“Certainly,” said Tom, adding with a smile: “On one condition.” “Trust me, I won’t say a word. And I’ll shut Margaret’s mouth too—if I can. Look here, it seems to me you’d be the best man for that job. I’ll bring Margaret to-morrow—may I?—and when she knows you’re the inventor, and you impress on her that your life’s at stake or something, she’ll be more likely to hold her tongue than if _I_ jaw. Good-bye.” Tom thought it necessary to inform Mr. Greatorex, in the drawing-room before dinner, of what had happened. “Hm!” he grunted. “Eton boy, is he? Got any _sense_?” “I didn’t examine him,” said Tom with a laugh. “I thought him quite a decent fellow. He was very good-tempered with Tim, who was a trifle taken aback when he learnt that he had ordered off the son of the Prime Minister.” “And a precious Prime Minister he _is_! Mark my words, Tom, the Country’s going to the dogs. To the _dogs_! We’re dropping _behind_, Tom, and Langside hasn’t the grit to prevent it.” “Mr. Oliphant suggested that a word to his father might induce him to buy the aeroplane for the Country.” “God bless my soul, you mustn’t _dream_ of it! Langside will be turned out at the next election; John Brooks will go in, and he’s the man to steer this old country through. No, no! and if young Oliphant blabs a word of it to his father, I’ll—I’ll——Yes, my love”—as Mrs. Greatorex entered—“we were talking about our new neighbour, Lord Langside. It appears that his son and daughter have come down.” “Oh, John, do you think I should call?” “On _no account_, my dear. I _hate_ Langside’s politics, and we’ll _have nothing to do with them_. Now, Tom, give Mrs. Greatorex your arm.” CHAPTER IV—A PRISONER IN ZEMMUR A few mornings after the meeting with Raymond Oliphant, Tom, coming down to breakfast, found Mr. Greatorex in a state of high excitability, with the _Times_ outspread before him. “What did I say, Tom!” he shouted. “Didn’t I _tell_ you the Country was going to the dogs! What do you think of _this_, now?” He read out a short paragraph— “Information has just reached the Foreign Office that Sir Mark Ingleton, who recently left London on a diplomatic mission to Morocco, has been captured by tribesmen and carried off to the hills. Strong pressure is being brought to bear on the Sultan to take steps against the offenders; but if, as is feared, Sir Mark Ingleton’s captor is the notorious rebel whose headquarters are at Zemmur, there is little hope of the Sultan in his present state of impotence being able to make his authority felt.” “That’s what has happened to a servant of the British Crown under Langside’s administration;” said Mr. Greatorex hotly. “Strong _pressure_, indeed! It wants a fleet, an expedition, a few quick-firers and Long Toms.” “But wouldn’t that make a blaze?” said Tom quietly. “In the present state of affairs it might give rise to no end of complications in Europe, too.”