style="font-size:15px;"> "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
