on this time
that the end is really coming."

"And what will the end be?" Hamel enquired eagerly.

Kinsley shrugged his shoulders and paused while their glasses were
filled with wine.

"It will be in the nature of a diplomatic coup," he said presently. "Of
that much I feel sure. England will be forced into such a position that
she will have no alternative left but to declare war. That, of course,
will be the end of us. With our ridiculously small army and absolutely
no sane scheme for home defence, we shall lose all that we have worth
fighting for--our colonies--without being able to strike a blow. The
thing is so ridiculously obvious. It has been admitted time after time
by every sea lord and every commander-in-chief. We have listened to it,
and that's all. Our fleet is needed under present conditions to protect
our own shores. There isn't a single battleship which could be safely
spared. Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Egypt, India, must take care
of themselves. I wonder when a nation of the world ever played fast and
loose with great possessions as we have done!"

"This is a nice sort of thing to hear almost one's first night in
England," Hamel remarked a little gloomily. "Tell me some more about
this conference. Are you sure that your information is reliable?"

"Our information is miserably scanty," Kinsley admitted. "Curiously
enough, the man who must know most about the whole thing is an
Englishman, one of the most curious mortals in the British Empire. A spy
of his succeeded in learning more than any of our people, and without
being arrested, too."

"And who is this singular person?" Hamel asked.

"A man of whom you, I suppose, never heard," Kinsley replied. "His name
is Fentolin--Miles Fentolin--and he lives somewhere down in Norfolk. He
is one of the strangest characters that ever lived, stranger than any
effort of fiction I ever met with. He was in the Foreign Office once,
and every one was predicting for him a brilliant career. Then there
was an accident--let me see, it must have been some six or seven years
ago--and he had to have both his legs amputated. No one knows exactly
how the accident happened, and there was always a certain amount of
mystery connected with it. Since then he has buried himself in the
country. I don't think, in fact, that he ever moves outside his place;
but somehow or other he has managed to keep in touch with all the
political movements of the day."

"Fentolin," Hamel repe