Lakely's surroundings were rather more elaborate than is usual, as became the dignity of the oldest Tory evening paper, but the atmosphere was unmistakable. As Loder entered he glanced up from the desk at which he was sitting, but instantly returned to his task of looking through and marking the pile of early evening editions that were spread around him. His coat was off and hung on the chair behind him, axed he pulled vigorously on a long cigar. “Hullo! That's right,” he said, laconically. “Make yourself comfortable half a second, while I skim the 'St. Stephen's'.” His salutation pleased Loder. With a nod of acquiescence he crossed the office to the brisk fire that burned in, the grate. For a minute or two Lakely worked steadily, occasionally breaking the quiet by an unintelligible remark or a vigorous stroke of his pencil. At last he dropped the paper with a gesture of satisfaction and leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said, “what d'you think of this? How's this for a complication?” Loder turned round. “I think,” he said, quietly, “that we can't overestimate it.” Lakely laughed and took a long pull at his cigar. “And we mustn't be afraid to let the Sefborough crowd know it, eh?” He waved his hand to the poster of the first edition that hung before his desk. Loder, following his glance, smiled. Lakely laughed again. “They might have known it all along, if they'd cared to deduce,” he said. “Did they really believe that Russia was going to sit calmly looking across the Heri-Rud while the Shah played at mobilizing? But what became of you last night? We had a regular prophesying of the whole business at Bramfell's; the great Fraide looked in for five minutes. I went on with him to the club afterwards and was there when the news came in. 'Twas a great night!” Loder's face lighted up. “I can imagine it,” he said, with an unusual touch of warmth. Lakely watched him intently for a moment. Then with a quick action he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “It's going to be something more than imagination for you, Chilcote,” he said, impressively. “It's going to be solid earnest!” He spoke rapidly and with rather more than his usual shrewd decisiveness; then he paused to see the effect of his announcement. Loder was still studying the flaring poster. At the other's words he turned sharply. Something in Lakely's voice, something in his manner, arrested him. A tinge of color crossed his face. “Reality?” he said. “What do you mean?” For a further space his companion watched him; then with a rapid movement he tilted back his chair. “Yes,” he said. “Yes; old Fraide's instincts are never far out. He's quite right. You're the man!” Still quietly, but with a strange underglow of excitement, Loder left the fire, and, coming forward, took a chair at Lakely's desk. “Do you mind telling me what you're driving at?” he asked, in his old, laconic voice.