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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-cachêt. 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.
