In his turn, Carl drew his legs together, his heels clicked, his hand stuck to his visor.
"I have been in constant communication," said the man with the beard.
"They will be here just before the dawn.

Return to Cromer and openly from the post-office telegraph your cousin in London: 'Will meet you to-morrow at the Crystal Palace.' On receipt of that, in the last edition of all of this afternoon's papers, he will insert the final advertisement.

Thirty thousand of our own people will read it.

They will know the moment has come!" As Carl coasted back to Cromer he flashed past many pretty gardens where, upon the lawns, men in flannels were busy at tennis or, with pretty ladies, deeply occupied in drinking tea.

Carl smiled grimly.