"This is Major Slingsby," said the Consul. "He will not be in your way."
Major Slingsby, a square, short, rubicund man of forty, with the face of a faun, bowed, and, without moving from his chair, seemed, nevertheless, to remove himself completely from the room.
"Not at all," said Strange. He had not an idea that he was in the presence of the two shrewdest men in those parts. To him they were just a couple of languid people whom it was his duty to arouse, and he told his story as vividly as he could.
"And what do you deduce from these mysterious signs?" asked the Consul.
"German submarines in the Mediterranean."
"Oh! And why not the Channel?" asked Mr. Taylor. "These steamers are on their way there."
To that question there was no reply. Strange rose. "I thought that I ought to tell you what I had noticed," he said stiffly.
"Thank you, yes. And I am very grateful," replied Taylor.
Major Slingsby, however, followed Strange out of the room.
"Will you lunch with me?" he asked, and the question sent the blood rushing into Strange's face. He swung between his instinct to hide his head from any man who was doing service and his craving to converse with a fellow-countryman. The craving won.
"Right. It is half-past twelve now. Shall we say one at the Café de Rome?"
As they sat against the wall by the window of the café Slingsby talked of ordinary matters, which any one of those in the chairs outside upon the pavement might overhear and be none the wiser. But he talked sagely, neither parading mysteries nor pretending disclosures. He let the mere facts of companionship and nationality work, and before luncheon was over Strange was won by them. He longed to confide, to justify himself before a fellow-citizen of his miserable inertness. Over the coffee, indeed, he would have begun, but Slingsby saw the torrent of confession coming.
"Do you often lunch here?" he said quickly. "I do whenever I happen to be in the town. Sit in this window for an hour and you will see all the town paraded before you like a show, its big men and little men, its plots and its intrigues. There, for instance," and he nodded towards a large, stout person with a blonde moustache, "is Rehnke--yes, that's your man. Take a good look at him."