Such was the amazing news received in that high-up room in Carter Lane, City, on that sweet, sunny morning when all the great world of London was at peace, either still slumbering or week-ending.
Fergusson remained for a full hour and a half at the Telephone Exchange, anxiously awaiting any further corroboration. Many wild stories came over the wires telling how panic-stricken people were fleeing inland away from the enemys outposts. Then he took a hansom to the Weekly Dispatch office, and proceeded to prepare a special edition of his paper an edition containing surely the most amazing news that had ever startled London.
Fearing to create undue panic, he decided not to go to press until the arrival of the motorist from Ipswich. He wanted the story of the man who had actually seen the cutting of the wires. He paced his room excitedly, wondering what effect the news would have upon the world. In the rival newspaper offices the report was, as yet, unknown. With journalistic forethought he had arranged that at present the bewildering truth should not leak out to his rivals, either from the railway termini or from the telephone exchange. His only fear was that some local correspondent might telegraph from some village or town nearer the metropolis which was still in communication with the central office.
Time passed very slowly. Each moment increased his anxiety. He had sent out the one reporter who remained on duty to the house of Colonel Sir James Taylor, the Permanent Under-Secretary for War. Halting before the open window, he looked up and down the street for the arriving motor-car. But all was quiet.
Eight oclock had just boomed from Big Ben, and London still remained in her Sunday morning peace. The street, bright in the warm sunshine, was quite empty, save for a couple of motor-omnibuses and a sprinkling of gaily dressed holiday-makers on their way to the day excursion trains.
In that centre of London the hub of the world all was comparatively silent, the welcome rest after the busy turmoil that through six days in the week is unceasing, that fevered throbbing of the heart of the worlds great capital.
Of a sudden, however, came the whirr-r of an approaching car, as a thin-faced, travel-stained man tore along from the direction of the Strand and pulled up before the office. The fine car, a six-cylinder Napier, was grey with the mud of country roads, while the motorist himself was smothered until his goggles had been almost entirely covered.
Fergusson rushed out to him, and a few moments later the pair were in the upstairs room, the sub-editor swiftly taking down the motorists story, which differed very little from what he had already spoken over the telephone.
Then, just as Big Ben chimed the half-hour, the echoes of the half-deserted Strand were suddenly awakened by the loud, strident voices of the newsboys shouting
Weekly Dispatch, spe-shall! Invasion of England this morning! Germans in Suffolk! Terrible panic! Spe-shall! Weekly Dispatch, Spe-shall!
As soon as the paper had gone to press Fergusson urged the motorist whose name was Horton, and who lived at Richmond to go with him to the War Office and report. Therefore, both men entered the car, and in a few moments drew up before the new War Office in Whitehall.
I want to see somebody in authority at once! cried Fergusson excitedly to the sentry as he sprang out.
Youll find the caretaker, if you ring at the side entrance on the right, there, responded the man, who then marched on.
The caretaker! echoed the excited sub-editor bitterly. And England invaded by the Germans!
He, however, dashed towards the door indicated and rang the bell. At first there was no response. But presently there were sounds of a slow unbolting of the door, which opened at last, revealing a tall, elderly man in slippers, a retired soldier.
I must see somebody at once! exclaimed the journalist. Not a moment must be lost. What permanent officials are here?
Theres nobody ere, sir, responded the man in some surprise at the request. Its Sunday morning, you know.
Sunday! I know that, but I must see someone. Whom can I see?
Nobody, until to-morrow morning. Come then. And the old soldier was about to close the door when the journalist prevented him, asking
Wheres the clerk-in-residence?
How should I know? Gone up the river, perhaps. Its a nice mornin.
Well, where does he live?
Sometimes ere sometimes in is chambers in Ebury Street, and the man mentioned the number.
Better come to-morrow, sir, about eleven. Somebodyll be sure to see you then.
To-morrow! cried the other. To-morrow! You dont know what youre saying, man! To-morrow will be too late. Perhaps its too late now. The Germans have landed in England!
Oh, ave they? exclaimed the caretaker, regarding both men with considerable suspicion. Our people will be glad to know that, Im sure to-morrow.
But havent you got telephones, private telegraphs, or something here, so that I can communicate with the authorities? Cant you ring up the Secretary of State, the Permanent Secretary, or somebody?
The caretaker hesitated a moment, his incredulous gaze fixed upon the pale, agitated faces of the two men.
Well, just wait a minute, and Ill see, he said, disappearing into a long cavernous passage.
In a few moments he reappeared with a constable whose duty it was to patrol the building.
The officer looked the strangers up and down, and then asked
Whats this extraordinary story? Germans landed in England eh? Thats fresh, certainly!
Yes. Cant you hear what the newsboys are crying? Listen! exclaimed the motorist.
Hm. Well, youre not the first gentleman whos been here with a scare, you know. If I were you Id wait till to-morrow, and he glanced significantly at the caretaker.
I wont wait till to-morrow! cried Fergusson. The country is in peril, and you refuse to assist me on your own responsibility you understand?
All right, my dear sir, replied the officer, leisurely hooking his thumbs in his belt. Youd better drive home, and call again in the morning.
So this is the way the safety of the country is neglected! cried the motorist bitterly, turning away. Everyone away, and this great place, built merely to gull the public, I suppose, empty and its machinery useless. What will England say when she learns the truth?
As they were walking in disgust out from the portico towards the car, a man jumped from a hansom in breathless haste. He was the reporter whom Fergusson had sent out to Sir James Taylors house in Cleveland Square, Hyde Park.
They thought Sir James spent the night with his brother up at Hampstead, he exclaimed. Ive been there, but find that hes away for the week-end at Chilham Hall, near Buckden.
Buckden! Thats on the Great North Road! cried Horton. Well go at once and find him. Sixty miles from London. We can be there under two hours!
And a few minutes later the pair were tearing due north in the direction of Finchley, disregarding the signs from police constables to stop, Horton wiping the dried mud from his goggles and pulling them over his half-closed eyes.
They had given the alarm in London, and the Weekly Dispatch was spreading the amazing news everywhere. People read it eagerly, gasped for a moment, and then smiled in utter disbelief. But the two men were on their way to reveal the appalling truth to the man who was one of the heads of that complicated machinery of inefficient defence which we so proudly term our Army.