“I have obeyed your wishes, Sir Alfred,” he announced, as they seated themselves.  “No one else will be dining anywhere near you.”

Sir Alfred nodded.

“Knowing how modest you soldiers are in talking of your exploits,” he remarked to Granet, “I have pleaded for seclusion.  Here, in the intervals of our being served with dinner, you can spin me yarns of the Front.  The whole thing fascinates me.  I want to hear the story of your escape.”

They seated themselves, and Sir Alfred studied the menu for a moment through his eyeglass.  After the service of the soup they were alone.  He leaned a little across the table.

“Ronnie,” he said, “I thought it was better to ask you here than to have you down at the city.”

Granet nodded.

“This seems all right,” he admitted, glancing around.  “Well, one part of the great work is finished.  I have lived for eleven days not quite sure when I wasn’t going to be stood up with my back to the light at the Tower.  Now it’s over.”

“You’ve seen Pailleton?”

“Seen him, impressed him, given him the document.  He has his plans all made.”

“Good!  Very good!”

Sir Alfred ate soup for several moments as though it were the best soup on earth and nothing else was worth consideration.  Then he laid down his spoon.

“Magnificent!” he said.  “Now listen—­these submarines.  There was a Taube close at hand and I can tell you something which the Admiralty here are keeping dark, with their tongues in their cheeks.  Both those submarines were sunk under water.”

“I guessed it,” Granet replied coolly.  “I not only guessed it but I came very near the key of the whole thing.”

A waiter appeared with the next course, followed by the wine steward, carrying champagne.  Sir Alfred nodded approvingly.

“Just four minutes in the ice,” he instructed, “not longer.  What you tell me about the champagne country is, I must confess, a relief,” he added, turning to Granet.  “It may not affect us quite so much, but personally I believe that the whole world is happier and better when champagne is cheap.  It is the bottled gaiety of the nation.  A nation of ginger ale drinkers would be doomed before they reached the second generation. 1900 Pommery, this, Ronnie, and I drink your health.  If I may be allowed one moment’s sentiment,” he added, raising his glass, “let me say that I drink your health from the bottom of my hear, with all the admiration which a man of my age feels for you younger fellows who are fighting for us and our country.”

They drank the toast in silence.  In a moment or two they were alone again.

“Go on, Ronnie,” his uncle said.  “I am interested.”