“That is exactly what I mean. You need not worry, however. Trust Scarf to play it safe. If he saw that there was the slightest chance of failure, he would have taken no risk. That's Scarf, my friend. Calm yourself. We will hear from him before noon. He will have worked out another plan, you may be sure.” It may be mentioned here and now that Zimmerlein had consulted Thorsensel--the mastermind,--before taking a step in the affair of the night just past. He had gone directly from his hotel to the little French café down the street. He knew that it was the unvarying habit of the strange, silent engineer to drop in at this quaint place for a bite of something to eat and a bottle of red wine at midnight. Thorsensel never missed doing this. There was method in his continence. A big and vital problem confronted Zimmerlein. He did not dare act without consulting his pseudo-subordinate. Thorsensel took the matter out of his hands. It was he who laid the plans. Zimmerlein became merely an instrument, with certain functions to perform, and nothing more. “I hope you are right,” said Zimmerlein, absorbing some of the other's fatalistic assurance. “God help us if you are wrong.” “My dear man, God helps us because we are right, not because we are wrong,” said Thorsensel, laying his big, clenched fist upon the desk,--not violently but with a gentleness that suggested vast strength held under control by the power of a vaster will. Zimmerlein drew a long, deep breath. “You've heard about the _Elston_, I suppose?” “Yes. They got her. I knew they would. That was the greatest tip we've ever had. Our report is that not one of the big bugs on board was saved. A number of the crew got off in boats, but they had to hurry. She went down in eight minutes. They made a good job of it, bless 'em. No wonder the night wind weeps! Now, we'll see what old England has to say for the invincibility of her fleet, and what she 'll say to the United States for letting the cat out of the bag.” He laughed aloud,--for the first time in the memory of Zimmerlein. Several of the men in the drafting-room looked up. They stared unblinkingly at the laugher. The forenoon wore away. Thorsensel shuttled between the drafting-room and the private office. He no longer laughed. The pleased, confident look had left his eyes; in its stead lurked something that finally developed into real, undisguised anxiety. An atmosphere of restraint settled down like a cloud over the offices. The uneasiness of the two principal figures in the place was acutely infectious.