What a chance, supposing _Der Tag_ were come already, for the delivery of a consignment of bombs! It warmed like a draught of wine, to think of the devastating effect of a couple of such German love-gifts, exploded in the bowels of one of those steel monsters, packed with complex machinery, high explosives, and inflammable oil. True, there might be a reverse to the medal, damping even to the spirits of a Superman. Wireless signals would go forth at the order of one amongst a little knot of dark figures on the forebridge of the Flagship, warning each of those grey monsters of its danger. Not an armoured cruiser scouting for them on the horizon, not one of all the torpedo-boat destroyers in their vicinity, not a submarine nosing in the thick cold darkness below the restless white crests, but would join in the man-hunt that must ensue. How the dusk would spring alive with the eyes of foes, and long rays of searchlight would go probing, and the mobile noses of guns great and lesser would be thrust from their hoods of proof-armour, sniffing bloodthirstily for the enemy up in the sky. While from the Flagship’s mothering side, a Navy seaplane, armed with a Vickers’ machine-gun, might swing out and plop upon the water, rise from the white snarl of waves with a vicious scream of her propeller, and, keen as a gull-hunting sea-hawk, launch herself in chase. _Pfui_! The thought made one sick at the stomach. Cold, isolation, and darkness tried a man, no matter how courageous. Buffeted by the bitter wind, aching and stiff with weariness, lonely with the loneliness of some small bird of the migratory order, outstripped by its companions on the wild journey over the North Sea, the Kaiser’s messenger drew energy and cheer from the conviction that the dispatches entrusted to him by Imperial favour were such as would hasten the arrival of The Day. The Day, to which all good German officers devoted the second toast on Mess nights. When the Black Eagle would swoop, and the nodding witch-hag Britannia would awaken from her whisky-dreams of World-Dominion to find her armour obsolete, her sword rusted in its scabbard, the trident of Sea Power stolen from her hand. Hurrah! for The Day when the programme arranged by the All Highest War Lord and his War Chiefs should be carried out in the complete overthrow of British Supremacy, the seizure and domination of British territory, the solution of the Great German Race Problem, in the transformation of the United Kingdom into a German dependency,—the annexation of India and the British Colonies—and the forcible Teutonisation of the hated race. Aha! Much to be locked in an Imperial messenger’s letter-bag, thought von Herrnung, greedily. What in the way of guerdon might not be lavished by a gratified All Highest upon the danger-braving and to-duty-fearlessly-devoted Flying Officer who should accomplish the Secret Mission, and lay the brown satchel at the Imperial feet.