“You are very good, sir,” the officer answered.  “Business first.  I’ll breakfast afterwards, with pleasure, if I may.  The Admiral’s compliments, and he would take it as a favour if you would haul down your wireless for a few days.”

“Haul down my wireless,” Mr. Fentolin repeated slowly.

“We are doing a lot of manoeuvring within range of you, and likely to do a bit more,” the young man explained.  “You are catching up our messages all the time.  Of course, we know they’re quite safe with you, but things get about.  As yours is only a private installation, we’d like you, if you don’t mind, sir, to shut up shop for a few days.”

Mr. Fentolin seemed puzzled.

“But, my dear sir,” he protested, “we are not at war, are we?”

“Not yet,” the young officer replied, “but God knows when we shall be!  We are under sealed orders, anyway, and we don’t want any risk of our plans leaking out.  That’s why we want your wireless disconnected.”

“You need say no more,” Mr. Fentolin assured him.  “The matter is already arranged.  Esther, let me present Lieutenant Godfrey—­my niece, Miss Fentolin; Mr. Gerald Fentolin, my nephew; Mr. Hamel, a guest.  See that Lieutenant Godfrey has some breakfast, Gerald.  I will go myself and see my Marconi operator.”

“Awfully good of you, sir,” the young man declared, “and I am sure we are very sorry to trouble you.  In a week or two’s time you can go into business again as much as you like.  It’s only while we are fiddling around here that the Admiral’s jumpy about things.  May my man have a cup of coffee, sir?  I’d like to be on the way back in a quarter of an hour.”

Mr. Fentolin halted his chair by the side of the bell, and rang it.

“Pray make use of my house as your own, sir,” he said gravely.  “From what you leave unsaid, I gather that things are more serious than the papers would have us believe.  Under those circumstances, I need not assure you that any help we can render is entirely yours.”

Mr. Fentolin left the room.  Lieutenant Godfrey was already attacking his breakfast.  Gerald leaned towards him eagerly.

“Is there really going to be war?” he demanded.

“Ask those chaps at The Hague,” Lieutenant Godfrey answered.  “Doing their best to freeze us out, or something.  All I know is, if there’s going to be fighting, we are ready for them.  By-the-by, what have you got wireless telegraphy for here, anyway?”

“It’s a fad of my uncle’s,” Gerald replied.  “Since his accident he amuses himself in all sorts of queer ways.”

Lieutenant Godfrey nodded.

“Poor fellow!” he said.  “I heard he was a cripple, or something of the sort.  Forgive my asking, but—­you people are English, aren’t you?”

“Rather!” Gerald answered.  “The Fentolins have lived here for hundreds of years.  Why do you ask that?”

Lieutenant Godfrey hesitated.  He looked, for the moment, scarcely at his ease.