“What’s wrong with him?” Norgate asked.

“I cannot,” Hebblethwaite regretted, “talk confidentially to a German spy.”

“Getting cautious as the years roll on, aren’t you?” Norgate sighed.  “I hoped I was going to get something interesting out of you to cable to Berlin.”

“You try cabling to Berlin, young fellow,” Hebblethwaite replied grimly, “and I’ll have you up at Bow Street pretty soon!  There’s no doubt about it, though, old White has got the shivers for some reason or other.  To any sane person things were never calmer and more peaceful than at the present moment, and White isn’t a believer in the German peril, either.  He is half inclined to agree with old Busby.  He got us out of that Balkan trouble in great style, and all I can say is that if any nation in Europe wanted war then, she could have had it for the asking.”

“Well, exactly what is the matter with White at the present moment?” Norgate demanded.

“Got the shakes,” Hebblethwaite confided.  “Of course, we don’t employ well-born young Germans who are undergoing a period of rustication, as English spies, but we do get to know a bit what goes on there, and the reports that are coming in are just a little curious.  Rolling stock is being called into the termini of all the railways.  Staff officers in mufti have been round all the frontiers.  There’s an enormous amount of drilling going on, and the ordnance factories are working at full pressure, day and night.”

“The manoeuvres are due very soon,” Norgate reminded his friend.

“So I told White,” Hebblethwaite continued, “but manoeuvres, as he remarked, don’t lead to quite so much feverish activity as there is about Germany just now.  Personally, I haven’t a single second’s anxiety.  I only regret the effect that this sort of feeling has upon the others.  Thank heavens we are a Government of sane, peace-believing people!”

“A Government of fat-headed asses who go about with your ears stuffed full of wool,” Norgate declared, with a sudden bitterness.  “What you’ve been telling me is the truth.  Germany’s getting ready for war, and you’ll have it in the neck pretty soon.”

Hebblethwaite set down his empty glass.  He had recovered his composure.

“Well, I am glad I met you, any way, young fellow,” he remarked.  “You’re always such an optimist.  You cheer one up.  Sorry I can’t ask you to lunch,” he went on, consulting his book, “but I find I am motoring down for a round of golf this afternoon.”

“Yes, you would play golf!” Norgate grunted, as they strolled towards the door.  “You’re the modern Nero, playing golf while the earthquake yawns under London.”

“Play you some day, if you like,” Hebblethwaite suggested, as he called for a taxi.  “They took my handicap down two last week at Walton Heath—­not before it was time, either.  By-the-by, when can I meet the young lady?  My people may be out of town next week, but I’ll give you both a lunch or a dinner, if you’ll say the word.  Thursday night, eh?”