After yet another pause, the man seated in the fisherman's stuffy little bedroom grasped the telegraph-key and made the signals--"J.O.H.J."-- which, in the German war-code, meant: "Take careful note and report to proper quarter instantly." "All right," came the answering signal, also in code. "Prepared to receive J.O.H.J." Then, after a few seconds, Rodwell glanced again at the closely-written sheet spread before him, and began to tap out the following secret message in German to the very heart of the Imperial war-machine: "Official information just gained from a fresh and most reliable source--confirmed by H.238, M.605, and also B.1928--shows that British Admiralty have conceived a clever plan for entrapping the German Grand Fleet. Roughly, the scheme is to make attack with inferior force upon Heligoland early on Wednesday morning, the 16th, together with corresponding attack upon German division in the estuary of the Eider and thus draw out the German ships northward towards the Shetlands, behind which British Grand Fleet are concealed in readiness. This concentration of forces northward will, according to the scheme of which I have learned full details, leave the East coast of England from the Tyne to the Humber unprotected for a full twelve hours on the 16th, thus full advantage could be taken for bombardment. Inform Grand Admiral immediately." Having thus betrayed the well-laid plans of the British Admiralty to entice the German Fleet out of the Kiel canal and the other harbours in which barnacles were growing on their keels, Lewin Rodwell, the popular British "patriot," paused once more. But not for long, because, in less than a minute, he received again the signal of acknowledgment that his highly interesting message to the German Admiralty had been received, and would be delivered without a moment's delay. Then he knew that the well-organised plans of the British Fleet, so cleverly conceived and so deadly if executed, would be effectively frustrated. He gave the signal that he had ended his message and, with a low laugh of satisfaction, rose from the rickety old chair and lit another cigarette. Thus had England been foully betrayed by one of the men whom her deluded public most confidently trusted and so greatly admired. CHAPTER TEN. THE KHAKI CULT. Twenty-four hours later Lewin Rodwell was standing upon the platform of the big Music Hall, in George Street, Edinburgh, addressing a great recruiting meeting. The meeting, presided over by a well-known Scotch earl, had already been addressed by a Cabinet Minister; but when Rodwell rose, a neat, spruce figure in his well-fitting morning-coat, with well-brushed hair, and an affable smile, the applause was tremendous--even greater than that which had greeted the Minister. Lewin Rodwell was a people's idol--one of those who, in these times, are so suddenly placed high upon the pedestal of public opinion, and as quickly cast down.