"Is the Prime Minister in town, Mr. Jones?" he asked.
"Yes, sir; he's here for three more days."
"I shall send a message now," said Ommaney, "asking for an interview in an hour's time. I know he will see me. He knows that I would not come at this hour unless the matter were of national importance. As you know, we are very much in the confidence of the Cabinet just now. I dare not wait till to-morrow." He rapidly wrote a note and sent for Mr. Folliott Farmer.
The big-bearded man from Spence's room entered, smoking a briar pipe.
"Mr. Farmer," said Ommaney, "I suppose you've done your leader?"
"Sent it up-stairs ten minutes ago," said the big man.
"Then I want you to do me a favour. The matter is so important that I do not like to trust any one else. I want you to drive to Downing Street at once as hard as you can go. Take this letter for Lord —. It is making an appointment for me in an hour's time. He must see it himself at once — take my card. One of the secretaries will try and put you off, of course. This is irregular, but it is of international importance. When I tell you this you will realise that Lord — must see the note. Bring me back the answer as rapidly as you can."
The elderly man — his name was a household word as a political writer all over England and the Continent — nodded without speaking, took the letter, and left the room. He knew Ommaney, and realised that if he made a messenger boy of him, Folliott Farmer, the matter was of supreme importance.
"That is the only thing to do," said Ommaney. "No one else would be possible. The Archbishop would laugh. We must go to the real head. I only want to put myself on the safe side before publishing. If they
