenly Dorothy started forward.  A little boy who had been playing
about in front of them for some time past, had tripped and fallen on
his face.  In an instant she was down on her knees striving to soothe
the child's frightened cries, and using her dainty lace-edged
handkerchief to staunch the blood that oozed from a cut on his cheek.

John Dene, who had risen also, stood watching her, his usual expression
changed to one of deep concern.  He looked from the child to Dorothy,
obviously struck by the change in her.  There was knowledge and
understanding of children in the way in which she handled the
situation, he decided.  He also noticed that she seemed quite oblivious
of the fact that she was kneeling on the rough gravel to the detriment
of her pretty frock.

When eventually the mother of the child had led it away pacified by the
attentions of Dorothy and the largesse of John Dene, he turned to the
girl.

"You like them?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the retreating
infant.

"I love them," she said softly, with a dreamy look.  Then catching John
Dene's eye she blushed, and John Dene smiled.

For the next half-hour Mrs. West and John Dene talked, Dorothy
remaining a listener.  The sympathy and gentleness of Mrs. West led
John Dene to talk in a way that surprised Dorothy, accustomed to his
habitual suspicion of strangers--British strangers.

"Say, does this bother you any?" he enquired presently of Mrs. West,
indicating the cigar from which he was puffing clouds of smoke.

"Not at all," said Mrs. West, striving to keep from choking.  "I--I
like smoke."

Dorothy tittered in spite of herself at the expression of martyrdom on
her mother's face.  John Dene turned to her enquiringly; she developed
her giggle into a cough.

"But you like England, Mr. Dene?" asked Mrs. West by way of bridging
the slight gulf that Dorothy's giggle had caused.

"Sure," said John Dene; "but I don't seem to be able to figure things
out here as I did at T'ronto.  Over there we're just as dead keen on
winning this war as we are on keeping alive; but here----"  He filled
in the hiatus with a volume of cigar smoke.

"And don't you think we want to win the war, Mr. Dene?" asked Dorothy.

"Well, some of those dancing lizards up at the Admiralty have a funny
way of showing it," was the grim rejoinder.

"Please, Mr. Dene, what is a dancing lizard?" asked Dorothy demurely,
developing a design that she was making in the gravel with the end of
her sunshade.

"Dorothy!" expostulated Mrs. West, and then without giving him an
opportunity of replying, she continued: "but, Mr. Dene, I'm sure they
are all extremely patriotic and--and----"

"Perhaps it's because I don't understand Englishmen," he conceded.
"Why, the other day, when Sir Lyster took me along to see Mr. Llewellyn
John about one of the biggest things that's ever likely to come his
way, what do you think he talked about?"

Mrs. West shook her head, with a smile that seemed to say it was not
for her to suggest what First Lords talked of.

"Pelicans!"  Into that simple and unoffending word John Dene managed to
precipitate whole dictionaries of contempt and disapprov

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