"Well--if it failed," Trustram said, hesitating and speaking in a lower tone--"if it failed, then no real harm would occur--only one thing perhaps: that the East Coast of England might be left practically unguarded for perhaps twelve hours or so. That's all." "Well, that would not matter very much, so long as the enemy obtains no knowledge of the British Admiral's intentions," remarked Lewin Rodwell, contemplating the end of his cigar and reflecting for a few seconds. Then he blurted out: "Gad! that's jolly interesting. I shall wait for next Wednesday with all eagerness." "You won't breathe a word, will you? Remember, it was you who obtained the information by suggestion," Trustram said, with a good-humoured laugh. "Can't you really rely on me, my dear fellow, when I give you my word of honour as an Englishman to say nothing?" he asked. "I expect I am often in the know in secrets of the Cabinet, and I am trusted." "Very well," replied his friend. "I accept your promise. Not a word must leak out. If it did, then all our plans would be upset, and possibly it would mean the loss of one, or more, of our ships. But you, of course, realise the full seriousness of it all." "I do, my dear Trustram--I do," was the reassuring answer. "No single whisper of it shall pass my lips. That, I most faithfully promise you." CHAPTER EIGHT. TOILERS OF THE NORTH SEA. Just as it was growing dark on the following evening, a powerful pale grey car, with cabriolet body, drew out of the yard of the quaint old Saracen's Head Hotel at Lincoln, and, passing slowly through the town, set out on the straight, open road which led past Langworth station to Wragby, and on to Horncastle. The occupant of the car, muffled up as though he were an invalid, had come in from London half an hour before, taken his tea in the coffee-room, and had resumed his journey, together with his smart, clean-shaven chauffeur. Though he posed as an invalid at the Saracen's Head, yet as soon as the car had left the town he threw off his thick muffler, opened his coat and drew a long sigh of relief. Truth to tell, Mr Lewin Rodwell, whose photograph appeared so constantly in the picture-papers, was not over anxious to be seen in Lincoln, or, indeed, in that neighbourhood at all. With Penney, his trusted chauffeur--a man who, like himself, was a "friend of Germany"-- he had set out from Bruton Street that morning, and all day they had sat side by side on their journey towards the Fens. Many times, after chatting with Penney, he had lapsed into long spells of silence, during which time he had puffed vigorously at his cigar, and thought deeply. Until, after about five miles, they passed Langworth station, they had been content with their side-lights, but soon they switched on the huge electric head-lamps, and then they "put a move on," as Rodwell was anxious to get to his journey's end as quickly as possible.