But on the 15th day of June there were to be others in London—others, at whom I could only guess.Scudder was content to call them collectively the'Black Stone'. They represented not our Allies, but our deadly foes; and the information, destined for France,was to be diverted to their pockets. And it was to be used, remember—used a week or two later, with great guns and swift torpedoes, suddenly in the darkness of a summer night.
This was the story I had been deciphering in a back room of a country inn, overlooking a cabbage garden.This was the story that hummed in my brain as I swung in the big touring-car from glen to glen.