“Leave him for me to deal with,” Sir Henry insisted.  “I have a little scheme on hand in which he is concerned.”

Rayton scratched his chin doubtfully.

“The fellow may not be such a fool as he seems,” he reminded his friend.

“I won’t run any risks,” Sir Henry promised.  “I just want him left there, that’s all.  And look here, Rayton, you know what I want from you.  I quite agreed to your proposals as to my anonymity at the time when I was up in Scotland, but the thing’s a secret no longer with the people who count.  Every one in Germany knows that I’m a mine-field specialist, so I don’t see why the dickens I should pose any longer as a sort of half-baked idiot.”

Rayton’s eyes twinkled.

“You want to play the Wilson Barrett hero and make a theatrical disclosure of your greatness,” he laughed.  “Poor Philippa will fall upon her knees.  You will be the hero of the village, which will probably present you with some little article of plate.  You’ve a good time coming, Henry.”

“Talk sense, there’s a good fellow,” the other begged.  “You go and see the Chief and put it to him.  There isn’t a single reason why I shouldn’t own up now.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rayton promised, “but what about this fellow Lessingham, or whatever else he calls himself, down there?  There’s a chap named Griffiths—­Commandant, isn’t he?—­been writing us about him.”

“I won’t have Lessingham touched,” Sir Henry insisted.  “He can’t do any particular harm down there, and there isn’t a line or a drawing of mine down at Dreymarsh which he isn’t welcome to.”

Lord Rayton rose to his feet.

“Look here, Henry, old fellow,” he said, “I do sympathise with you up to a certain point.  I tell you what I’ll do.  I shall have to answer Philippa’s letter, and I’ll answer it in such a way that if she is as clever a little woman as I think she is, she’ll get a hint.  Of course,” he went on ruminatively, “it is rather a misfortune that the Princess Ollaneff and her sister are such jolly good-looking women.  Makes it look a little fishy, doesn’t it?  What I mean to say is, it’s a far cry from fishing for whiting in the North Sea to lunching with a beautiful princess at the Carlton—­when you think your wife’s down in Norfolk.”

Sir Henry threw open the door.

“Look here, I’ve had enough of you, Rayton,” he declared.  “You get back and do an hour’s work, if you can bring your mind to it.”

The latter assumed a sudden dignity, necessitated by the sound of voices in the corridor, and departed.  The door had scarcely been closed when two younger men presented themselves—­Miles Ensol, Sir Henry’s secretary, a typical-looking young sailor minus his left arm; and a pale-faced, clean-shaven man of uncertain age, in civilian clothes.  Sir Henry shook hands with the latter and pointed to the easy-chair which his previous visitor had just vacated.