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Title: Tracked by Wireless

Author: William Le Queux

Release Date: May 4, 2019 [EBook #59434]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

TRACKED BY WIRELESS

“THE MASTER OF MYSTERY”

WILLIAM LE QUEUX’S NOVELS

“Mr. William Le Queux retains his position as ‘The Master of Mystery.’... He is far too skilful to allow pause for thought; he whirls his readers from incident to incident, holding their attention from the first page to the close of the book.”—Pall Mall Gazette.

“Mr. Le Queux is the master of mystery. He never fails to produce the correct illusion. He always leaves us panting for more—a brilliant feat.”—Daily Graphic.

“Mr. Le Queux is still ‘The Master of Mystery.’”—Madame.

“Mr. Le Queux is a most experienced hand in writing sensational fiction. He never loses the grip of his readers.”—Publishers’ Circular.

“Mr. Le Queux always grips his reader, and holds him to the last page.”—Bristol Times and Mirror.

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“Mr. Le Queux knows his business, and carries it on vigorously and prosperously. His stories are always fantastic and thrilling.”—Daily Telegraph.

“Mr. Le Queux is an adept at the semi-detective story. His work is always excellent.”—Review of Reviews.

“Mr. Le Queux is always so refreshing in his stories of adventure that one knows on taking up a new book of his that one will be amused.”—Birmingham Post.

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“Mr. Le Queux’s books are always exciting and absorbing. His mysteries are enthralling and his skill is world-famous.”—Liverpool Daily Post.

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“‘As good wine needs no bush’ so no mystery story by Mr. Le Queux, the popular weaver of tales of crime, needs praise for its skill. Any novel with this author’s name appended is sure to be ingenious in design and cleverly worked out.”—Bookseller.

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“Mr. Le Queux is the master of the art of mystery-creating.”—Liverpool Daily Post.

TRACKED BY

WIRELESS

BY

WILLIAM LE QUEUX

Member of the Institute of Radio Engineers

1922

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

NEW YORK

TO

MY FRIEND

MAJOR HUMPHRY MACCALLUM

WITHOUT WHOSE KIND AID THIS SERIES OF

WIRELESS ROMANCES WOULD NEVER

HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

Printed in Great Britain. Cinema and translation rights

reserved.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PAGE

I

THE SECRET SIGNAL

11

II

THE VOICE FROM THE VOID

31

III

THE CALICO GLOVE

50

IV

THE DEVIL’S OVEN

68

V

THE MYSTERY WIDOW

89

VI

THE CLOVEN HOOF

109

VII

THE POISON FACTORY

128

VIII

THE GREAT INTRIGUE

146

IX

THE THREE BAD MEN

166

X

THE MYSTERY OF BERENICE

185

XI

THE MARKED MAN

204

XII

THE CROW’S CLIFF

223

TRACKED BY WIRELESS.

CHAPTER I

THE SECRET SIGNAL

GEOFFREY FALCONER removed the wireless telephone receivers from his ears, and sat back in his wooden chair, staring straight before him, utterly puzzled.

“Eighteen-and-a-half minutes past seven!” he muttered to himself, glancing up at the big round clock above the long bench upon which a number of complicated-looking wireless instruments were set out.

In front of him were half-a-dozen square mahogany boxes with tops of ebonite and circles of brass studs, with white circular dials and black knobs and a panel of ebonite with four big electric globes for wireless transmission. Across the table ran many red, white, and green wires from a perfect maze of brass terminal screws, while in one oblong box there burned brightly seven little tube-shaped electric glow-lamps, the valves of the latest instrument which amplified the most feeble signals coming in from space from every part of the western world. It was the newest wireless device for the reception of weak signals and he himself had made an improvement upon it, a new microphone amplifier which was at present his own secret.

“Eighteen-and-a-half minutes past seven!” he repeated. “Always at the same moment that strange signal is repeated three times. And not Morse—certainly not in the Morse code. It’s a most mysterious note,” he went on, speaking to himself. “Others must surely hear it—or else my amplifier is so ultra-sensitive that I alone am able to listen.”

He took from near his elbow a long scribbling-diary, and glancing through its pages, noted various entries concerning that mysterious signal which never failed to come each evening at eighteen-and-a-half minutes past seven.

That small private experimental laboratory in the ground floor room of a spacious country house on the brow of a low hill in Essex was well fitted with all kinds of apparatus for wireless telephony, telegraphy, and the newest invention of direction-finding for the guidance of aircraft in darkness or fog.

The tall, clean-shaven, dark-eyed young man, whose hair was brushed back, and whose bearing was distinctly military, had done excellent service in the wireless department of the Royal Air Force, and had won his Military Cross. Before the war, at the age of nineteen, he had been a persevering amateur, keenly interested in the mysteries of wireless. His knowledge thus gained, with crystal receivers and “spark” transmitters, stood him in good stead; hence, during the war, he had held a number of responsible appointments connected with aircraft wireless.

After demobilisation he had at once taken his degree in Science, and then joined the research department of the great Marconi organisation, in which he was showing excellent promise. Quiet and unassuming, he possessed for his age unusual technical and mathematical knowledge, and great things were being predicted of him by his superiors at Marconi House. Already he had made certain improvements in the application of the telephone to wireless, together with small adjustments and the use of condensers in certain circuits, technicalities which need not be referred to here because only the expert could follow their importance. Suffice it to say that Geoffrey Falconer’s whole heart was in his work. Though he did wireless all day in the great well-lit laboratory at the Chelmsford works, he nevertheless spent most of his evenings at his own private wireless station at his father’s house at Warley, about a mile from Brentwood, which was about ten miles from Chelmsford and twenty from London.

Old Professor Falconer’s house, a Georgian one, half-covered with ivy and surrounded by several giant cedars, stood well back from the broad high road which runs from Brentwood Station through Great Warley Street to Upminster. Those who pass it will see a double-fronted house approached by a curved drive half-hidden from the road by a high yew hedge. The big gates of wrought iron are as ancient as the house, which, built in the days of George the First, still retains its old-world atmosphere of the times when dandified neighbours in wigs and patches were borne along the drive in their sedans to visit old Squire Falconer and his wife.

Outwardly the house is the reverse of artistic, but within it is a charming old place, with oak floors and panelled walls, a great well staircase leading from the wide square hall, while the furniture is even to-day mostly in keeping with its restful atmosphere.

The Falconers have lived at Westfield Manor ever since its construction. Its present owner, John Falconer, had been a famous Professor of Science at Oxford, until he retired and returned to Warley to enjoy the evening of his days, while his son Geoffrey, who had been brought up in an atmosphere of science, and who followed closely the footsteps of his distinguished father, now lived with him on being demobilised.

By the elastic licence granted to him as an experimenter by the General Post Office Geoffrey had been allowed to erect high twin aerial wires double the length of the official regulation of one hundred feet, and these, suspended from poles placed in the tops of two of the high Wellingtonias, were brought across the wide lawn to the rear of the house, and down into the room in which the young man was seated.

“Always the same long drawn-out note at exactly the same time!” he went on. “Eleven-and-a-half minutes before ‘F.L.’ sends his weather report. What, I wonder, can it mean?”

From the Eiffel Tower, whose call-letters in the radio-telegraphic code are “F.L.,” weather reports from western Europe are each evening sent out upon so powerful a note that they are read on the opposite side of the Atlantic. Young Falconer, therefore, fell to wondering whether those strange signals he heard nightly, and which were so unaccountable, were not in some way connected with the transmission from Paris.

The eleven-and-a-half minutes passed, and just as the Eiffel Tower began to call in that peculiar cock-crowing note which all wireless men know so well, his father entered.

“Hulloa, Geoff! I thought you had gone up to town—it’s Mrs. Beverley’s dance, is it not?”

“Yes,” replied the young radio-engineer; “but I’ve just been listening. I’ve tuned in that same strange signal as last night. It is really most curious.”

“Automatic transmission, perhaps,” replied the alert, white-bearded old gentlemen. “Did you not say that there were some transmissions at a hundred words a minute in progress?”

“Yes, Witham and Farnborough. But I have heard them many times during the past few weeks. I know the note of Farnborough. Besides, his wave-length is different. This mysterious signal is on eleven hundred mètres—a continuous wave—above the ships and the Air Ministry.”

“And nobody else hears it except yourself?” asked the lean, deep-eyed old man, who possessed such wide scientific knowledge, though he admitted that wireless was a branch with which he was not familiar. Radio-telegraphy was a new science, fresh discoveries being made daily by those who, like his son, were engaged in active research work.

“Not so far as I can learn. I’ve asked our people at Poldhu, Carnarvon, and Witham, and I’ve listened myself at Chelmsford, but nobody hears it.”

“Your improved amplifier—without a doubt!” his father said, bending over the long oblong metal case in which the seven little lights were burning in vacuum tubes about three inches long, and set in a row. Attached to the amplifier was a double note-magnifier, and an oblong wooden box—the invention of Geoffrey Falconer.

“Perhaps,” said the young man, whose well-cut, impelling countenance wore a puzzled look. “But I can’t see any reason why I should be able to detect signals which are lost to others,” he added. “I know I’ve got excellent rectification, but not more than the ordinary type of ‘fifty-five amplifier.’ It is only the amplification that is higher.”

“Well, the signals are certainly a mystery,” agreed the Professor. “When I listened to it last night it seemed like a high winter wind howling through a crack in a door or window.”

“To you it might. But, you see, I’ve developed the wireless ear, and sounds that you pass, I recognise.”

“Of course, my boy,” the old gentleman said. “You live for wireless, just as I now live to complete my great book. We must both persevere in our own spheres. I am only glad that the war is over, and now that your poor mother is, alas! dead, you have returned to keep me company in my loneliness,” and the old man sighed at the remembrance of his dear, devoted wife, who had died two years before.

“Well, the old place could not be handier for me—close to Chelmsford. Besides, away here I can continue my research work each night without disturbance.”

“That’s so. But, surely, you recollect accepting the invitation Mrs. Beverley so kindly sent us? We really ought to go,” his father urged. “It isn’t too late—even now.”

Geoffrey smiled within himself.

“Right-o! I suppose we ought,” he replied. “Let’s dress at once. I’ll take you to the station in the side-car, and we can get a hasty bit of dinner at the club before we go along to Upper Brook Street.”

Then he turned down the big aerial switch which sent the incoming currents to earth and acted as a protection to his instruments against either lightning or “strays.” And closing the door of the room, he went to put on evening clothes.

When Professor Falconer and his son entered Mrs. Beverley’s fine house in Upper Brook Street it was nearly half-past nine. As the door opened there came the strains of an orchestra. Mrs. Beverley was the widow of a wealthy banker of Buenos Ayres, after whose death she had brought her daughter Sylvia to London where she had quickly become popular as a hostess, attracting about her all sorts of men and women who had “done something.”

When one was invited to Mrs. Beverley’s parties one was certain of meeting interesting people—lions of the moment—whose faces peered out at one from all the picture papers—people in every walk of life, but all distinguished, if even by their vices.

“Hulloa, Geoffrey!” exclaimed a slim, dark-haired young girl in a flame-coloured dance-frock and a charming hair ornament of gilt leaves. The dress was sleeveless and cut daringly low in the corsage and the back. “I thought you’d forgotten us!”

“Well, Sylvia, I’ll confess,” said Geoffrey in a low voice, taking the hand she held out to him. “As a matter of fact, I really had! The pater only reminded me of it just in time for us to rush to the station.”

“Ah! Immersed as usual in your mysterious old wireless,” laughed the pretty daughter of the South American widow. “I heard somebody say at a lunch at the Ritz the other day that all electrical people inevitably take to drink or to wireless.”

“Well, I’m glad I haven’t yet taken to the former,” laughed the young man, and together they went into the fine drawing-room, where a gay dance was in progress.

A few moments later the young man found his hostess, a stout, well-dressed woman, who possessed all the impelling manners of the well-bred South American, and who had hustled into Society until the newspapers were constantly chronicling her doings, describing her jewels, and printing her photograph, so that Suburbia knew more of Mrs. Beverley than even Mrs. Beverley knew herself. She loved Argentina, she confessed, but she loved London far better. Before her marriage she had known quite a lot of people in London society, for she had come over each year, and now, in her widowhood, she had returned, and certainly she was one of London’s prominent figures, for she entertained Cabinet Ministers, politicians, authors, painters—in fact, anybody who was anybody in London life.

Geoffrey had first met her and her daughter while on the voyage from New York eighteen months before. He had been over on business to the transatlantic Wireless Station at Belmar—which, by the way, is in direct communication with Carnarvon by day and night—and on board they had been introduced, with the result that the widow had invited him to call upon her “when she settled down.”

The pretty go-ahead Sylvia had attracted him, and when one day he had received a card at the Automobile Club he lost no time in resuming the very pleasant acquaintanceship. Indeed, Mrs. Beverley and Sylvia had motored down to Warley one day a month afterwards, and looked in at Geoffrey’s experimental laboratory, bewildered at its maze of instruments, its many little glow-lamps and tangles of wire.

Mother and daughter had listened upon the relay and “loud-speaker” of the wireless telephone to the Air Ministry at Croydon, Pulham, and Lympe, and to the Morse signals from Newfoundland, Cairo, Madrid, and other cities, until the girl, with whom he was secretly in love, had declared herself quite fascinated by the most modern of sciences.

Indeed, it was this fascination which had first held the two young people in a common bond. On board the liner, though as an engineer of the Marconi Company he was constantly in and out of the wireless cabin because the operator was having some trouble with his spark transmission, it had never occurred to him to invite the girl in to listen. It was, indeed, not until a few hours before they reached Southampton that he had explained his profession to her.

The pair had, on the voyage, fallen very much in love with each other, and now, thoroughly understanding each other, they were carefully preserving their secret from Mrs. Beverley, whose great ambition, like that of many South American mothers, was to marry her daughter into the British Peerage.

As a matter of fact, the real object of her lavish entertaining at Upper Brook Street was to find a suitable husband for Sylvia, a peer of wealth, no matter his age or past record.

In Geoffrey Falconer, Sylvia had found a clever, good-looking, unassuming man, whose ideals coincided with her own, even though she naturally viewed England and English ways through South American spectacles. Yet for three years she had been at school at Versailles, and mixing with English girls as she had done, she had lost much of her American intonation of speech.

The pair were genuinely attached to each other. The only third person who knew of this was the old Professor himself. Though thin and white-haired he was a genial old fellow, who dearly loved a joke, and who, when at Oxford, had been regarded by all the undergraduates as a real good sort. Many of his students had made their name in the world of politics and law, while one was now Governor of one of Britain’s most important colonies.

Like father, like son. Geoffrey, though he had for four years been associated with those young men of the Air Force who, though so many of them had never flown a yard, considered themselves vastly superior to all others who trod the earth, had never imitated the “wrist-watch swank,” nor the drawl of that grey-uniformed genus who, during the war, brought personal egotism to such a fine art. He was quiet, unassuming, studious, yet a firm-hearted, bold, and fearless Englishman.

Sylvia, thanks to her mother’s sly machinations, met numbers of eligible young men, many of whom had great fortunes looming in the future. But in the whirl of London society, with its dressing, dancing and dressmakers’ lure, she passed them all by, her only thought being of the young man whom she had met on board the liner.

That night they had danced together several times, when suddenly, as they crossed the ballroom, the girl exclaimed:

“Look! Why there’s Mr. Glover! You surely recollect him? He came over with us. I thought he was in Paris.”

Falconer glanced across to a big, broad-shouldered, round-faced man, who was clean-shaven, with a lock of fair hair falling across his forehead, a man with protruding chin, thick lips, a pair of shrewd blue eyes, who wore an emerald in his shirt-front.

In an instant a crowd of memories flashed across her companion’s mind. For a second he hesitated. Then he advanced, and greeted his fellow-traveller across the Atlantic.

“It was awfully kind of your mother to ask me, Miss Beverley,” said the big, burly fellow to Sylvia as they shook hands. “I took a house near Maidenhead, but I’ve been in Paris ever since we got over. I only got to the Ritz three days ago, and received her card through Morgan’s.”

“Well, we’re awfully pleased to see you,” Sylvia declared. “We’ve at last settled in London, and it’s real good to be here.”

“Yes,” drawled Mr. George Glover. “I usually come over to Europe twice a year on business, and I always look forward to it. Americans who haven’t travelled never realise the delights of dear old London, do they?”

Presently the trio went in to supper together. Quite casually Sylvia mentioned Geoffrey’s connection with wireless, whereupon Glover began to discuss some of the newest theories in a manner unusually intelligent for the uninitiated. This caused Geoffrey’s thoughts to wander far from that gay crowd by which he was surrounded.

The man seated opposite him was something of a mystery. On the trip over to Europe, at one o’clock one morning, he had despatched from the ship a curious wireless message. Geoffrey had happened to be in the cabin with the chief wireless operator when the message had been brought in. He was assisting the operator to adjust his spark, which was slightly out of order. Ships’ wireless sets, like watches, are sometimes liable to vagaries. Why, nobody can tell.

The message sent in was marked “very urgent,” but the “spark” was poor, and the range at the moment rather inefficient. As it lay beside the transmitting key, Geoffrey read it.

He remembered it quite distinctly because, by some strange intuition, he felt that it was not what it pretended to be. One sometimes experiences strange suspicions. And in this case Geoffrey wondered. He knew the sender, and perhaps because of his friendship with Sylvia and her mother, he had felt a little irritation, for he instinctively mistrusted the man.

The message was of a commercial character, and read:

“Betser, King’s Arms Hotel, Norwich.—Don’t deal directly demand delay execute slowly.—Glover.”

Next day he had found himself reflecting upon that message, and returning to the wireless cabin, he copied it. For a whole day he puzzled over it, when at last—used as he was to all sorts of ciphers and codes—he discovered in it a four-figure code. The initial letter of the first five words was “D”—the fourth letter of the alphabet. Then “E”—the fifth letter—and “S”—the nineteenth. Hence the message was no doubt in figure-code, and read “4519.”

From that moment onward he had viewed the man Glover with considerable suspicion, but on landing at Southampton he had lost sight of him. And now he was much surprised to find him as guest of the rich widow.

Sight of the thick-set, clean-shaven man had brought that strange message back to his memory, and the more so because on deck late one night he had seen the man talking in confidence to a stout, flashily-dressed woman, yet next day they had passed each other on deck as strangers!

As the trio sat at supper, Glover was most genial and full of merriment. That Sylvia liked him was plain, yet whether it was intuition or jealousy, Geoffrey, as later on he sat with his father in the last train from Liverpool Street, pondered again and again.

On his return from Chelmsford each evening during the week that followed, Falconer sat down at a quarter past seven at his own wireless set, when, without fail, there came that strange, inexplicable and unreadable signal always at eighteen-and-a-half minutes past seven.

Of operators at the great Marconi stations at Towyn, in Wales, and Clifden, in Ireland, as well as of several operators whom he knew at the busy coast stations at the North Foreland, Niton, and Cleethorpes, he made inquiry as to whether they had heard the same signal. Strangely enough, all the replies were in the negative.

Indeed, one night he himself listened on the great aerial which is such a prominent feature in the landscape at Chelmsford, but failed to catch a single sound.

Therefore, he proved beyond doubt that his own set was supersensitive, and that his improvement of the multi-valve amplifying detector was a considerable achievement.

He, however, said nothing. At present it was his own secret. But he was not so much concerned with the new invention as in the solution of the mystery. By his research work in the wide field of radio-telegraphy he had developed a keen interest in anything that was mysterious, and here was presented an extremely curious problem. That oblong metal box with its seven little glowing glass tubes was the only instrument which picked up that inexplicable signal.

A fortnight passed. Each anxious day young Falconer worked hard in the splendidly-equipped experimental laboratory in that hive of wireless industry at Chelmsford, where radio apparatus of all kinds was being constructed for every civilised nation—that triumph of the Italian inventor who gave to the world a means of instant and reliable communication unknown before those epoch-making experiments on Monte Nero, outside the sun-blanched town of Leghorn. Truly the science of radio-telegraphy has made rapid strides since the days of the “coherer,” until now, after the war, it is the most advanced in our human civilisation, and at the same time full of romance. Not a month passes but something new is discovered in that high-built, well-knit laboratory, where daily the keenest brains of wireless experimenters are at work devising, testing, and too often scrapping new instruments, new circuits, and new devices in order to improve and render less complicated both the ordinary wireless by Morse, and that modern marvel, the wireless telephone.

The world has yet to learn what it owes to wireless. Little does it dream of its aid to commerce in every quarter of the globe; how much of the news it reads at its breakfast-table had been flashed through the ether for thousands of miles, or how every hour it outstrips the choked-up and behind-the-times submarine cable system.

Geoffrey Falconer was very sorely puzzled.

But why was that mysterious signal unheard by others? Further, by what method was it being transmitted? Being acquainted with every method of transmission, he guessed, after a number of tests, that it must be automatic. One day he took his improved microphone amplifier to the works at Chelmsford, and attaching it to the very complicated apparatus designed for the reception of signals automatically transmitted—a piece of apparatus far too technical to here describe—he sat at a quarter past seven awaiting the usual signal.

With him were two of the research staff, both as deeply interested in the mystery as himself, though upon their high-up aerial wires they had been unable to detect the signals in question.

“Hulloa!” cried Boyd, a fair, clean-shaven man of thirty-five, who was a well-known radio-engineer. “There she goes!”

The receiving apparatus gave a short quick buzz, thrice repeated, and then there was silence again.

Eagerly Falconer took the record which had been made, and placing it in another small box, adjusted the head-’phones, and depressing a key, allowed it to revolve slowly. The message became distinctly readable!

They were figures—the numerals 4519, thrice repeated. It was that same code-message which the genial Glover had sent from the liner in mid-Atlantic! What could it mean?

Two facts were now proved—that the amplifier, as improved by Geoffrey, was a supersensitive instrument, which would, no doubt, have a great future before it, and bring its inventor both money and fame in the world of radio-telegraphy. Secondly, that some curious mystery lay behind the appearance of Mr. George Glover in London society.

That night on arrival home, he told the Professor of his discovery, and both father and son agreed that it was necessary to make some searching investigations regarding Mrs. Beverley’s friend.

With that object Geoffrey went up to London on the following day, and calling upon Sylvia fortunately found her alone.

With difficulty he approached the subject of Glover, because he knew that the girl suspected him of jealousy. She had, indeed, hinted at it on the night of the dance. However, in the course of conversation, he casually referred to the man who had despatched that curious telegram from the liner.

“Oh, yes!” the girl answered. “We see quite a lot of Mr. Glover now. Mother likes him immensely. He is enormously rich—has great oil interests in Roumania and in Baku. He made a great deal of money during the war, and he knows quite a number of good people in London. He’s going down to Lady Nassington’s, in Sussex, next week—and we are going too.”

“You will be fellow-guests then?” Falconer remarked.

“Yes, Geoffrey. But you speak as though you resent it,” laughed the pretty girl.

“Not at all,” he hastened to assure her. “Only——”

“Only—what?” she asked.

“Well—nothing,” he replied. “At least, nothing at present.”

“You’re awfully mysterious, Geoffrey. What do you really mean?”

“Nothing,” he declared. “What should I mean? I hardly know your friend, Mr. Glover. Your mother, no doubt, knows him well.”

“Yes—and all about him,” the girl replied. “He’s awfully kind to us. He took us to Brighton in his big car last Sunday week, and gave us a topping time there. He claims to be a American but I don’t know if he is.”

Geoffrey reflected. That strange series of secret signals held him mystified. So he determined to wait and watch.

Next day, when in the experimental laboratory at Chelmsford, he took his friend, Frank Boyd, into his confidence regarding the signal they had tuned in, and also told him of the message sent by Glover late one night from mid-Atlantic.

Boyd, who stood with the head-’phones in his hand, for he had been making a test upon a new direction-finding device, listened with great interest.

“I agree, Falconer, there’s something wrong somewhere,” he remarked. “But who can have a transmitting-set which sends out messages upon a wave-length that we can’t get?”

“It may be by the new beam method,” Falconer suggested, “the method with which we are just now experimenting. Once or twice I’ve thought it might be a military continuous-wave set.”

“If so—then they are in front of us. That, however, I very much doubt,” declared Boyd. “The Germans thought themselves top-dogs in wireless before the war, but we beat them every time on their own ground—didn’t we?”

“We certainly did. Here, in these works, the inventions were made and developed for the Army, Navy, and Air Force. It’s up to us—to you and me personally—to solve this mystery.”

“Yes, Falconer—and we’ll do it,” said the other. “I don’t like the idea of signals being sent out that we can’t read from our big aerial here.”

“They are signals from nowhere, yet always the same, and at exactly the same time. G.M.T. never alters—neither does the signal,” Falconer said.

So the pair agreed to listen still further, and to make investigation regarding the wealthy man from America, who had so suddenly arisen in the social firmament of post-war London.

Geoffrey had some few days’ leave due to him, so he took it, and, unknown to Mrs. Beverley and her daughter, watched the gay house-party assemble at Nassington Hall, the seat of the Earl of Nassington, not far from Crowborough, in Sussex.

Now, near Crowborough there was a wireless station, and on the night of Geoffrey’s arrival at the Beacon Hotel, he called upon the non-commissioned officer in charge, introduced himself, and was afforded an opportunity of looking over the apparatus. Naturally the man in charge was gratified that such an expert as Geoffrey Falconer should examine their set, and pronounce both transmission and reception unusually good. Then, soon after ten o’clock, Geoffrey returned to the Beacon.

That night he sent a note in secret to Sylvia, and in the autumn afternoon next day they met at the junction of the two roads at Marden’s Hill.

“I’m down here to have a look at a wireless set close by,” he explained. “Isn’t it fortunate? I’ll be here for a couple of days, I expect.”

“You gave me a real surprise,” the girl said. “When Thring brought me your note with my morning tea I could hardly believe that you were so close at hand. Why not come in to tea? Mother will introduce you to Lady Nassington.”

“No,” he replied. “I have, unfortunately, a lot of work to do at the wireless station. Please excuse me.”

“Ah! I know. You don’t want to meet Mr. Glover,” laughed the girl. “Now confess it!”

“It isn’t that, I assure you, Sylvia. But I would rather have a walk and a chat with you than gossip with all those people with whom I have so very little in common.”

“Yes, Geoffrey, I know. You are engrossed in your wireless inventions,” she replied, gazing affectionately into his eyes. “And, after all, you are right. We women enjoy ourselves, but men who serve the world as you do are nobler if they keep away from all our feminine frivolities.”

“I suppose Glover is merry, as usual—quite a good fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s the soul of the house-party. They are all out shooting to-day. Madame Valdavia, the wife of the Spanish millionaire banker, arrived last night. She’s quite young and charming. I wish you could meet her.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You can if you will only call on mother to-morrow.”

“But I’m really too busy, Sylvia—so do please excuse me,” he pleaded, as they walked along the leaf-strewn path through the wood from Friar’s Gate, where half a mile away towards Lone Oak the shooting party were giving evidence of good sport.

“We have a fancy dress dinner to-night. Every one is wearing quaint costumes, and there’s certain to be a lot of fun. The party is really most enjoyable. I do wish you would call, Geoffrey—do,” she urged.

“No,” said the young man very seriously. “I have reasons which I will tell you afterwards.”

“You are always so mysterious,” she declared with a pretty pout. “I believe it is your horrible old wireless which makes you so.”

“No, not horrible,” he protested with a laugh. “Interesting, I admit—in more senses than one.”

“Well—interesting, then,” she agreed with a nod of her pretty head. “But I can’t see why you are so very interested in Mr. Glover. Every one at Lady Nassington’s likes him.”

“So do I, Sylvia.”

“Then why be so mysterious?”

“I’m not mysterious. I happened to have come down to see the wireless installation here, and you are staying at a country house in the vicinity. So I just looked you up—that’s all.”

“But why don’t you call? I want to introduce you to them all.”

“And if I called to see you, your friend Glover, knowing of our friendship, would, in the smoking-room, whisper that I had followed you down here. No. I prefer that we should preserve our secret, Sylvia. You surely don’t want to cause your mother annoyance and anxiety? Remember you are to marry a man of title. At the very thought of your being engaged to me your mother would faint.”

“Yes,” laughed the girl, dashing aside some dead leaves with her walking stick. “I really think she would.”

“Then, for the present, let us remain quite quiet,” urged young Falconer. “I will see you again when you get back to town.”

A few moments later, while they stood on the path beneath the leafless trees, the young man raised her gloved hand to his lips, and then they parted, she to hurry on and rejoin the guns, and he to return to Crowborough.

Falconer was there with a distinct purpose. He walked back to the Beacon Hotel, ate his dinner, and played billiards until half-past ten o’clock, when he put on his coat and went out for a moonlight walk. He pictured to himself the gay scene at Nassington Hall, which he might easily have joined, yet he hesitated because of the problem he had in hand.

The white moon shone brightly over the Sussex downs as he walked along the high road to where the wireless station was installed.

He called there and had another chat with the sergeant on duty. Then he resumed his walk in the direction of Nassington Hall.

When within a hundred yards of a side gate which gave entrance to a short cut from the hall to the railway station, he drew back under a huge thorn-bush and lit a cigarette.

He wondered whether he was not making a fool of himself. From where he stood he could see in the distance the many lighted windows of the Hall. No doubt, scenes of merriment were taking place within.

The clock of Crowborough Church chimed the hour of one—half-past—then two o’clock. The distant windows were still lit, and finding a fallen tree, he sat down to contemplate.

Soon after two o’clock the lights in the distant windows died away, one after another. The fun was over. The wind blew cold, and even in his thick overcoat he shivered. Yet when he was putting a theory to the test in wireless or otherwise, he never begrudged sleepless hours.

Just after four in the morning, while he still remained patiently at his post, Geoffrey’s quick ear suddenly heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Drawing back, he watched a dark figure coming hurriedly from the direction of the Hall, until, when it passed close by him, he saw in the dull half-light that it was a middle-aged countryman, evidently a local farmer who was up and about betimes.

In chagrin he drew back into his place of concealment, but a few seconds after the man had passed a fresh thought suddenly occurred to him. So, noiselessly, he followed the passer-by in the direction of the station. The man, however, did not go to the railway, but at a short distance from it he drew back into a hedge, in order, no doubt, to wait for the first train in the morning.

Geoffrey watched for a further half-hour, then withdrew and hastened to the wireless station, whence he called up a friend of his named Hemmington, who lived in Hampstead, and had an amateur wireless station there.

He had not repeated the amateur’s call-signal three times before he received an answering signal, after which his hand rapidly tapped the keys. Then a few seconds later he received the signal, “O.K.”

Afterwards he returned to the Beacon Hotel, arriving there just as the sleepy servants were astir.

He breakfasted early, but scarcely had he finished when he was called by the waiter to the telephone.

It was Sylvia who spoke. In a state of greatest agitation she told him that burglars had broken into the Hall in the early hours and had stolen her mother’s rope of pearls, worth over twenty thousand pounds, and also nearly the whole of Madame Valdavia’s fine jewels, which she had worn at the fancy dress dinner.

“We are all horrified, Geoffrey,” she went on. “Mr. Glover has just gone out in the car to tell the police. What can we do? Can you come up here? Mother wants to see you.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” was Falconer’s reply. “Please excuse me, as I’m terribly busy to-day. But tell your mother, in strict secrecy, that I have a notion that she will get her pearls back again.”

“What do you mean, Geoffrey?” asked the girl’s high-pitched voice.

“What I’ve said, Sylvia. Remain patient. I have to go up to town at once. I’ll telephone you again at two o’clock this afternoon. To-morrow I shall not be so busy on wireless, and I’ll run down and see you all—and also meet Mr. Glover,” he added with a laugh.

“But—but——”

He only laughed, and put up the receiver.

The truth was that, owing to Geoffrey’s message to the wireless amateur in Hampstead, the bucolic-looking individual from Crowborough had been detained by the police when he had stepped out of the early train at Victoria, and upon him there had been found the whole of the stolen property.

Owing to what Geoffrey was able to disclose to the Criminal Investigation Department, a very curious state of things became revealed.

It was found that the genial George Glover—who, by the way, was promptly arrested and subsequently extradited to Paris—was none other than the notorious Henry Harberson, head of a great gang of International crooks and jewel thieves, who had recently established their temporary headquarters in London, and who had as receiver an old Dutchman at Utrecht named Van Hoover.

Thanks to Falconer’s patient investigations, extending over a further period of some weeks, it was also rendered clear that Harberson had, with the latest refinement of criminality, actually established wireless communication with each of the six members of his gang in England, by means of a very ingenious transmitter, the signals of which were unreadable save under certain conditions. A man named Jensen of Copenhagen had devised it, and that mysterious signal of four numerals had been sent out daily just before half-past seven in order to inform each member all was safe, and that no police inquiry was being made.

The jewels had been stolen from Nassington Hall by the pretended wealthy man, whose oil interests in Roumania were bogus, and handed out of the conservatory window to a confederate from New Orleans named Blades, who was dressed for the occasion as a Sussex farmer.

Both men, with two of their accomplices, who were found in possession of secret receiving sets, were sent over to France, and at the time of writing they are all serving long terms of imprisonment for three sensational jewel robberies committed there.

Mrs. Beverley was, however, naturally delighted to be again in possession of her pearls, while in Geoffrey Falconer’s private laboratory there is to-day Harberson’s very up-to-date secret wireless set which the police seized at the pretty house which, as George Glover, he rented on the Thames, not far from Maidenhead. In construction it is, after all, only a variation upon a set previously devised in the research department at Chelmsford, yet there are two factors in it which, to Geoffrey, established a new theory, and which, as will later on be apparent, were destined to be of distinct advantage to him in his experiments and investigations into the romance of wireless.

CHAPTER II

THE VOICE FROM THE VOID

ONE afternoon about a month after the curious Affair of the Secret Signal, while Geoffrey was busy conducting some experiment in the research laboratory at Chelmsford, a tall, well-dressed young foreigner entered, and advancing to where he was seated, placed his hand upon his shoulder.

“Well!” gasped Geoffrey starting, his face lighting with pleasure. “Why, my dear Enrico! Wherever have you sprung from?”

“They’ve sent me over from Coltano about some new apparatus, and I heard you were in here. I arrived in London a week ago,” explained the dark, smooth-haired young fellow, who was one of the engineers at the powerful wireless station belonging to the Italian Government, and whose messages, prefixed by the call-signal, “I.C.I.,” are so well-known to all wireless men.

Enrico Rossi, the son of a distinguished Italian general, had spent many years in England. He had met Falconer during the war, when they had become fast friends. Rossi had been attached to the Intelligence Branch of the Italian Army, his duty being the interception of enemy messages. Then, after peace, the young man had resumed his responsible post at the great wireless station in Tuscany.

Falconer took off his head-’phones, and learning that his friend was returning to London at half-past five, agreed to accompany him, so that they might dine together at the club.

This they did, and afterwards Geoffrey took his friend along to Mrs. Beverley’s in Upper Brook Street. He had often spoken of Enrico to Sylvia—hence he was anxious to introduce him. The South American widow was one of those many enthusiasts who had fallen beneath the lure of Italy, therefore both mother and daughter made the young man most welcome.

“We are thinking of going to Italy very soon, Mr. Rossi,” said Mrs. Beverley, in the course of their chat in the big, elegant drawing-room. “It is five years since I was there.”

“Oh if you come, please do not fail to let me know,” said the good-looking young fellow, whose elegance of manner was so typically Italian. “I am frequently at our wireless station at San Paolo, outside Rome, and no doubt you will go to the Eternal City.”

“To Florence first, I think, mother,” Sylvia said. “I want to see the Pitti and the Uffizi.”

“Better still,” exclaimed Enrico. “I am within a couple of hours of Firenze—or, as we call it—Firenze la Bella.”

“We are beginning to know quite a lot about wireless through Mr. Falconer,” declared the popular South American hostess. “It is all so intensely fascinating.”

“Yes,” replied the young Italian in very good English. “We are constantly making fresh discoveries. The most wonderful and important nowadays is, of course, telephony through space.”

“We should have all been burned as wizards had we lived a few hundred years ago,” laughed Geoffrey. “The world would have declared us capable of working miracles—heat, motion, light and sound—created out of nothing!”

The young men remained smoking until Geoffrey was compelled to scurry to catch his last train, while Enrico Rossi left him at Liverpool Street Station to go back to his hotel.

“I’ll be down at Chelmsford again to-morrow,” he said on parting. “We’ve got a lot of trouble with our five-kilowatt telephone set, and we want your people to help us out of it.”

“No doubt we can,” laughed Geoffrey. “We can fit you up with most things in wireless at Chelmsford.”

“Right-o!” said the Italian. “I’ll be down in the morning. Buona notte!”

And he turned and left his friend as the train moved off.

Now, on Geoffrey’s return home, he found the Professor busy writing in his study, at work on the great book which was to be the crowning distinction of his splendid career.

The courtly old man put aside his pen, and filling his pipe, listened to his son’s account of the unexpected arrival of Enrico, of whom he had so often spoken since the war, and whose talents as a radio-engineer he always praised so highly.

“I’ll ask him over to dine to-morrow night,” said Geoffrey when at last they rose, for it was then past one o’clock in the morning, and the Professor was about to retire.

Before going to bed, Geoffrey passed into the room which he had converted into an experimental laboratory. It was his habit—as is the habit of most wireless experimenters—to switch on the aerial and listen for a few moments before going to bed.

The long-distance traffic to and from America and Europe is always clearer and of greater interest in the small hours of the morning than in the daytime, for at night the electric waves carry farther, and are converted into signals much louder and more distinct than during the hours of light.

So he took up the telephones, drew down the aerial switch, thus connecting the high twin wires across the lawn to the instruments, and by means of another switch put into circuit his long-wave set—the apparatus upon which the chief high-power European stations were received.

The first he heard was Moscow sending out its usual Bolshevik propaganda—of which nobody takes any notice—then, turning the condenser slowly, he heard Nantes sending to Budapest. Another slight turn and he listened to “F.L.,” (the Eiffel Tower) transmitting upon its continuous wave—or “C.W.,” as it is known to wireless men—to Sarajevo, in Bosnia, and at the same time Madrid was in communication with Poldhu, in Cornwall.

Strange, indeed, is the medley of messages which flash through the ether in the starlight, unseen, unfelt, and undetected, save by the delicate apparatus with its row of little illuminated vacuum tubes such as Geoffrey Falconer had there before him.

He was just about to lay down the telephone when, as he turned the knob of the condenser, he suddenly heard an unusual howl—the strong, high-pitched whistle of a continuous-wave valve. He knew by the sound that it was the wave of a wireless telephone, therefore he waited and listened.

In a few seconds he heard a voice, deep, but not unmusical, exclaim in Italian with great clearness—almost as clear as that from the experimental telephone set at Chelmsford:

“Hulloa! Hulloa! Hulloa! I am calling I.C.I.! Hulloa, I.C.I.! Can you hear me? I.C.I.! I.C.I.!” the voice kept repeating, calling Coltano, in Italy.

Geoffrey was greatly mystified. The note was quite clear and distinct, though the voice was apparently distorted. The modulation was a little faulty. But, as an expert, he knew the great difficulties of telephony without wires, and the thousand and one trivial things which are necessary for success. A loose terminal screw; the disconnection of a single strand of wire no thicker than a human hair; a failing accumulator, or a “soft” valve, all too frequently undetectable, makes the difference between failure and success.

There was an interval of half a minute.

The operator, whoever he was, who wanted Coltano, the station a thousand miles away from Essex, was no doubt making some adjustment.

At last the voice came again with startling clearness.

“Hulloa! Hulloa! Hulloa, Coltano! Hulloa, I.C.I.! Are you on duty, Nicola? Hulloa, Nicola! Nicola? Nicola? Or is it Tozzoni on duty? Tozzoni? Tozzoni? Tanti saluti,” the voice continued. “Listen, Nicola. Here is Enrico Rossi!”

Falconer held his breath. The speech was weird, and quite unusual.

“Rossi calling I.C.I.—calling Nicola. Listen, Nicola, caro mio! Rossi speaking. Rossi speaking. Can you hear me?” continued the distorted voice.

There was a pause. Then again over the carrier-wave of electricity ran the words:

“Listen, Coltano! Listen, Nicola—or Tozzoni! Both of you are my dear friends. Enrico speaking. I am in London—in London! With Falconer, of Chelmsford. Can you hear that?” he shouted in a shriller voice. “With Falconer, of Chelmsford! You know him—both of you. Well, I’m over here in England. But I am not coming back to Italy. My message to you is that I am not returning. I have other plans in America.”

Then there was another pause, during which Falconer listened, silent and breathless.

“Nicola, caro mio! I have other plans in America, so I shall not return to you. Tanti saluti, caro mio. Will you reply? Please reply on six thousand five hundred mètres. I will listen. Rossi, changing over!”

Falconer strained his ears to listen to the reply to that amazing message sent by his friend whom only two and a half hours before, he had left at Liverpool Street Station.

But though Madrid, Poldhu, Leafield, Cleethorpes, and Aberdeen were busy to various European stations, he could detect no reply. For quite ten minutes he listened, until, suddenly, the powerful station at Leafield, near Oxford, sent out the words in Morse code:

“Understood—Rossi to Coltano. Good telephony. Cannot hear Coltano.”

Next second another station, which he took to be Aberdeen, sent a message:

“Have understood Rossi to Coltano. What is the mystery? Have not heard Coltano’s reply. Waiting for Coltano.”

But though the young experimenter listened intently the station in Central Italy remained silent.

Suddenly, however, he heard the well-known note of the great Italian radio-station, which tapped out in Morse, after giving his call-signal, “I.C.I.,” the letters “Q.R.A.”—the conventional sign for the question: “What is the name of your station?”

To this there was no reply. Half-a-dozen times the request came from Italy, apparently for the name of the station working telephony, though even that was not clear. Yet, no doubt, a hundred pairs of ears were listening in England alone. At the moment several stations were jamming each other so badly that it became extremely difficult to pick out the words from Coltano.

Again, with almost startling distinctness, the strong, continuous wave of electricity was heard in the telephones, and the same voice spoke:

“This is 2.C.Q., calling I.C.I. Rossi speaking. Glad you got my message. Addio!”

The voice with its foreign accent sounded to Geoffrey much like that of his friend, but being distorted, recognition was not easy.

The whole circumstance was most puzzling, to say the least, and Geoffrey ascended to his room wondering not so much why Enrico had so suddenly made up his mind not to return to Italy as to the identity of the station from which he had transmitted that telephone message across Europe.

The call-signal, “2.C.Q.,” showed it to be an experimental station, but he knew of none so powerful as to be able to transmit telephony to Central Italy.

The whole affair was a complete enigma.

Next day he awaited the arrival of his friend at Chelmsford, but though the hours passed, he did not appear. The following day went by, but he neither came nor wrote. The department at the works with which the station had been doing business was equally puzzled. He had ordered on behalf of the Coltano station a quantity of new apparatus for wireless telephony, and it was being constructed in all haste, yet though a whole week went by, he never returned to inspect it.

To his friend, Frank Boyd, Falconer told the story of that mysterious telephone message in the night. At first Boyd hardly gave it credence, but it was corroborated by the operators at Poldhu, who had been on watch at the time.

“Well, we must find out who ‘2.C.Q.’ is. They have a list of experimenters and their call-signals at Marconi House,” Boyd said. “Let’s ring up and see.”

They did, and the reply received was that the station, 2.C.Q., belonged to a retired naval officer living near Epsom Downs, a man who had experimented in wireless for some years, but whose station was certainly not equipped for long-distance telephony.

Next day Geoffrey came to London, and then went down to Epsom, full of eagerness to solve the mystery. The retired naval commander, a man named Kent, received him, but at once assured him that no telephony had been transmitted from there. He only possessed the ordinary amateur’s set, which he showed his visitor—a limited power of ten watts for continuous-wave transmission. His range of transmission was probably not more than over a ten-mile radius.

“Have you any knowledge of a young Italian named Enrico Rossi?” asked Geoffrey, as he stood in Mr. Kent’s wireless room.

“None whatever. To my knowledge I have never heard the name before,” was the reply.

So Geoffrey was compelled to return to London, where, on arrival, he called at the hotel near Charing Cross which Enrico had given as his address, but to his surprise was informed at the bureau that no person of that name had been staying there!

Indeed, Falconer examined the register of visitors himself, but found no entry of the name of Rossi, either in the account-books of the hotel or the register which all visitors signed when engaging rooms.

The mystery of Enrico’s disappearance was, in view of that remarkable wireless message, most curious. Why had the Italian used a false call-signal? Again, from what station had he transmitted that message of farewell?

Having obtained permission, Falconer’s next action was to ask Coltano whether they had received the telephonic message from their engineer on the night in question. The message was sent from Poldhu, while Geoffrey himself, seated at Chelmsford, listened on the big aerial to its dispatch, and then, a quarter of an hour later, heard the reply, which read as follows:

“Poldhu from Coltano. Understood your query. We have heard no telephony and received no message whatever from Enrico Rossi. Why do you ask? Kindly reply.—Director Coltano Radio.”

From that it was instantly plain that the message purporting to be sent to Coltano was upon a low-power set somewhere in the vicinity of London, and not, as Geoffrey had believed, upon apparatus which would transmit two thousand or more miles. The Admiralty wireless station at Cleethorpes heard it, and so had Aberdeen, but there was no proof that it had been heard outside Britain.

The mystery increased hourly. The London police were informed, and inquiries were made concerning the missing Italian.

To Sylvia, Geoffrey had told the whole story, and the girl had become keenly excited concerning the disappearance of the good-mannered young man, who was her lover’s friend.

“If I can help you, Geoffrey, I do hope you will allow me,” she urged. “I believe the poor fellow has met with foul play, and if so, we ought to discover the culprits.”

“That, I regret to say, is my suspicion,” was Falconer’s reply. “I have a keen intuition that there is something very radically wrong somewhere. Why should he announce his departure for America?”

“But he has not sailed, I suppose?”

“The police have been busy examining the list of sailings, but his name does not appear anywhere,” Geoffrey said. “Again,” he went on, “why should he deceive me as to where he was staying?”

“I cannot think why he was not frank and open with you. What had he to fear?” Sylvia remarked.

“That’s just it! Perhaps he went in fear of something, and for that reason kept his whereabouts a secret,” said her lover as they stood together in the pretty morning-room looking out into Upper Brook Street. “Anyhow it’s a mystery which I intend to solve—if possible,” he added.

In order to try to solve it he obtained leave from the works, and travelled first to Pisa, the old marble-built city famous for its cathedral and leaning tower, and then on to Coltano.

The director, a tall, dark-haired, rather handsome man, received him warmly in his private office attached to the long row of buildings which form the power-house and operating rooms of the station.

When he heard the story, he exclaimed in Italian—a language which Geoffrey knew very well:

“All this is most amazing—incredible!” he cried. “Signor Rossi was sent to Chelmsford to obtain certain new apparatus, and in his last report, ten days ago, he wrote that all was in hand, and that he hoped to be back in a fortnight’s time. Why should he go to America?” asked the director, shrugging his shoulders significantly. “I cannot believe it! We can only leave it to the police. He has a brother living in Firenze.”

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Geoffrey. “I have heard him speak of him. He is an advocate, I think.”

“Yes. A very nice fellow. He lives in the Via Giotto.”

“I will go and see him,” the young Englishman said, and that same night he left for the Lily City.

Next day he called upon the advocate, and made inquiry regarding his brother. Signor Rossi, however, replied that he had heard nothing of him since his departure for London.

Then Falconer retold the strange story of the amazing farewell message, and his subsequent disappearance.

“Can you offer any suggestion concerning the extraordinary precaution he took to mislead me as to where he was staying in London?” inquired Geoffrey.

The advocate reflected.

“He may have been in fear of some enemy or other.”

“Then he had enemies?” asked the Englishman quickly.

“Ah! That I cannot tell. If he had, he never mentioned them to me.”

“Neither did he to me,” Falconer said. “But he was the last man in the world to have enemies, I should have thought. The police have taken up the inquiry, and one of the reasons I am here is to obtain his photograph—if you have one.”

“Fortunately I have a recent one. He sent it to me from Rome six months ago,” answered Enrico’s brother, who produced from a drawer a good cabinet portrait.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Falconer. “We will reproduce it and circulate it as soon as I get back to London. Poor Enrico! There can be no doubt that he has fallen a victim of some very cleverly-conceived plot. I only hope I shall be successful in unravelling it.”

“I sincerely hope so too, signore,” said the advocate, and later on Falconer left him, departing that same day for London, travelling by way of Milan and the Gothard.

On opening the London newspaper, which he bought on Folkestone Pier when he landed, his eyes met a startling headline, and he sat in his corner seat in the boat-train, aghast as he read the amazing announcement.

On the previous day, it was stated, three men from a well-known furniture depository went with the key to a flat in Longton Mansions, Bayswater, to remove the furniture into storage, its owner, Mrs. Priestley, having gone to Buenos Ayres for a year to join her husband, who had an appointment out there.

On entering the flat, they first commenced removing the furniture from the drawing-room and dining-room. Then they cleared out two bedrooms, when one of the men, unlocking the door of a small box-room, the key of which was in the door, was startled at finding a man huddled up inside! A few seconds sufficed to show that he was dead—and had no doubt been dead some days!

At once the police had been called, care being taken to hide the gruesome discovery from other tenants of the flats. The body was brought out, and the detective-inspector of the Division, on seeing it, identified the body as that of a young man named Enrico Rossi, an Italian engineer, who had been reported missing. The report concluded with the usual cryptic assurance that the police had the matter in hand.

Geoffrey sat staggered. His worst fears were now realised. His friend Enrico had, no doubt, been done to death!

On arrival at Victoria Station, he drove at once to Scotland Yard, where he interviewed Superintendent Ransley, the same official with whom the affair of the Secret Signals had brought him into contact. And to him he gave the photograph of the dead man, which he had brought from Italy.

“Yes, Mr. Falconer, the whole circumstances are an enigma,” the superintendent told him as they sat together in the rather barely-furnished room. “We are now in search of the woman named Priestley. Yet as far as I can gather, she is a most respectable lady. Her husband has recently obtained a post as vice-consul at San Cristobal, and she stored her furniture in order to join him.”

“But where is she now?”

“On her way to Buenos Ayres perhaps. I hope to know to-morrow if she has sailed. But whether she has or not, we shall no doubt eventually find her.”

“And arrest her?”

“Yes—providing the coroner’s jury bring in a verdict of wilful murder. And they must, for he was struck a heavy blow on the head by a piece of iron piping.”

Later Falconer stood by the body of his friend, who was dressed just as he had been when they parted at Liverpool Street. Indeed he was still wearing his light overcoat, showing that he had been killed either on arrival at the flat or upon his departure.

Naturally Geoffrey was greatly perturbed, and eager to discover the woman in whose apartment Enrico had been assassinated. Next day the motive of the crime was established—robbery. His wallet was missing! That he had carried one Geoffrey knew, because he had produced it to pay for his railway-fare from Chelmsford to London. It was a dark-red one, and seemed well-filled with Treasury notes.

In due course, the inquest was held, and though Geoffrey gave evidence of identification, he refrained, at the suggestion of Superintendent Ransley, from telling the jury of that remarkable telephonic message of farewell to which he had listened. The jury returned their verdict, and left the police to solve the mystery and arrest the woman Priestley.

But though they made every inquiry, no trace could be found of her. The firm of furniture removers stated that she had called one day and asked them to remove her furniture and store it, handed the key of the flat to the clerk, showed him a receipt for the last quarter’s rent, and gave him a cheque for fifty pounds on account. She told him that she was going abroad, and would probably be away for a year at least. A receipt was given, and the men, going to carry out the work of removal, made the sensational discovery.

About a month went by. The body of poor Enrico had been buried at Geoffrey’s expense, and though the latter continued his research work at Chelmsford, his thoughts were ever centred upon the mysterious Mrs. Priestley.

One day Superintendent Ransley received information that an Englishwoman named Priestley, who answered the description of the missing woman, was staying at the Hôtel des Indes at the Hague. A few hours later a detective-inspector armed with a request for arrest and extradition, left London on his way to Holland via Harwich, and six days later Mrs. Priestley was at Bow Street Police Station, where she was interrogated by Superintendent Ransley, who, of course, first cautioned her that whatever she might say would be taken down and might be used as evidence against her.

The charge that she had been guilty of murdering Enrico Rossi had, it seemed, from the first staggered her. She had protested her innocence over and over again.

“You knew this Signor Enrico Rossi?” said the superintendent, looking up from the pocket-book in which he had been writing.

“Certainly I did—in Italy long ago,” was her reply. “I was born in Italy, though my parents were English, and I first knew him in Ancona when quite a girl.”

“He called to visit you at Longton Mansions?”

“He wrote saying he would call, and asked me to name a day. But I was much engaged, and neglected to write to him. He, therefore, never visited me.”

“Then how came he to be found murdered in your flat?” asked the superintendent coldly.

“Ah! That I cannot tell. It is a mystery.”

“Yes,” grunted Ransley, “I agree—it is! But it would not be a mystery if you told me the truth, Mrs. Priestley. You surely cannot expect us to give credence to your denial?”

“I have told the truth,” was the woman’s firm reply. “I have never set eyes upon Enrico Rossi since a month before the war. I then met him in Pisa.”

“Was anyone else in your flat on the night in question?”

“Nobody. My maid, Axford, had gone home to Taunton three days before.”

“What time did you return home on that night?”

“I had been to a dance, and it must have been nearly three o’clock before I got back. Now that I recollect, I am horrified to think that I actually slept in the flat within a few feet of the dead body of the man I had known so well.”

“Yes,” remarked Ransley in his curious cold tone of disbelief. “Quite naturally.”

Then a few minutes later the woman who had denied all knowledge of the affair was sent back to her cell, and the superintendent gave orders for her to be brought before the magistrate next morning and charged with the murder of Enrico Rossi.

This was done, and the evening newspapers were full of the sensational affair, though, owing to certain circumstances, it was not deemed wise by the authorities to let the public know the exact problem. Hence the case was camouflaged. There were certain interests at stake which apparently puzzled even the Home Office.

Eva Priestley, represented by a well-known Bow Street solicitor, who offered no defence, was remanded. Her husband was communicated with, but he knew nothing, and was, no doubt, astounded at the discovery, and mystified regarding the young man Rossi.

A week later the prisoner, a tall, fair-haired woman, whose photograph, in due course, appeared in all the picture-papers, and whom readers of this present narrative must well remember under another name, was committed for trial at the Old Bailey upon the capital charge, the Public Prosecutor alleging that she had enticed the young fellow to her flat, and had murdered him for the contents of his wallet.

Geoffrey Falconer agreed with Superintendent Ransley and with the eminent King’s Counsel who prosecuted. The admission of Mrs. Priestley that she and Enrico were old friends was surely most damning evidence.

Not until several days after Mrs. Priestley had been sent for trial was a curious fact noticed concerning the blue serge jacket which poor Enrico wore at the time he lost his life. Inside the collar the tab, bearing the name of the tailor in Rome who had made the suit, had been hastily cut aside, and beneath it a slit had been made, apparently with a sharp knife. But whether this had been done during Rossi’s lifetime or after death could not be established.

One of the strangest features of the affair, however, was that weird message by radio-telephone—a message spoken, no doubt, by one aware of the fact that Enrico had been done to death. The police inquiries, however, failed to elicit any proof that the woman suspected of the crime had any connection with anybody acquainted with wireless, even in its most amateur form.

Obsessed by the mystery, Geoffrey had many conversations concerning it with Sylvia, who believed in Mrs. Priestley’s innocence notwithstanding the chain of circumstantial evidence and the fact that the body had been hidden in her flat. But if Mrs. Priestley had not murdered the young man, who had? asked the Public Prosecutor.

The day fixed for the trial of the alleged murderess was approaching, when one afternoon Geoffrey, revisiting unexpectedly the scene of the tragedy as he had done several times, chanced to pass on the stairs a short, lean, white-haired little man who was ascending to the flat above. Their eyes met, and the old man, turning his head, quickened his pace.

Geoffrey recollected having met him before in those days when Venice was seriously threatened by the Austrian advance. His name was Nocera, and he was a banker in Venice—a man of considerable repute. Why, Geoffrey wondered, was he living at Longton Mansions?

Of the hall-porter he later on learnt that Mr. Nocera and his wife had occupied the flat above Mrs. Priestley’s for about three months. They came from Italy and took it furnished. After a month they had as guest a Mr. Zuccari, described by the hall-porter as a tall, thin, athletic man, with a black moustache and very bald head.

“He was something of a mystery, and I was very glad when he left,” the man declared. “One day, indeed, I found him trying the door of Mrs. Priestley’s flat with the latchkey of the flat above. I caught him unexpectedly, and he certainly did not like it, for three days later he left, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“That’s curious,” Falconer remarked. “Very curious! Was he really trying to get into her flat?”

“It seemed to me that he was. But, of course, my presence prevented him.”

Later that evening Geoffrey related to Superintendent Ransley what he had learnt, but strangely enough the Venice banker and his wife left early next morning, taking with them two good-sized trunks. To the porter they remarked that they were going to Edinburgh, but the man was pretty wide awake, and giving the taxi-driver a quiet hint, heard from him an hour later that he had driven them to Victoria, to the Continental train.

Quickly observation was kept upon the pair, and at Folkestone the passport which they presented as Italian subjects was declared by the passport officer to be out of order, a fact which necessitated them both returning to London, though quite unconscious that they were under suspicion.

At the same time, after closely questioning the hall-porter, Superintendent Ransley gave instructions that active search should be made for the bald-headed guest who had been tampering with the lock of Mrs. Priestley’s flat. Then there was a further surprise, and Mrs. Priestley herself, questioned in prison, admitted she knew the people in the flat above, and being Italians, they had once or twice visited her. At once the police, aided by Geoffrey, redoubled their efforts, Falconer being at last successful in obtaining a further piece of curious evidence. He had taken the key of Mrs. Priestley’s flat to a number of locksmiths in order to ascertain if they had been asked to make a similar key, but in vain. Of a sudden, however, he recollected having seen a barrow full of old keys and rusty locks in Lower Marsh, Lambeth, and upon it a notice bearing the words: “Keys cut at shortest notice.”

To the owner of the barrow he showed the key. The man—an artist in his profession—examined it long and carefully, until he found scratched upon it in tiny figures a number. He referred to a book, and then replied:

“Yes, I cut a duplicate of this for a tall, thin gentleman. He was a foreigner, I remember.” And he gave the date, three days before the disappearance of Enrico Rossi.

This was a very valuable link in the chain of fresh evidence, and the police very wisely allowed the supposed Venice banker and his wife to leave for Paris, entirely unsuspicious of the fact that they were being closely watched. The day came for the trial of Mrs. Priestley, but it was postponed.

Meanwhile two English detectives were in Paris watching Nocera and his wife, information from Venice concerning the “banker” having been the reverse of reassuring.

Within three weeks Superintendent Ransley’s expectations were rewarded. The man Zuccari visited them at their hotel in the Rue Castiglione!

From that moment Zuccari was never left, and four days later all three were arrested in the street near the Opera by six agents of the Sûreté.

Madame Nocera was released, but her husband, in order to save himself, made a statement to Inspector Peyron when taken to the bureau of police. In a great state of agitation he admitted that, while posing as a banker in Venice, the money he possessed belonged to the Austrian Government—in fact, he was the paymaster of the spies of Austria scattered through northern Italy during the war. He declared that he had had no hand whatever in the assassination of Enrico Rossi.

The French police were, however, far from satisfied with this statement, and pressed him, under threats, for further information. It then became apparent that Nocera and Zuccari had quarrelled over their share of the spoils, and in the end Nocera explained the ingenious plot to Inspector Peyron and the two men from Scotland Yard.

It had become known to Zuccari that Enrico Rossi was to be sent on business from the Coltano wireless station to England, and that he intended to call upon Mrs. Priestley, his old friend. The flat above the latter’s being to let furnished, the Noceras took it, and succeeded in cultivating friendly relations with the lady below. Then Zuccari arrived from Italy, and on one of his visits with Nocera to Mrs. Priestley, he succeeded in getting hold of the latchkey of the flat used by the servant. Of this he had a duplicate made in Lower Marsh, and then he waited in patience.

Enrico arrived in London and wrote to Mrs. Priestley. She quite innocently mentioned this fact to Nocera, and said that she could not see him as she was going away.

This was their opportunity. Entering the flat in Mrs. Priestley’s absence, Zuccari discovered Enrico’s letter, and his address at a small private hotel at Kensington.

He ascertained that Mrs. Priestley would be out at a dance on a certain evening; therefore he telegraphed in the lady’s name asking Enrico to call at half-past ten o’clock for supper.

After leaving Falconer at Liverpool Street station, Enrico had therefore taken a taxi direct to Longton Mansions, where Zuccari was already in Mrs. Priestley’s flat awaiting him. On entering there the unsuspecting young Italian was struck down, his wallet taken and his jacket removed. From a little pocket behind the silk address-tab of the tailor, Something was extracted—a tiny book of thin India paper.

That Something was of the greatest value to the murderer, and was the motive of the crime, for it contained the secret wireless code of the Italian Government, both military and diplomatic, and would be of inestimable value to the Austrians and Germans, even though peace had now been declared.

Having secured that for which he had cunningly plotted, Zuccari had replaced the coat upon the inert body of the man he had beaten to death with a piece of iron piping, put on his overcoat, and then locked him in the small box-room, afterwards leaving the flat. Three hours or so later Mrs. Priestley returned, all unconscious of the tragedy, and slept there for the last night before her departure abroad.

The London police, two days after the true facts had been ascertained in Paris and Mrs. Priestley had been released, visited the flat occupied by Nocera, for, on inquiry, they had elicited the fact that, as secret agent of Austria in Venice, he had had much technical instruction in the use of wireless.

In the flat was found quite a powerful generating plant, with a very up-to-date telephone set, and a most ingenious aerial arrangement by which one could transmit upon quite a long wave-length. Why this had originally been installed was obscure, but it was believed to be one of the powerful secret sets used by German spies in London during the war.

In any case, it was proved that the reason Enrico had not given his correct address was because he had apprehensions of some sinister attempt. It was also proved that Zuccari had, after the tragedy, spoken into the microphone that weird message to which Geoffrey had listened, and which proved such a remarkable feature of the affair. The message of farewell had apparently been the curious fancy of the unscrupulous assassin.

The stolen code-book was recovered three days after Zuccari’s arrest from his baggage at the left-luggage office at Brussels, whence it was his intention to convey it to Germany. The Italian Government, who had two years before issued warrants for the arrest of both Zuccari and the traitor Nocera, at once claimed their extradition, and both men are now serving a sentence of solitary confinement for life—a doom worse, indeed, than the gallows.

CHAPTER III

THE CALICO GLOVE

MRS. BEVERLEY, who, on account of her reckless expenditure, had been nicknamed “The Wild Widow” by a certain set in Society, had gone up to Perthshire to join a gay house-party at a shooting lodge near Crieff, leaving Sylvia at home at Upper Brook Street.

After the girl there was dangling a Peer of the Realm, twice her age, in the person of Viscount Hendlewycke, a penniless man, whose family tree ran back to the days of Richard Cœur de Lion, and who, in his youth, had been distinguished by his two appearances in the Divorce Court as co-respondent.

Hendlewycke, with his bald head and his pretence to golf, was the best fish that Mrs. Beverley had captured as the prospective husband of Sylvia. Hendlewycke Castle, near Alnwick, in Northumberland, was a magnificent old place, now let by the Viscount’s trustee in Bankruptcy to a Lancashire cotton-waste dealer who aspired to a baronetcy, and Mrs. Beverley, with her acuteness and her wealth, saw that she could easily reinstate “Roddy,” as he was known in society, providing he made Sylvia Lady Hendlewycke.

Such an event would be the crowning of her great social ambitions in London.

Sylvia, however, was not blind. Neither was Geoffrey Falconer. Geoffrey had met “Roddy” several times. In him the young man found a degenerate roué, who, having run through his fortune, had also so lost his self-respect that he would borrow a “fiver” from all and sundry, and in most cases forget to pay it back. Of club and hotel servants he had been driven to borrow money, and to a dozen butlers in country houses he was indebted for “just a couple of quid for my railway fare. I’ll send it back to you when I get up to town.”

To men at White’s, the Wellington, Wells’, the Devonshire, and Boodles, “Roddy” Hendlewycke was known as “a bad egg.” Why “The Wild Widow” from Argentina had taken him under her wing, nobody could imagine—except, of course, she wanted an old title for her daughter.

Sylvia was compelled to tolerate him in order not openly to offend her mother, but she was heartily sick of him, and was seen as little as possible in his company. With Geoffrey she was perfectly frank, and they entirely understood each other. Therefore, it was not at all surprising that one day, her mother being absent, she suggested to the young man that he should drive her out for the day in her mother’s big cream-coloured Rolls-Royce.

The suggestion was at once adopted, and on the Saturday morning the pair left London for a day’s outing.

The car had scarcely left the garage at the rear of South Audley Street, where, with others belonging to people in the neighbourhood, it was kept, when a well-dressed man of about forty entered the yard and approaching the man in charge, exclaimed:

“I see Mrs. Beverley’s Royce has just gone out. Did you get to know what I want?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “Young Mr. Falconer is driving Miss Beverley down to Hastings. They’re lunching at the Queen’s.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure, sir,” was the reply, whereupon the stranger placed a Treasury note into the hand of his informant.

Then, re-entering a taxi in which he had been seated, apparently watching Falconer drive out Mrs. Beverley’s car, he sped along to a garage in Knightsbridge, where another large open car awaited him, and even before Sylvia and her lover had left Upper Brook Street the mysterious watcher was well on his way out of London.

The day was a lovely one in early autumn, and the drive through Kent was delightful. Geoffrey and Sylvia came along the sea-front at St. Leonard’s just before noon, and, continuing, pulled up at the back entrance of the Queen’s Hotel, where they ordered lunch. Then, after a wash, they strolled out into the autumn sunshine beside the sea.

As they left by that door with its wide glass porch which leads out upon the terrace before the sea, they passed a man seated in one of the wicker lounge chairs, smoking a good cigar.

He was the mysterious individual who had been so keen to ascertain the destination of the pair. But as they passed he was gazing thoughtfully out upon the sea, taking no notice of them.

After they had gone along towards the Pier, he returned to the lounge, where he scribbled a telegram. Having done so, he apparently desired to alter it, so he tore it into tiny fragments, half of which he tossed into the waste-paper basket, and the other half he placed in the pocket of his grey tweed jacket. That action showed him first to be a man of method, and secondly that the message was one which he did not wish to be read by anyone who might perhaps be watching.

He wrote a second telegram, and that he took across to the post-office and dispatched.

Later, when Geoffrey and Sylvia, having eaten their luncheon in the big upstairs room, had descended to the little lounge on the terrace to take their coffee, they found the same man there, smoking a cigar in the same abstracted manner.

Coffee was brought to the pair who were chattering merrily, when the stranger, suddenly rising to pass back into the lounge, struck the little table accidentally and the coffee was spilled.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, with exquisite politeness, in a well-modulated and refined voice. “Do please forgive me! It was most clumsy of me, and I apologise to you both.”

Then seeing the waiter in the vicinity, he ordered two more coffees in the same breath.

“Nothing!” laughed Falconer. “It was only an accident! These tables are all gingerbread things. They are always very shaky.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “my sole consolation is that none of it went on the lady’s dress. Coffee stains badly, you know.”

“No. It’s quite all right!” declared Sylvia pleasantly.

And then they began to chat. The stranger told them that he had motored down from London just for a breath of air.

“I’m going abroad—to China—in about a month’s time. I expect to be away several years. So I want to see all I can of our dear old England before I go.”

For half an hour they gossiped of motors, of good and indifferent roads, and of hotels as known by motorists within a couple of hundred miles of London.

At half-past three Sylvia suggested they should start back home; therefore, they parted from their pleasant chance acquaintance, leaving him still smoking in the porch-like lounge.

“I somehow don’t like that man, Geoffrey,” the girl said as soon as she was seated beside him and the car turned out into the busy Hastings street. “He seemed so inquisitive.”

“I thought so, too. But probably he wanted to know who we were,” laughed Falconer. “Though he got no change out of me.”

“Did you notice that he wore, even at lunch, a glove upon his left hand? I think it is to cover some deformity. It seemed to be of unbleached calico, and covered with some kind of flesh-coloured paint.”

“Yes. I noticed it. But by his manner and speech he seems a gentleman—and a thorough cosmopolitan, without a doubt. He has apparently been half over the world,” he replied, and then the conversation dropped as he quickened speed to overtake a tram-car.

That same night the stranger, who wore the flesh-coloured calico glove, attired in a dinner-jacket, lounged about the entrance-hall of the Piccadilly Grill for about a quarter of an hour, until at last he was joined by the person for whom he had been waiting, a smartly-dressed French girl, who possessed all the chic and mannerisms of the true Parisienne. Having left her cloak, the pair went in and dined at a table à deux, which had been reserved for them in a corner.

The waiter, apparently knowing them both as regular patrons of the place, served them well. Over the table the man in a low tone related the coffee incident at Hastings, and the girl seemed to regard the adventure as huge fun.

“Oh! Teddy, I do wish I had been with you!” the girl said in rather broken English. “Mon Dieu! I’ve had a dull, miserable day! I went up to Hampstead to see George, but he has gone away, and his landlady says she has no idea when he will be back.”

“That’s sudden,” exclaimed the man, knitting his brows. “I wonder if anything has happened? George was not due to leave London till next Saturday morning—and then he was going over to Stockholm on a very important little bit of business. I arranged it all only yesterday. And now he’s gone!”

“Yes. And the old woman did not seem to know anything. Mr. Jordon had, she said, left very hurriedly with only a suit-case. And he left no message either for you or for myself.”

“Looks a bit fishy, Gabrielle,” the man remarked, staring at the tablecloth.

“No. There’s no fear, my dear Teddy,” laughed the girl. “If anything were wrong we should know. Bad news travels fast.”

“I don’t like George Jordon leaving suddenly like that—without a word. The other business in Stockholm is a pretty big one.”

“Why did you fix Saturday?”

“I fixed any Saturday—the Saturday when we may find it most convenient to all parties concerned,” he said with a mysterious grin.

“I hope neither Falconer nor the girl suspects,” the girl said apprehensively.

“What can they suspect?” asked the man. “You have only to carry out your part of the contract, and the whole thing is easy—big money awaits both of us,” he whispered across the table.

“Yes,” the girl replied, her voice lost in the strains of the orchestra. She looked across the spacious restaurant dreamily. “Yes,” she repeated, “but somehow I don’t like this business at all. George may have smelt a rat and bolted.”

“He may have done, but, recollect, he would not have disappeared without first sending me warning. Remember all that it means to him—and to us both,” exclaimed the man who was known in the haunts about Piccadilly Circus as Teddy Tressider, or Everard, as was his real name.

“On any Saturday,” repeated the pretty young French girl, as she sipped her wine and then leaned her bare elbows upon the table, looking straight at the man before her. “George has arranged to be ready to get across to Sweden, on any Saturday—eh?”

“Exactly. And look here, Gabrielle!” exclaimed the keen-eyed man, whose attitude suddenly altered to one of menace, “I don’t want you at the last moment to become chicken-hearted or—or, by Heaven! if there’s a failure, you’ll pay dearly for it.”

The girl remained silent. The expression upon her face showed that she resented the man’s threat. Her delicate lips compressed, and her dark eyes flashed back at him viciously. But she was a clever girl, for at that moment of her anger rising she controlled her tongue, and, instead of expressing any resentment, she only gave vent to a half-idiotic laugh, and after a pause lifted her glass again, and answered:

“Really, my dear Teddy, you are very funny to-night. Come back to earth, my dear friend!”

The man with the calico glove snapped a word in reply and ordered liqueurs, after which he took her in a taxi to a big dancing-hall out at Hammersmith, where, after a number of dances, they parted upon the kerb outside.

“Remember, Gabrielle, if you fail me in this, I’ll tell what I know. And you surely fully realise where you will be,” he said distinctly in her ear as they awaited a taxi. “I have no wish for us to be enemies. But, gad! if you hold back, then I shall treat you as an enemy, and I shall tell all I know.”

The girl drew a long breath.

“You—you———!”

But the words died upon her lips. With her woman’s innate cleverness she made resolution at that moment that she would combat the plans of the man who held her future in his hands.

She recollected all the past, and she shuddered.

Next second, however, she laughed saucily, and as the taxi drew up, she replied in French:

“Oh! my dear old friend, why make all this trouble? You are very amusing to-night! This little affair will come out all right, never fear. Now that you know Monsieur Falconer, surely the trouble is half over? The rest is so very easy. Discretion and caution are all that is necessary. And then, when the deed is done, George will slip over to Stockholm and every one will be happy—except Monsieur Falconer!”

And she stepped into the taxi and drove away.

About this time Geoffrey Falconer was busy each evening in devising improvements in his new seven-valve amplifier, with the object of applying for a patent. In the world of wireless there were many rumours that Falconer’s improvement of the “saturation device” and other things would revolutionise the present method of the reception of wireless signals. What it exactly was only the clever young inventor himself knew. He had shown it to his father, and also to Sylvia, but they were not sufficiently acquainted with the mysteries of wireless to understand its true import.

So busy was Geoffrey, both at the Works at Chelmsford, and at his own home each evening, that during the fortnight that followed he only went to London once, to do business at Marconi House and afterwards to see Sylvia.

That evening, Mrs. Beverley being out of town, he took her daughter out to dinner at the Carlton, and afterwards to the theatre. During the entr’acte he left her in the stalls while he went out to smoke a cigarette. He chanced to be standing in the crowded lounge when suddenly he saw a young man named Hugh Carew, who had been a brother-officer with him in France. With him was a pretty, smartly-dressed girl with dark hair and wonderful eyes, and wearing a dress of emerald green.

Carew greeted his friend warmly, and then, turning to his companion, said:

“Let me introduce you to Mr. Falconer—Mademoiselle Juvanon.”

The girl started, held her breath, glanced furtively into Falconer’s face, and then expressed in French her great pleasure at meeting her companion’s brother-officer.

As for Geoffrey he said but little. After a few moments’ conversation, however, Carew excused himself, saying that he wanted to get a drink, and begged Falconer to look after the girl for a moment.

The instant he had gone to the bar, Falconer bent to the girl, and in a low, hard voice, said in French:

“When last I had the pleasure of meeting mademoiselle, both her nationality and her name were—well—slightly different—eh?”

From her pretty lips rang out a ripple of merry laughter, while over her face spread a saucy look.

“I freely admit it, M’sieur Falconer,” she responded. “But I had no idea we should meet here. Or I should not have come—I confess to you.”

“Ah! Mademoiselle, beauty such as yours cannot be concealed,” said the young man laughing.

“Why do you flatter me?—You?”

“Surely I may be permitted to admire you—even though I am aware of the truth—of who and what you really are!”

“But—but you will not give me away to Hugh—will you, M’sieur Geoffrey?” she asked quickly, her face instantly pale in alarm. “I—I love him. I swear I do!”

“If you play the straight game with him, Gabrielle, I will remain silent,” Falconer promised. “After we had met in Paris three years ago, I learnt the truth about you, mademoiselle,” he added; “and I confess that the revelation was an extremely unpleasant one. I believed in you, but I found that you were playing a very crooked game.”

As the words left his lips, Hugh Carew returned. The curtain had rung up, therefore Geoffrey bowed to mademoiselle, and at once rejoined Sylvia.

The remainder of the play did not interest him. As he sat by Sylvia’s side a flood of bitter memories overtook him—how he had first been introduced to Gabrielle while taking a morning apératif at the Pré Catalan, in Paris; of his friendship with her, and of the subsequent discovery that, instead of being what she had represented herself to be, she was actually the decoy of thieves! In Paris he had known her as Gabrielle Valeri, a native of Palermo, in Sicily. Now that she was in London, the friend of Hugh Carew, her name had become Juvanon, and she was French.

What deep game was being played?

He made a point of finding Carew at his club three days later, when he turned the conversation to her. Hugh at once became enthusiastic. It was quite apparent that he was over head and ears in love with the pretty young French girl. He had, it seemed, first met her in Rouen during the war, and had again encountered her six months ago by pure accident while walking along Kensington High Street. To a man in love it is useless to give warning, and Falconer, realising this, hesitated to say anything to the girl’s detriment.

He had warned her in all seriousness that if she played a crooked game he would expose her. And he now recollected that the expression in her eyes when she had confessed her love for Hugh was one of true honesty and frankness.

Carew was, of course, in entire ignorance that his friend was acquainted with the girl whose beauty had cast a spell over him, and Geoffrey, on his part, remained silent.

His interview over a whisky-and-soda at the Wellington Club that afternoon proved that the pair were genuinely in love with each other. But Falconer, recollecting Gabrielle’s position, was wondering what could be behind it all. Hugh Carew was heir to a baronetcy, the elder son of a very wealthy man, and he wondered whether those mysterious international thieves behind Gabrielle were not scheming blackmail. Indeed, the future extortion of money seemed to be at the root of it all.

That night, after calling at Upper Brook Street for half an hour, Geoffrey went back to Warley full of grave apprehensions concerning his brother-officer, and, before turning in, he sat down to further test his improved amplifier by which signals from both low and high-power stations came in with almost double strength.

“Hitherto there have been three grades of amplifiers,” he muttered to himself, as he sat with the low-resistance telephones over his ears. “They have never yet invented an amplifying detector to cover all wave-lengths from three hundred to seventeen thousand. We constructed one which was equally effective on all commercial wave-lengths, but complications had to be introduced which rendered the instrument entirely unsuitable for ordinary practical use. Yet here I have, I hope, a device which increases the amplitude of the oscillations over all wave-lengths, both for ‘spark’ or ‘continuous waves.’”

He listened on the telephones to the usual traffic of the night. Many of the messages passing and re-passing across the Atlantic were in code—messages of mystery all of them. The rapidity of the exchange of communications by wireless—both private and commercial—has long out-distanced the old-fashioned cables, with their long delay and deliberate methods. Truly, the world is now beginning to realise that it can send messages across the seven seas and receive replies by wireless in half the time occupied by the submarine cables.

Geoffrey remained with the telephones over his ears for quite an hour, making delicate adjustments here and there, his new instrument being so sensitive that he could hear many amateurs in London working on their ten watts and one hundred and eighty mètres to which the General Post Office restricts them. Then he switched off and retired to bed.

Four days went by—strenuous days—for at Chelmsford important tests were being made upon the great high-power wireless telephone set with its huge panel with globular glass valves, each the size of a football—the set which the collective brains of the Marconi Company had devised in order to exchange actual speech with stations across the Atlantic. Geoffrey was one of the engineers engaged in these tests, hence he had little time for anything else. He snatched his lunch hastily each day in the comfortable upstairs dining-room of the heads of departments, and under the chief telephone engineer, whose clear, deliberate voice is known to all wireless men, devoted every moment to his particular sphere in the perfection of the new apparatus which was to supersede the dot-and-dash of Morse’s invention.

One evening, after leaving Chelmsford, he went on to London, and having dressed at the club, dined at Upper Brook Street. Mrs. Beverley was giving a small dance in honour of a French Minister of State and his wife, and Sylvia had pressed him to come. Hence he spent an enjoyable evening, in which the only jarring note was the presence of the ineffable Lord Hendlewycke, to whom, of course, Sylvia was forced to be polite.

Falconer left Liverpool Street station by the last train, arriving home at about one o’clock in the morning. Contrary to his habit, he did not go into his wireless room, but went straight up to bed, for the Professor had already retired, and the old house was in darkness.

At seven o’clock the next morning the maid, a country girl, rapped loudly upon his door, crying:

“Mr. Geoffrey! The house has been broken into! Your wireless room is all in disorder!”

Falconer sprang up, slipped on his dressing-gown, and dashed down.

The room was turned upside down. The window had been forced and was open, so that whoever entered had had easy access to the place. No second glance was needed to show that whoever had entered had been there for one purpose only—in order to possess himself of the secret of the improved amplifier!

A number of wires had been disconnected, while on the table lay a piece of that paper ruled in small squares and used by engineers to draw diagrams.

A diagram of the circuit had apparently been made, but as the instruments were still intact, Falconer was relieved to think that whoever had been prying about had been disturbed before he had had time to discover his secret.

Upon the floor lay the telephone, discarded; the aerial switch had been left down just as the intruder had listened, and several connections had been pulled away from the terminal screws.

The person who had done it was, no doubt, some one skilled in wireless. That was apparent by the changing over of one or two connections which only the eye of an expert would detect. That the intruder had been there through the hours of the night, and had gone deliberately into everything aided by his own expert knowledge was apparent.

But Geoffrey smiled within himself. He knew that any intruder could not gain full knowledge of his device unless he had taken that small box which was attached to the amplifier. Whoever had been there had been prying about—but had been foiled!

He closed the window that had been forced open, and then set about replacing the wires which had been disconnected, making up the circuit to its original design.

The Professor, who had been told that burglars had been in, entered the room excitedly, but Geoffrey reassured him.

“Somebody has been pottering about here. Lots of people know of my device, and I suppose somebody is out to try to discover it. But they haven’t done so. They’ve made a horrible mess of things, but they don’t know the whole truth, because they haven’t examined the new saturation device. If they had taken that away they would have found out everything.”

“Very fortunate, Geoff!” exclaimed the old Professor. “Most fortunate! Evidently some person wants to filch your invention from you!”

“Of course. But they don’t seem to have done it—unless——?” And the young man crossed eagerly to a big cupboard in the room, the door of which stood unlocked.

From it he withdrew a small, green-enamelled, steel dispatch-box.

“By Heavens!” he gasped. “They’ve got it!” And his father saw that the box had been ripped open.

“I kept the diagram and specification of the windings in there!” Geoffrey cried in dismay. “And they have taken it. They know everything—and it is not patented!”

“But who are the thieves?” queried the old man. “Who could come here into this house, and deliberately steal your invention?”

“Ah! There are hundreds of unscrupulous persons who have heard of it. They know how much it would be worth to the world in the near future, and I can only suppose that some plot has been formed to secure it. And they’ve been successful! They have abstracted the diagram from that box which I believed to be practically thief-proof. It had a complicated lock, but they have opened it with steel cutters.”

“So the thieves know your secret, Geoff—the secret which you have been so long perfecting?”

“Yes, they do,” replied the young engineer, setting his jaws firmly. “They have outwitted me! And instead of being a rich man, as I had anticipated, I am just where I was! I did my best to secure to the world a better mode of amplification of wireless signals, but they have stolen my invention. Stolen it!”

And he stared wildly at his father as a man desperate.

An hour later Geoffrey was in the office of the Chief Constable of Essex, and there related to him the whole circumstances. Two detectives went over to Warley in a car, and examined the premises. That entry had been made in a very ingenious manner was quite clear, and it was equally clear that the object was solely to get sight of the improved amplifier, and to secure the diagrams and specifications for which Geoffrey was about to apply for patent rights.

There was no clue to the thief, but whoever it was certainly knew something of wireless. No ordinary burglar had committed the theft.

The examination of the room by the police took place at about eleven o’clock, but at five that evening a sensational discovery was made by a farm labourer near Ardleigh Green, about two miles away on the Romford Road. The man was on his way home from work when, crossing a field near the high road, he came across the body of a well-dressed man.

He was startled to find that he was dead—having been shot in the chest.

At once he informed the Romford police by telephone, and they, on examining the body, declared it to be a case of murder.

Late that night, after Falconer had returned from Chelmsford, he received a visit from a police inspector from Romford, who produced some documents.

“These,” he said, “we found on the body of the stranger who was apparently murdered last night. They appear to us to be wireless diagrams, and we wonder if they may, by any chance, be yours?”

Geoffrey seized them eagerly.

“By Jove!” he gasped. “Why they’re mine—the stolen plans of my invention!”

“Then it seems as though the thief, after committing the robbery, was murdered,” the inspector said.

“So it appears. But who can he be—and who killed him?”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out, sir. Perhaps you’ll come into Romford with me and view the body? You may know the man. He seems well-dressed, and we found on him about forty pounds in Treasury notes and several letters. But none of the latter give any clue as to who he may be. The envelopes have all been destroyed.”

An hour later Geoffrey Falconer was shown the body as it lay, pale and still, awaiting the coroner’s inquiry.

“Why, I recognise him!” gasped the young engineer the moment his eyes fell upon the dead man’s face. “That’s a man with whom I chatted at the Queen’s Hotel, at Hastings, some weeks ago. I remember his face quite well. And his hand. He is still wearing that flesh-coloured calico glove!”

“Was he alone?” asked the police inspector.

“Yes, as far as I know,” Geoffrey replied, and then in a flash it occurred to him how the stranger, now dead, had managed to strike up a conversation by the overturning of the coffee. He recollected, too, Sylvia’s instinctive dislike of the fellow.

But if the mysterious man had evil intentions, why should he have taken all those pains to meet him?

In any case he had the satisfaction of having regained possession of his precious diagram which in the night had been filched from his dispatch-box.

He was shown the Treasury notes found in the dead man’s wallet, and also the letters—four of them—all in a woman’s hand. They were in French, dated simply from Marlotte, a little village on the edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau, cold, purely formal letters, but signed “Gabrielle.”

Geoffrey Falconer knew that signature! He possessed letters in the same handwriting. The writer was the pretty decoy of thieves, the girl who was now in love with his brother-officer, Hugh Carew.

The whole situation became intensely puzzling. The man, whoever he was, had evidently stolen the diagrams, but on making his way to Romford station had been waylaid and shot by an unknown hand. That was the theory held by Geoffrey, and also by the police. The motive of the theft was, no doubt, in order to sell the invention abroad to some rival radio company in Germany, or in America, for new wireless devices have always a ready market to the rich corporations who—after the Marconi Company—attempt to control the world’s communications through space.

Very naturally Geoffrey did his level best to keep out of the papers what really had been stolen from his father’s house. There were several interests at stake. Hence, in the newspapers, the world read that the thief had abstracted certain “papers” from the Professor’s house, and these were found upon the dead man by the police, and returned to their owner.

Those who read these lines will, no doubt, recollect having read a bald and very unconvincing report of the affair. They certainly never dreamed of the drama and romance which lay behind it all.

At the inquest Geoffrey Falconer, who was called to identify his “property,” and tell the court of his meeting with the deceased at Hastings, was very guarded in his evidence. He, of course, said nothing of the pretty young girl whom he had met in Paris as an Italian, and who was now in London under another name and posing as French. The letters signed “Gabrielle” were shown to the jury, but to them they conveyed nothing. The twelve worthy tradesmen of Romford had no suspicion whatever that “Gabrielle” was a decoy of a clever thief, the man into the circumstances of whose death they were called upon to inquire.

Who had killed the thief there was no evidence whatever to show. As far as Geoffrey was concerned he had little interest in the matter. The man had taken a great risk, but had failed to dispose of the diagrams, and thus filch from him a very considerable sum. That the stranger’s death was due to vengeance seemed quite feasible, and the jury could only arrive at one conclusion in face of the fact that no weapon had been found near the spot—namely, that wilful murder had been “committed by some person or persons unknown.”

Next day the diagrams of the improved amplifier were placed in the bank, and the body of the deceased was buried at the expense of the county of Essex.

The affair, however, filled Geoffrey’s mind mainly because of the pretty Gabrielle’s association with his friend Carew.

Though he remained silent, the suggestion occurred to him about ten days afterwards to go to London and meet Carew.

On calling at the club he found Hugh in the smoking-room, and at once it became apparent that his appearance was the reverse of welcome.

Carew seemed highly nervous and perturbed. They sat over their cigarettes for half an hour chatting over trivialities, when Geoffrey suddenly remarked:

“I suppose you read in the papers what a lot of trouble I’ve had—a robbery at our house?”

“Yes,” his friend replied. “I—I’ve got an appointment out in South Africa, Geoffrey, but—but before I go I want to tell you something.”

“What?” asked his friend.

“Come upstairs to the private room,” said Carew, and both ascended the great old staircase, and passing along a corridor, entered a small rather ill-lit room where private conversation between members could be indulged in.

When Hugh Carew had closed the door, he faced his friend, and said in a low, tremulous voice:

“An explanation is due to you, Geoffrey. I know that you must have been much mystified over the occurrence at Warley, and the narrow escape you had of your invention passing into the hands of foreigners. I confess that I prevented it.”

“You! How?”

“Well, I discovered that Gabrielle was held beneath the thrall of that blackguard, Edward Everard, a thief of the most unscrupulous type where women were concerned. The girl confessed to me. She told me how she had been compelled to aid him in his plans in Paris and elsewhere, and how Everard was plotting to obtain the secret of your wireless invention in order to dispose of it to some people in Brussels. I induced her to tell me the whole plot—a most ingenious one—and then——”

And he paused.

“Yes, go on,” said Geoffrey, looking into the other’s pale, hard-drawn face.

“Well—I followed him on that night,” he said in a low, intense voice. “I watched him break into your room and cut open the dispatch-box. I saw him leave and go along the road, and—and in order to save Gabrielle from him and save your invention from falling into the hands of others, I—I shot him!”

“You did?” gasped Falconer, astounded.

“Yes. And now you can give me up to the police. I don’t care. I love Gabrielle, and I have saved her from that fiend who wore a glove to conceal a deformity by which he could have been easily identified.”

“Where is Gabrielle now?”

“She sailed for Cape Town last Tuesday, and will await me there. We arranged to be married on my arrival.”

Falconer paused. A long silence fell between the two men.

At last Geoffrey spoke, his voice trembling with emotion:

“Go and meet her in Cape Town, Hugh. I shall regard your confession as sacred. You saved the girl from further dishonour, and you saved to me the fruits of my labours. It was murder, I admit. But now that I know the dead man’s name, I am aware that he was guilty of the same crime—the robbery and murder of a wealthy old lady near Marseilles two years ago—a woman to whom he had forced Gabrielle to act as maid.”

“And you will say nothing—not a word will pass your lips?” asked Hugh Carew eagerly.

“Not a word—I swear! The man has met with his just deserts.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” was the other’s reply, and both left the dull, half-dark room without further word.

CHAPTER IV

THE DEVIL’S OVEN

THE calm summer morning broke gloriously over the entrance to the English Channel between Land’s End and the Lizard. The sea was blue, with only a faint ripple.

Mrs. Beverley had been induced by Geoffrey to leave Upper Brook Street to spend a few weeks in Cornwall, taking Sylvia with her.

Indeed, it was Sylvia who pressed her mother to go to Cornwall because Geoffrey was compelled to go down to the Marconi wireless station at Poldhu, near Mullion, where some alterations were being carried out.

The widow and her daughter had, three days before, taken up their quarters at the Poldhu Hotel, which is situated high upon the cliff within a stone’s throw of the high-power wireless station, which, at stated times by day and by night, transmits messages to ships across the Atlantic. Geoffrey had also taken up his quarters there, and from the hotel windows a wide and beautiful view could be obtained of the rugged Cornish coast, the picturesque Poldhu Cove and the wild Halzaphron Cliff standing out to sea, a rough granite headland.

Being summer, the hotel was full. The crowd was of a refined class the blatant profiteer with his bejewelled wife being happily absent. In the grounds of the hotel was a path which led to a small gate whereon was a notice—“Private. No Admittance”—the entrance to the wireless station. Beyond that gate no person was allowed to go, save by special authority from the head office at Marconi House, though most of the summer visitors longed to pass beyond and learn the secrets of that wonderful station—the first that Senatore Marconi established for communication with America.

Geoffrey had breakfasted at seven, and had crossed to the long, low-built buildings situated beneath those high, spidery aerial wires, with their tall, slender masts which withstand so well the fierce winter gales of the Atlantic. There for over an hour he had been busy making some adjustments upon the new eight-kilowatt wireless telephone which was being set up for the transmission of speech to Madrid. Then, at last, he had emerged from the power-house and walked along the gravelled path in the direction of the hotel, for he knew that Sylvia, after breakfasting with her mother, would be outside to enjoy the morning sunshine.

He was not long before he caught sight of her, a fresh, smiling figure in a summer blouse and cream serge skirt. She wore no hat, and in her face showed that health given by the sunshine and sea air.

“Hulloa, Geoff!” she cried as she met the young fellow. “Up and busy already?”

“Yes,” he answered. “We’re still troubled over the set. Can’t get it working properly yet.”

“What’s going on just now?” the girl asked, for during the three days she had been there she had been an unofficially privileged visitor to the wireless station on account of her friendship with Falconer. She had begun to know some of the routine of the traffic.

Her lover glanced at his watch.

“Just twenty past nine,” he remarked. “In ten minutes they will be sending the Admiralty weather forecast to the ships. Come over and watch it going out,” he suggested, and, as she at once agreed, he turned back with her.

Already, as they approached, they could hear the dull roar of huge dynamos set in motion to test in preparation for the powerful spark transmission, and as they passed into the power-room, Geoffrey said:

“You’d better hold your fingers in your ears when they try the spark. Come, let’s have a look at the Devil’s Oven.”

And he conducted her past a number of huge condensers made of glass plates, and complicated looking machinery, to a big chamber built of brick, like a baker’s oven, through which all the messages passed out.

The door was open, and inside she saw a big rotary disc with copper points which the busy, bustling engineer in charge was examining prior to its use.

“Why is it called the ‘Devil’s Oven’?” asked the girl.

“Wait—and you’ll see,” he laughed, introducing her to the engineer, who was at work with his eye upon the clock, for at all hazards each day the forecast has to go out to time.

The pair stood together watching, until, a few moments later, the engineer closed the door of the spark-chamber and passed along to the great switch-board.

“You had better hold your fingers in your ears, Miss Beverley,” he said briskly, in passing. This she did, and a second later when he pulled over the big switch, a terrific noise was set up, almost enough to break the drums of the unaccustomed ear. Then, passing to a little room, the engineer rang a bell to the transmission-room in a building a little distance away.

Next moment there came three short and one long crashes in the Devil’s Oven—electric discharges which showed blood-red through the square pane of glass in the door, though they were really intensely blue, while close by, upon a heavily insulated and protected plate, two great blue sparks were being quenched by a strong forced draught of air.

Again three short crashes followed by one long—the letter “V,” the testing letter of the alphabet.

The engineer watched the spark, and at last, deciding that it was efficient to reach to every ship across the Atlantic and far north and south across land and sea for three thousand miles, went again to the little room and rang the bell to the operator signifying “O.K.”

Next moment the crashes in the Devil’s Oven became continuous as across the ocean there was sent forth the signal “C.Q.”—the general call for all to listen—followed by the signal letters of Poldhu, “M.P.D.,” and a message from the Admiralty telling captains of ships what weather they might expect for the next twenty-four hours, followed by a storm warning.

So deafening were the heavy discharges that the girl was glad to get outside.

“Fancy!” she said. “Every ship at sea is listening to the storm warning!”

“Yes,” he replied. “Let us go and see it being sent by the key.”

They crossed to a small building which was divided into two rooms. In one were the operators on the land telegraph line to Marconi House, and in the other sat the wireless operator, a smart-looking, dark-eyed man with the telephones over his ears, tapping out the message in silence, his chin resting upon his hand. There only a slight clicking could be heard, the actual discharge being effected by a relay.

He was repeating the message he had at first sent, making, by dots and dashes, signals as set out by the message written down upon a form before him which had come over the land-wire from the Admiralty ten minutes previously.

When he had finished, he rose and wished Sylvia good-morning, for they had met on the previous day.

“I’m just off to bed, Miss Beverley,” he laughed. “I’ve been on duty all night, and we’ve had unusual traffic with Madrid. First a lot of press, and then a host of commercial messages. There’s some financial trouble in Spain, I think.”

And as the young man said this, Leonard Hamilton, the engineer-in-charge, entered the room on his morning inspection.

“Well, Cator,” he asked, addressing the operator after he had shaken hands with Sylvia, “has the forecast gone out?”

The young man replied in the affirmative, and then handed the telephone to another man, rather slimmer and fair-haired, who had just come on duty; at the same time he signed the log-book, pointing to an entry recording the fact that at seven forty-seven he had called up Madrid on the continuous-wave set, and they had not yet replied.

“Ah, the same old dodge!” declared Mr. Hamilton, himself a youngish, good-looking man. “They pretend they can’t get our ‘C.W.,’ and always want us to send on spark just because it is easier for them. They really aren’t playing the game over there. Try them again at ten, and every fifteen minutes afterwards. Is there much to go?”

“Eighteen messages.”

“You’ll get them away soon, no doubt,” the chief engineer said. “They’ve done the same old trick before. They bang over all their traffic in a bunch to us, and then tell us to stand by for half an hour.”

“They did that early this morning,” Cator said. “They ended their transmission at four, and at once told us to stand by till five. Fortunately we cleared all our traffic to them then.”

Hamilton, a most genial and delightful man, who was loved by all the staff in that outlandish corner of England, and who was one of the best known Marconi engineers, smiled, and remarked:

“I know them, Cator—I know only too well!”

And he bent to glance at the log that had been kept during the night.

When outside in the glorious morning sunshine, Geoffrey turned to the pretty girl at his side as together they walked back past the direction-finding building along the path down to the hotel, and said:

“I’m still puzzled over that affair I told you about last night, dear. It’s most mysterious. I’m certain that the man I met in the hall of the Polurrian Hotel last night was the same man. I telephoned at eight o’clock this morning, but they tell me that Mr. Martin—which was the name he gave—has left. He had a car to Gwinear Road station last night, and caught the sleeper to Paddington.”

“Because he knew that you had recognised him—eh?”

“I sincerely hope he doesn’t suspect that I recognised him,” said Falconer. “But at any rate it is, to say the least, strange that he should be down here.”

“It is,” the girl agreed. “Probably you’ll learn something further about him soon.” Then she added: “Mother wants you to come with us this afternoon to Kynance Cove. She is asking Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton and two other ladies from the hotel; we are going to picnic there.”

He began to protest that he had work to do, but later, when he consulted Hamilton, the pair decided to finish early and join the ladies at half-past three. This they did, and while Hamilton, brisk and burly, drove his wife in his own grey car, Geoffrey, in a hired car, accompanied Sylvia and her mother, and the two other ladies with whom Mrs. Beverley was slightly acquainted.

The drive was a beautiful one through one of the wildest and remotest parts of Cornwall, over the fresh breezy hills, through the old-world village of Mullion, with its narrow, crooked streets, thence up the hill to Penhale, and over the high-up straight road which leads to Lizard Town. Before reaching the town, however, they turned to the right just after passing the Travellers’ Rest, and presently found themselves down in the Kynance Cove, one of the most celebrated and most romantic spots on that rugged granite coast.

They descended in the little bay beyond which rose from the sea the Gull Rock and Asparagus Island, with its cave known as the Devil’s Throat, and walked upon the silvery sand beneath the high cliffs of beautifully veined and coloured serpentine.

“Perfectly lovely!” declared Mrs. Beverley. “Just to think that they issue a storm-warning on such a glorious day!”

“Storms at sea often brew when the weather is brightest—just as they do in our own lives, Mrs. Beverley,” Geoffrey remarked.

“Ah, you’re always so horribly philosophical,” laughed the American woman. “I suppose it’s your profession that makes you so.” Together they had mounted to the top of a grass-grown cliff, and with their picnic basket, sat down to tea, which Mrs. Beverley poured out from Thermos flasks.

From where the party sat there spread a magnificent panorama of sea and rugged coast. Before them were the two granite islands around which thousands of gulls were swooping, while eastward lay the Venton Hill and the many rocks around the Lizard—the most southerly point in England—truly a wonderful scene, so weird, rugged, and remote.

Presently, after tea, Sylvia, looking very sweet in her summer gown, wandered away with the man she loved, leaving Hamilton with the four ladies to stroll and chatter. The pair took a rocky path which ascended higher up the hill, and as they went along, Mrs. Beverley shouted after them:

“Remember, dear, we leave at six o’clock!”

The girl smiled back, waved her hand, and then went on with her companion.

Perhaps Mrs. Beverley was not altogether pleased with the situation, for her secret intention had all along been to marry Sylvia into the peerage. Had she not come to London for that purpose? Yet, after all, Geoffrey Falconer was a charming and highly-intelligent young fellow, whose several discoveries in wireless were, she had been told, likely to bring him a considerable fortune in the future.

As the pair halted on the top of the hill, Sylvia suddenly paused, and said:

“Do you know, Geoffrey, I can’t help thinking about that strange man you saw in the Polurrian last night.”

“Yes,” he said. “Somehow I, too, can’t forget him. I first met him in the wagon-restaurant of the express from Paris to Calais about three weeks ago. He sat at the next table, and though he was reading the Matin between the courses at lunch, I noticed that he seemed to be watching me.”

“Not another Edward Everard, I hope,” said the girl, whose hair was being blown across her face by the sea breeze which was just springing up.

“I hope not,” laughed her merry lover. “But he seems to have followed me so persistently. Why I cannot tell. Possibly he may have learnt my profession, and of my post in the Marconi service.”

“And if he has, then, what motive has he for following you? One thing is reassuring. Your secret diagrams are now in a safe place. When did you see him again after meeting him in the train?”

“On the boat, crossing to Dover. Then I lost sight of him, until one morning, when I arrived by train at Chelmsford as usual, I saw him lounging downstairs in the booking-hall. At first I did not recognise him, but after I had passed and was walking along that path which is the short cut to the Works, I recollected the incident on the Calais express. Then it all passed from my mind again until I encountered him accidentally in the lounge of the Polurrian. Why was he here?”

“Perhaps to spend a week by the sea!” laughed Sylvia.

“Hardly that!” Falconer said. “He was down here for some distinct purpose. And that purpose I mean to discover. I intend to establish why he came down here so near the Poldhu station and stayed the night as Mr. Martin. Remember, only the other day he was at Chelmsford, and now he had been to Poldhu, and left hurriedly after seeing me.”

“Perhaps he never expected you were here.”

“That’s exactly my opinion. Probably my presence has frightened him off. I only hope it has. Nevertheless I don’t like the situation. Something is amiss somewhere—and I intend to fathom it.”

“The man is not English, you told me. Why should he go under the name of Martin?”

“Martin is a name not unknown in France,” Falconer remarked. “He may be French. Indeed, I recollect when I first saw him in the train I put him down as a Parisian.”

Both Sylvia and her lover were much puzzled. It certainly was annoying to be watched as Falconer had evidently been.

That evening they drove back over the Cornish hills with the sun setting away across the Atlantic. But already the breeze was increasing. The storm prophecy of early morning was being fulfilled.

Together they dined pleasantly in that long room at the Poldhu Hotel which overlooks the pretty cove, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton dining with them. Afterwards they all went across the wide grounds of the wireless station to the Hamiltons’ pretty bungalow, where they spent the remainder of the evening.

Hamilton was a typical Marconi man, burly, easy-going, and refined. An expert wireless engineer, he had worked stations in India, South America, and other places, and ran a secret station during the war—a station which had to its credit the destroying of many German submarines. With his charming, dark-haired, cosmopolitan wife who that night was hostess to the wealthy South American widow, he had lived in all sorts of outlandish places in the shadow of wireless aerials, ever on duty day and night with the alarm-bell at his bedside in case of a breakdown.

Of wireless troubles he had many. Yet he was one of those easy-going golfers whom nothing disturbed. He was devoted to his wife; he led an ideal life in his picturesque, roomy bungalow in that wild, windswept spot overlooking the Atlantic, and he smoked his pet pipe, and never allowed anything to upset him. With all the public schoolboy spirit, he was devoted to his duty, and though severe and just, was yet highly popular with his whole staff.

In that bungalow the Hamiltons led a charming existence, though, if judged by life in London, it might be voted terribly dull. So it was in winter when there were no summer visitors at the hotel. But even then they had the society of the little colony of Marconi men who lived in other bungalows and down in Mullion or in Cury.

Sylvia was delighted with Mrs. Hamilton’s outspoken cosmopolitanism. She had been in half-a-dozen different lands with her husband, and her bungalow life suited her, even though servants were, perhaps, hard to keep in that remote spot. But her house was well-ordered, and furnished with great taste, a fact upon which Mrs. Beverley commented.

In the long drawing-room where the furnishings showed souvenirs of travel far afield, the chief engineer and Geoffrey smoked their cigarettes, while the ladies gossiped. Presently the two men left and entered the dining-room for a drink before parting. Then Geoffrey, as they sat near the table together, told his colleague of the strange movements of the visitor to the Polurrian Hotel.

“Very funny!” agreed Hamilton, who at that moment was lighting his beloved briar. “What can he be doing down here? Of course, we have lots of people trying to pry around the station. But I always take a very firm hand. Nobody sees anything except by signed order from the head office. It wouldn’t do to take strangers into the transmitting room where they could read any of the messages.”

“Of course not,” Geoffrey said. “But I intend to follow up the fellow and see what his game is. I don’t like being spied upon like this.”

“Yes, try to solve the mystery,” replied the engineer-in-charge.

Next day Geoffrey was early astir. At six o’clock he was already out and over at the wireless station, making some tests upon the new gear, and at nine, after a hurried breakfast at the hotel, he walked over to the Polurrian, where, from the hall-porter, he learned several facts. The visitor, Mr. Martin, had arrived by the evening train from London, had dined, and had gone out for about an hour on foot in the evening light—across the cliffs in the direction of Pradanack, he believed. Then he came back and went early to bed. All next day he had lounged about the hotel, chatting with several of the ladies. Just before dinner he had suddenly ordered a car and told them at the office to ring up the stationmaster at Penzance and secure a sleeper to Paddington, and that he would join the train at Gwinear Road.

Later in a hired car Geoffrey drove to the little town of Helston, and took train to the terminus of that winding branch-line which ends at Gwinear Road, on the main line from Penzance to Paddington. From the stationmaster there he learnt that Martin had joined the night mail to Paddington. He also learnt something further—namely, that he had despatched a telegram to a person named Meyer at an address in Hertford Road, Bayswater. The words were: “Thursday at eleven.”

At once Geoffrey decided to return to London. Therefore, he telephoned to Hamilton at Poldhu asking him to tell Mrs. Beverley that he was called to town, and promising to be back very soon.

An hour later he was in the slow train for Plymouth, and that night, the night of Wednesday, he was back in London.

At midnight he passed the house in Hertford Road, Bayswater. It was in darkness, but was evidently a place where apartments were let, quite a respectable house of the usual Bayswater type.

He slept at the Great Western Hotel at Paddington, without even a clean collar, be it said, and just before eleven o’clock next day he stood looking idly into a shop window in Westbourne Grove, at the corner of Hertford Road, pretending not to be interested in any passer-by.

At about a minute before eleven the mysterious Mr. Martin, smartly-dressed and walking jauntily, turned the corner behind Falconer, and passing up Hertford Road, rang at the door of the house which the young wireless engineer had examined on the previous night.

In a few seconds the door was opened by a maid, and Mr. Martin disappeared within.

A girl of about eighteen, who looked like a dressmaker from one of the several establishments in “The Grove,” was the only person in the road at the moment. Geoffrey noticed her. She was rather poorly-dressed, and seemed to be searching for some house, the description of which she did not recognise.

Gaining the corner of Westbourne Grove, she was met by a quietly-dressed, middle-aged man, to whom she spoke a few words hurriedly. The man replied, apparently telling her something. Then with a smile they parted, the girl going in the direction of Queen’s Road, and the man, who seemed to be an idler, calmly filling his pipe and lighting it as he stood at the junction of the two thoroughfares.

Geoffrey saw all this, but it did not strike him as in any way peculiar. In London many men meet girls at the corners of streets, speak a few words to them, and then pass on. There was nothing really unusual about the girl’s action.

Falconer’s chief concern at the moment was not to be recognised by the man who had, no doubt, watched him when coming over from Paris, where he had been on business for his company—the man who had taken alarm on seeing him down at Poldhu. For over an hour carefully he watched the door of that house in Hertford Road, taking every precaution that he was not observed from the windows. If anything sinister was in progress, then, no doubt, somebody would look forth to see that all was clear and that there was no watcher.

Half an hour after noon the door suddenly opened, when the mysterious Martin emerged, and passing out of the gate, turned back in the direction where Falconer was watching.

Fortunately he drew back in time to escape recognition, and to watch Martin enter a taxi and drive away. Another taxi was near the kerb, therefore in it he followed the foreigner away to North London, to a small, rather dingy shop where electrical appliances were sold—a shop well known to wireless experimenters who are in search of odd and second-hand apparatus and bargains of every description.

The man remained in the place for nearly half an hour, but so blocked up was window and door that the passer-by in Chalk Farm Road could not get a glimpse within. The establishment was one of the most antique in London, and patronised widely by amateurs as well as the greatest scientists in that city.

Presently he came forth bearing a good-sized wooden box, which he put on the front of the taxi, and then drove to the Hotel Russell, where he entered and dismissed the taxi.

A judicious chat with the hall-porter revealed the fact that the name under which the stranger was known was Mr. Charles Lazarus. And he declared himself as a French subject.

With this knowledge Geoffrey engaged a room at the hotel and started to keep strict surveillance upon the stranger. The man’s movements were most mysterious. That same evening he met three other men, palpably foreigners, at the Café Royal, where they dined together expensively, and afterwards all four drove in a taxi to a big double-fronted house in Maresfield Gardens, Hampstead.

Some time after they had been inside, Geoffrey managed to slip into the small front garden, and, approaching stealthily one of the lower bay windows, listened. He distinguished men’s voices, though he could not hear what words were being uttered. He thought they were speaking in French.

Suddenly he heard a sharp metallic clicking. Instantly he recognised it as the tick of a Morse telegraph “sounder.” The letters of the alphabet were being sent both rapidly and well. There was no message—merely the letters A to Z, followed quickly by the numbers 0 to 9. They were evidently testing some apparatus.

He looked about to see any telegraph wires around the house, but the night was too dark and overcast to enable him to distinguish anything.

What was happening within, he wondered? The sound was certainly that of either a post-office telegraph transmitter or receiving “inker.” The click was too familiar and too pronounced for him to be mistaken.

Fearing discovery he withdrew, and then he waited in a dark doorway for the reappearance of the man upon whom he was keeping observation. Martin came out very soon after eleven o’clock, and walking down to Swiss Cottage station, took train, and made his way back to the hotel.

Falconer became more than ever puzzled. What was the connection between this Frenchman’s visit to Poldhu and the tapping of that Morse key? Of some sinister plot he felt convinced. Why should the stranger have watched him so closely in the train to Calais, and then flown on being recognised at the Polurrian Hotel?

Next morning after breakfast he went to the hall-porter of the Hotel Russell, and casually inquired whether he had seen Mr. Lazarus.

“The gentleman left at seven-thirty, sir,” was the man’s prompt reply. “I put his luggage on a taxi, and I heard him tell the man to drive to Paddington.”

Paddington! Had the man of mystery returned to Cornwall? That was Falconer’s thought.

Quickly he drove in a taxi to Paddington, where he ascertained from the booking-clerk that four first-class return tickets had been issued to Truro that morning. He described the man Martin as the person who had paid for them. Eager not to lose sight of the four foreigners, Falconer hurried to Marconi House, and was soon on the private land-telegraph line which connects the head office with the wireless station at remote Poldhu—the line over which all the messages are sent to and from London.

Seated at the telegraph-key, Falconer was soon talking by Morse to one of the assistant-engineers named Benfield, Mr. Hamilton having gone into Helston to see after the delivery of some overdue machinery which had been sent from the works at Chelmsford.

To Benfield he described Martin and his companions, and asked him to motor over to Truro, meet them on arrival, and watch where they went. He added that he should take the next train down to Truro, where he would, on arrival, meet Benfield at the Red Lion. He also sent a message through Benfield to Sylvia telling her of his movements.

At noon he was in the express due to reach Truro three hours after the arrival of the mysterious four. At seven o’clock that evening he entered the old-world Red Lion Hotel, and found Benfield awaiting him with disappointing news.

No men answering the description of the four foreigners had arrived at Truro by the London express which had left Paddington at ten-thirty and had previously arrived.

Geoffrey was nonplussed. His plans had gone entirely wrong! That some mischief was intended he felt assured. His intuition told him that Martin and his companions should be watched, but evidently they had very cleverly evaded pursuit.

They might have purposely broken their journey at Exeter or at Plymouth. Therefore, he met three other possible trains from London, yet each time he was doomed to disappointment. That they had taken tickets to Truro was no evidence that they intended to alight there. They might have got out at some wayside station.

So after the arrival of the half-past ten train that night there was nothing to do but hire a car, and, accompanied by Benfield, he returned to Poldhu, arriving there half an hour after midnight.

The wireless station was brilliantly lit. The great generators were going, ready for the commencement of the night’s heavy traffic, for real work commences there at one o’clock in the morning, because, as all wireless men know, daylight interferes with the strength of wireless signals, so most of the cross-Atlantic traffic and that to distant ships is carried on from that remote corner of England between nightfall and dawn.

Falconer, after a chat with Hamilton, went back to the hotel, where he slept till six, and then, after an early breakfast, drove by car back to the Red Lion at Truro. For three days he remained there, eagerly watching the arrival of every train, but he saw nothing of the men who had so cleverly evaded his watchfulness. It now became quite evident that Truro was not the real destination of Martin and his companions.

On the fourth day, however, at sundown, as he was passing out of the smoking-room of the old-fashioned hotel through the lounge into the busy street, it being market day, he chanced to glance to the left at the crowd of farmers standing at the public bar, when suddenly he caught sight of a man whom he instantly recognised as having been one of Martin’s companions at the Café Royal. In broken English the man was inquiring of the barmaid the way to Tregoney, and she was telling him that it was about six miles out on the Plymouth road, and that he could get a taxi at the garage opposite the hotel.

Falconer held his breath, and paused.

It was evident that the stranger had only just arrived in Truro. Tregoney—the young man recollected the name. Ten minutes later he learnt that the place was a small village on the main road to Plymouth, between Truro and St. Austell. So he allowed the foreigner to go, and waited in impatience till night fell, when he hired a car, and, with a little flash-lamp in his pocket, drove to the outskirts of the remote village. There he ordered the taxi-driver to wait for an hour, and then went on to seek what information he could.

Halfway along the village street, where lights showed in the windows of most of the cottages, he came to a small inn, which he entered and ordered some cold beef and a bottle of beer. Landlords of inns are proverbially talkative to their good customers, and from the burly Cornish host Geoffrey, as he ate his meal, was not long in ascertaining that a strange foreign gentleman, whose description tallied exactly with Martin, had taken a large house at the farther end of “the town.” He was a stranger who had come over to England for his health, and he had rented the place furnished from old Miss Trethowen, who had gone to live in London for six months.

The foreign gentleman had only arrived three days before, and as far as the landlord knew had not yet engaged any servants, except a deaf old woman named Grey, who had acted as Miss Trethowen’s caretaker. Nobody in the village had ever seen the foreign gentleman before. He had arrived with a companion, a tall, thin-faced young man, and they had but little luggage except two large wooden boxes.

Having ascertained these facts, Geoffrey finished his meal and walked along the high road until he came to a large, old-fashioned house, standing back in the darkness from the road, along which ran many telegraph wires. A carriage-drive led up to the place, which seemed very lonely and neglected.

In a window of the first floor there showed a light. Geoffrey, treading softly, entered the gate and silently crossed the rough grass towards the house. Scarcely had he reached the short flight of steps before the front door, being very cautious because a house dog might be about, when he heard a familiar click-click-clickety-click—the noise of a Morse “sounder.”

It was again the same sound he had heard in Hampstead. Why? Had they, he wondered, been testing some instruments there—instruments bought of the dealer in Chalk Farm Road?

In the darkness he strained his ears. What he read by those dots and dashes amazed him. He stood aghast for a few moments.

Then, having listened intently to make quite certain that his discovery was an absolute fact, he stole quietly away, and walking back through the village, re-entered the taxi and drove back over to Poldhu.

His suspicions had been confirmed! Though it was very late when he arrived, he found Hamilton in his pretty bungalow, and told him of his strange discovery.

“You’ll take every precaution in secret, won’t you?” urged Falconer. “Nobody must know of this.”

“Trust me,” replied the engineer-in-charge, at once eager and ready.

“We’ve only to wait and be very watchful. There’s some clever game afoot, without a doubt,” Falconer said, and presently he went along the path to the hotel, and to bed, while Hamilton, even at that late hour, crossed to the transmission room for a final look round before retiring.

Next day Geoffrey, who confided his suspicions to Sylvia, became very active. Several hours he spent in the transmission room, where Cator, with the “Brown receivers” over his head, was very busy transmitting and receiving acknowledgments. Falconer was watching every message, and also spent much of his time in the adjoining room, where the land-line from Marconi House was constantly working.

A dozen times that morning he was in close consultation with Hamilton. Then, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, both drove in Hamilton’s car into Truro.

Till about half-past nine they waited at the hotel, when they drove out to Tregoney, and, leaving the car at the little inn, they both walked along to the village post-office, where, even though so late, they saw the postmaster and explained that they were awaiting an urgent telephone message from the wireless station at Poldhu. Hamilton having made himself known, the postmaster at once agreed to send along to the inn—only a few yards distant—and call them when they were wanted.

Then the pair returned to the inn and ordered supper. Scarcely were they halfway through it when the postmaster himself hurried in and announced that Poldhu was on the line.

Hamilton rose instantly and dashed out. Five minutes later he returned.

“All right!” he said breathlessly. “It’s just what you expected, Falconer. Henway, the chief constable of Truro, and four of his men are awaiting us just down the road.”

Together the pair went out into the darkness, and at the end of the village the chief constable came out from the shadows to join them. After a few words from Hamilton, the police official whistled softly, and from nowhere, apparently, four of his assistants appeared.

Then whispering softly all went along to Miss Trethowen’s house, and slipping one after the other into the garden, they surrounded it. This effected, Henway rang boldly at the door, but received no answer. There was no sign of the clicking of the Morse instrument. All was quiet. Thrice he rang, when at last the bolts were drawn, and the thin man, whom Falconer had seen in the Red Lion in Truro, cautiously opened the door.

Next second the police rushed in. Henway and Falconer were first inside, and turning into a room on the left of the hall, which was Miss Trethowen’s dining-room, they saw upon the table a most up-to-date Morse telegraph instrument with wires attached to it trailing along the red Turkey carpet and out of the window.

The commotion caused by the entry of the police was great. All four occupants of the house were utterly staggered when Henway ordered their arrest on a charge of tapping telegraph wires, the property of the Postmaster-General, and with the interference of the secrecy of messages.

The man Martin instantly showed fight, firing three revolver shots point-blank at Falconer, none of which, very fortunately, took effect. The fellow was, however, quickly overpowered, and all four were later on conveyed to Truro police-station and placed in the cells.

To cut short this narrative of the romance of wireless, it is sufficient to explain that, as was afterwards discovered, the man who called himself Martin was an expert French bank thief, who had committed many great swindles both in Europe and America. In this particular case he had succeeded in obtaining, under threats of blackmail from a hard-up bank-clerk in Madrid, a copy of the secret code used by the London office of the Estremadura Bank—a great Spanish banking corporation—when ordering telegraphic payments to be made from the head office in Madrid.

With his three associates, one of whom was an ex-telegraphist of the post-office at Aranjuez, near Madrid, Martin had come to England, having purposely followed Falconer from Paris, knowing him by repute as a Marconi engineer.

His movements had at first been closely followed, for the Metropolitan police had been warned of Martin’s arrival, and he had been shadowed to Hertford Road by a girl in the employ of Scotland Yard. But afterwards, so honest did the man appear, that the surveillance had been dropped, and it had remained to Geoffrey to investigate the plot.

Martin had, as it was afterwards proved, bought in Chalk Farm Road certain component parts of a very sensitive and up-to-date appliance for tapping the land-line from London to Poldhu, which runs from Plymouth to St. Austell, and past Miss Trethowen’s house to Truro and Poldhu.

By tapping the trunk telegraph wire that night Martin had been able, by a very ingenious arrangement which Falconer afterwards examined, to despatch an urgent message to Poldhu just as though it had been received over the counter in the office in Fenchurch Street, in London, and tapped out from Marconi House. Thus the conspirators had been able to interpose a false message which they intended should be sent by wireless from Poldhu to Madrid.

The whole plot was extremely cleverly conceived, for on that night, just before Hamilton rang up Poldhu, they had sent instructions in code presumably from the London office in Lombard Street to the head office in Madrid ordering the bank to pay to a certain Señor Alfonso Fonesca, living in the Calle Zorilla, in Madrid, the sum of thirteen thousand five hundred and eighty pounds sterling at the current rate of exchange.

Needless to record, the false message which had been so cleverly imposed upon the land-wire was never dispatched from Poldhu, for that night all messages had been suspect, and the one in question was held back.

At the time of writing, Martin—who at the Court Assizes at Bodmin was proved to be a Swiss subject—is serving a term of seven years’ penal servitude, as well as his three companions, all of whom were Belgians.

Happily the bogus message they sent from Tregoney did not, as they hoped, pass through the “Devil’s Oven” and out into Space. So the bank was saved a theft of nearly fourteen thousand pounds.

CHAPTER V

THE MYSTERY WIDOW

“ISN’T it a horrid nuisance, Geoffrey, Lord Hendlewycke has arrived!” exclaimed Sylvia Beverley as she stood with her lover on the terrace before the luxurious Hôtel Royal, at Dinard.

“Hendlewycke here!” exclaimed the young Marconi engineer in surprise. “Then I suppose it means that I’d better get back to London,” he said rather grimly.

“Isn’t it too bad of mother? She’s just told me that she wrote to the fellow asking him to join us on our motor trip to Touraine,” the pretty, dark-haired girl said petulantly. “I shall decline to go.”

“But you know the reason, dearest, just as I do,” said Falconer. “Your mother disapproves of us being so much together, and intends that you shall become Lady Hendlewycke.”

“I obey mother in all things—but I won’t marry Hendlewycke,” declared the girl decisively. “Of course he’s awfully useful to us socially. Through him we’ve got to know some of the very best people in London. Mother likes all that sort of thing, but personally he bores me.”

After Mrs. Beverley’s stay at Poldhu she had taken Sylvia on a motor tour. They had landed at Boulogne from Folkestone, and had had a beautiful run to Dinard, where Geoffrey, with three weeks’ leave due to him, had joined them a few days before.

Both mother and daughter were delighted with Dinard. It is a place which in summer appeals to the wealthy, with its luxurious hotels and gay casino, its smart world of bathing and dancing, and its expensive shops, most of them branches of the best establishments in Paris. There, in the Casino, on the plage or in the hotels, the haut-monde loves to rub shoulders with the demi-monde, and in these days it is, par excellence, the resort of the blatant war-profiteer and his fat, uncouth wife.

It was noon. The gay, cosmopolitan idlers of both sexes were either bathing or taking their apératif, or else wandering about the scrupulously clean streets and inspecting the shops.

Sylvia, in her cream summer gown and large hat, presented a delightful figure as, at her lover’s side, she wandered presently along the Rue du Casino, in order to buy some flowers for the table of their private sitting-room at the hotel.

The weather was glorious. It was warmer on what the French term the Emerald Coast than it had been in Cornwall, while the life and society was, indeed, a change from the rural quietude of Poldhu Cove.

Just as the pair were passing the entrance to the Casino, a stout, middle-aged, very smartly-dressed woman halted and spoke to Sylvia.

“Well, Madame Claudet!” the girl cried. “Why—how long have you been over in Europe?”

“About four months,” she replied, speaking broken English with a strong French accent. “My husband died, you know.”

“What?” exclaimed Sylvia. “Mr. Claudet dead!”

And for the first time she noticed that the lady was in mourning.

“He died of heart failure, suddenly—in the street in New York,” the rather handsome widow said. Then when Sylvia had expressed her condolence, she turned and introduced Geoffrey.

“I’m at the Hôtel des Terrasses,” Madame Claudet said to the girl. “Where are you staying?”

Sylvia told her, and begged her to call upon her mother that afternoon.

“We shall be so very delighted to see you again,” she added. “Mother has often spoken of you, and recalled our gay days together at Palm Beach.”

Madame promised to call, and then, when Sylvia and Geoffrey walked on, the girl said:

“Poor Madame Claudet! I’m so sorry! Her husband was a very wealthy man. They had a lot of valuable property, I believe, in Brazil. We knew her in Florida. I’m so glad we’ve come across her. I shall ask mother to invite her to go with us to Touraine.”

At luncheon Geoffrey met Lord Hendlewycke, whom, of course, he had known in London. All the men who went up and down St. James’s Street knew Hendlewycke as a very hard-up peer, who was glad to get dinners and luncheons at other people’s expense. How he lived nobody exactly knew, for he was believed not to possess the proverbial “bean.” Yet he was a bright optimist, with a fund of amusing anecdotes, and very popular with hostesses of all sorts.

In the afternoon the French widow called upon Mrs. Beverley, and was received with great enthusiasm. At tea Geoffrey met her again, and afterwards agreed with Sylvia that she was a most charming person. She had been born in the Alpes Maritimes, but had been taken to America by her parents when she was about eighteen, and had married a Mr. Claudet, an American, whose father had been French. Hence she possessed all the natural chic of the Frenchwoman, combined with the go-ahead characteristics of the American.

Next day, notwithstanding Sylvia’s appeal, Geoffrey left Dinard for London in response to a telegram he pretended had come from Marconi House. Mrs. Beverley, at heart, did not regret his departure, because she hoped that during the motor tour through the Côtes du Nord, Morbihan, and the Maine-et-Loire, which she had arranged, his lordship might propose to Sylvia.

Back again at the Marconi Works at Chelmsford, Geoffrey became immersed in his patient research into further wonders of wireless. He was engaged with others upon a new idea.

One day he had occasion to go from Chelmsford over to Witham, where there had just been established the new wireless station in direct communication with Paris. Witham is nine miles from Chelmsford, and, although messages from France are received upon the aerial wires there, the transmission is effected from the great aerial at the Chelmsford Works.

On that particular morning he had been in the transmission room at Chelmsford, watching the huge panel with its big array of great illuminated globes—the transmission-valves for continuous waves—and chatting with Mr. Drew, the shrewd, dark-haired engineer in grey tweeds, who was, perhaps, the world’s greatest expert in wireless telephony. In the big hall, full of wonderful apparatus and huge condensers—the result of many scientific brains—the pair had been watching the relay work, the rapid dots and dashes from the key at Witham, and then, in consultation, they had agreed upon a still further diagram that might perhaps give better results.

In consequence, Falconer had gone over to Witham, leaving the ever-watchful Mr. Drew with his powerful transmission-set, with which he had a short time before spoken across the Atlantic, and to Senatore Marconi while on board his yacht in the Mediterranean—the set which he regarded with as much tenderness as though it were his own child—as, indeed, it really was.

That wonderful display of apparatus was but the germ of a revolution in the transmission of speech. It was purely experimental, and was now being used, not for long-distance telephony, but for the exchange of Morse signals with Paris—sent automatically at such a speed as to be unreadable by any listener.

The inner room was a hive of industry. Upon the operating bench was a “siphon recorder”—a delicate instrument which was actually writing, by means of a kind of fountain pen, upon the paper “tape” the dots and dashes sent automatically at a speed of one hundred words a minute. The pen never left the paper, but rose up and down, making short or long strokes in violet ink on the upper side of the paper, and was one of the latest marvels of delicate wireless instruments.

Geoffrey glanced at it casually. It clicked on continuously night and day in response to the automatic hand of the transmitter in Paris tapping his key.

“The Frenchmen are keeping us very busy,” Graham remarked. “Look! We’re overwhelmed, but up at the Fenchurch Street office it must be worse.”

Geoffrey nodded For some seconds he watched the “recorder” at work, and then presently he and Graham sat down at the receiving set and began to discuss where an improvement would possibly be made. They were seated close to the “recorder,” when presently, through mere force of habit, Geoffrey, even while chatting with Graham, found himself reading the incoming messages. Suddenly there became recorded on the tape in that curious crooked writing the words, “Marguerite Claudet.”

Claudet? In a moment he recollected that it was the name of the wealthy widow to whom Sylvia had introduced him in Dinard. He took the tape, and reading back, found that the message, which had been dispatched from Paris half an hour before, was addressed to a person named Mildmay, apparently living in chambers in Ryder Street, London, and that it was in code—a jumble of figures and letters.

At first, the origin of the message being Paris, Geoffrey merely smiled within himself at the similarity of the name, and recollected the seal of secrecy regarding all messages. But a few moments later, he recollected that Mrs. Beverley had addressed her friend as “dear Margot.” For aught he knew the lady was motoring with Mrs. Beverley on their trip to the ancient châteaux on the Loire.

Before leaving Dinard, Sylvia had given him the Hôtel de l’Univers, at Tours, as their central address while in Touraine. At that time Madame Claudet, though invited to join the motoring party, had not decided whether to accept. In Falconer’s presence she had declared that she would be compelled to go to Paris to see her bankers upon some matter of business from South America.

The message to Mildmay was evidently a private prearranged jumble of figures and letters, the whole perhaps meaning but one word, “yes” or “no.” Such codes are by far the most difficult to decipher.

Next day, so interested did he become in the message through space, which had, of course, been delivered to the addressee, that he telegraphed to Sylvia at Tours asking whether Madame Claudet was with them, but begging that she should not be told of his inquiry.

The reply came in due course. Madame Claudet had been on business to Paris, and had just rejoined them at Tours. Naturally, Sylvia asked the reason of his inquiry, to which he replied by wire that he would tell her when next they met.

He had, however, established the fact that the rich widow had been in Paris, and it certainly seemed as if the message he had noticed upon the green recording tape was really from her.

For the next few days he was extremely busy over at Witham, assisting in getting the London-Paris service going more smoothly. The most delicate adjustment of the instruments is necessary in wireless stations when at first fitted, for the apparatus is so often liable to unaccountable freaks and interruptions, each of which must be methodically overcome until the service is brought to perfection.

The apparatus at Witham, having at last been tuned up to the highest pitch, Geoffrey suddenly received orders to go down and make some adjustments at the big transatlantic station high up above Carnarvon, in North Wales.

For two days he remained there, and then returned to Warley, where the Professor was still busy upon his monumental book.

Alone with his private wireless set at one o’clock in the morning, the puzzle of that curious cipher message from the widow obsessed him. He wore the low-resistance telephones over his ears, and was listening to Poldhu sending out the day’s news to ships at sea. It was better than reading the evening papers, for here one had news in tabloid form, the news which was printed next morning upon all the transatlantic liners.

“By Jove, I will!” he exclaimed aloud to himself, after listening to a declaration made by Mr. Lloyd George to M. Briand, and reported by the Paris Matin. He removed the head-’phones, and then muttered to himself:

“I wonder who this man Mildmay can be? I’ll find out. It will be interesting—if nothing else. Yet somehow—why, I don’t know—I took an instinctive dislike to Madame Claudet. Yet there was really no reason for it as far as I could see, and she appeared to be quite charming.”

And he switched off, and retired to bed.

Two days later, having occasion to go up to Marconi House, he snatched an hour and went to Ryder Street. As he anticipated, the place was a set of bachelor’s chambers. The liftman became communicative after a ten-shilling note had been pressed into his hand.

“Well, sir,” he said in a low voice, “the fact is that I don’t know very much about Mr. Mildmay. Lord Bamford let his rooms to him about six months ago, and he seems to be away quite a lot. I forward his letters to Paris, Vienna, Rome, and other places. He is a constant traveller. He must have business abroad, I think.”

“Does he have any lady friends calling upon him?”

“No. Never to my knowledge, sir. He’s simply a gay, irresponsible sort of man. Dines out every night either with people in smart society or at one of the expensive restaurants. A bit of a mystery, I think.”

“Why a mystery? What do you suspect?” asked Geoffrey eagerly as they stood together conversing in low tones against the lift.

“Well, about a week ago a little old man—a foreigner with a grey beard—came here and questioned me closely. At first I refused to tell him anything. He went away. Later in the evening he called again, and together we went round into the Haymarket and we had a drink or two. I told him what I knew, and—well!—he seemed much interested—very much interested.”

“In what way?” asked Falconer.

“Well, I may as well be frank with you. He offered me twenty pounds if I would loan him the duplicate key of the flat which my wife has in order to go in and out to see to things for him. He has no meals here, but his bedroom has to be seen to each day.”

“Twenty pounds! Then the little old foreigner was very eager to see inside. I wonder why?”

“Yes. That’s in my mind. I haven’t accepted the money, and I don’t know that I shall. Mr. Mildmay treats me as a gentleman, and I don’t see why I should go behind his back—especially with a foreigner. He must be a gentleman, or Lord Bamford would never have let his rooms to him.”

“Does Mr. Mildmay have many visitors?”

“Only two or three men who are intimate friends. I think he may be an inventor—or an electrical engineer.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because sometimes when I go past the door at night, I hear the whirr of the little motor in the flat.”

“Oh! There’s an electric motor there—is there?”

“Yes, in the scullery—it’s run off the electric light current.”

“Do you ever hear any metallic clicks or sharp fizzles and noises?” Falconer asked.

“No. Nothing—only the motor. A little half-horse affair run off the house current. When I was in the army I had a lot to do with small dynamos.”

“What can it be used for?”

“Ah! I can’t tell. He keeps his sitting-room always closed. He’s put a Yale lock on it. And my missus is always wondering why.”

Geoffrey Falconer scented mystery.

“What does he want a motor in his flat for?”

“That I can’t tell you. He’s a generous man. I’ll give him credit for that. But somehow I don’t like his mysterious electric plant.”

Half an hour later the liftman’s wife, on pretence of going to Mildmay’s room to see that all was straight, admitted Falconer, who had a good look round. He examined the half-horse electric motor, and found to it attached two high-tension wires through the wall into the locked room.

“That’s his lordship’s dining-room,” said the stout, youngish woman. “I can’t think why Mr. Mildmay keeps it locked up so securely. Sometimes I think I smell a funny smell, like paint, but I’m not quite certain. It may be my fancy. Mr. Mildmay is out golfing at Berkhampstead to-day.”

Falconer passed into the sitting-room, when the first object that greeted him was a cabinet photograph of Madame Claudet!

He had not been mistaken. What connection could the rich Chicago widow have with the man who kept his dining-room locked with a Yale latch?

The mystery deepened. A problem was presented which to Geoffrey Falconer was fascinating. Madame was rich and well known in society. What possible connection could she have with that man in England—the man to whom she had sent a message in cipher. Cipher telegrams are quite admissible in official correspondence, and also in business, but when used for private communication are always suspect—except perhaps between lovers.

“I’d like to see Mr. Mildmay,” Geoffrey told the porter, who, in reply, declared that the gentleman usually came home about six o’clock, dressed, and then went out to his club for dinner.

So just before six o’clock Falconer returned to Ryder Street and watched the entrance of the chambers. He had waited for ten minutes or so when a well-dressed fair-haired man of about forty, in golf clothes, alighted from a taxi and, carrying his clubs, went inside. Then, a second later, the liftman appeared in the doorway, and gave the arranged signal that he was the person Falconer desired to see.

There was certainly nothing suspicious about Mr. Mildmay’s appearance. He was an ordinary man of leisure, who had been out in the country golfing.

Day by day, Geoffrey’s work taking him to Witham, he was able from time to time to glance at the rapidly moving pen of the “recorder.” He was wondering if any more messages of mystery would come through from the American widow. Each day he looked at the register of wireless messages received from Paris, but the name of Mildmay did not appear. He told nobody of the suspicion which had arisen in his mind. As a servant of the Marconi Company, he, like servants of the Post-Office, was sworn to preserve the secrecy of messages, and this he did. He merely watched and waited, even without telling his father.

Yet somehow—why, he could not himself tell—he felt that he would like to see more of the widow’s mysterious friend. With that object he one night put on his dinner clothes, and waited in Ryder Street until Mildmay appeared, when he followed him unseen to a small and cosy restaurant in Jermyn Street. Scarcely had Mildmay taken his seat at a table against the wall when Geoffrey also entered and took a seat near him, pretending, of course, to take no interest in anything further than the menu which the waiter handed him.

Mildmay apparently told the waiter that he was expecting friends, for the man swiftly laid two extra places, and he had hardly finished when two middle-aged men entered, greeted their friend, and took their seats. Their appearance surprised Falconer, for they were flashily-attired, and evidently not of the same class as himself.

In a few moments all three were bending towards each other. One of the new-comers was apparently relating something in a low, confidential tone, and when he had finished, the trio burst into loud, triumphant laughter. Then it did not take long to realise that they were celebrating some occasion, for champagne was soon upon the table and they commenced an expensive meal.

Time after time Falconer endeavoured to catch some word of the conversation, but failed. Yet, whoever the men were, he felt instinctively that they were West End undesirables. After their dinner, they strolled together into St. James’s Street, where Mildmay parted from them and turned towards Pall Mall, while the pair went on into Piccadilly. After walking some distance they entered a bar in Vine Street; yet Geoffrey dare not go in after them for fear of being recognised. Nevertheless, he had ascertained that Mr. Mildmay kept rather curious company.

A couple of days later Falconer, glancing at the register of messages passing between Paris and London, saw that during the night another message for Mildmay had been received. He referred to the tape record, and found that it was in code, as before, rather longer, that it had been dispatched from Tours, and was signed by the initials “M. C.”

That same evening he called again upon the liftman in Ryder Street, and inquired if the electric motor had been running.

“I haven’t heard it for quite a fortnight now, sir,” replied the man. “Last night Mr. Mildmay had two friends here: one man in grey, and the other in a blue suit. Both were middle-aged.”

Geoffrey at once described the two men who had dined with Mildmay in Jermyn Street.

“Yes. That’s them, sir. Shady customers, I should take ’em to be.”

“Just my own opinion,” declared Falconer. “But I’d dearly love to know why the dining-room is kept locked, and the reason that half-horse power motor is there.”

“So would I, sir,” laughed the man. “But, after all, I expect the explanation would be quite simple. I’ve wondered whether he’s experimenting with something or other. At one place I was at we had the same mysteriously locked room. But it turned out that the tenant was a doctor, and was experimenting with the culture of the bacteria of deadly diseases. And that was why he kept the door locked.”

“This case we shall find different,” Falconer remarked. “I don’t at all like the appearance of Mr. Mildmay’s friends. I shall probably come and see you again very soon,” he added, as, pressing a Treasury note into the man’s hand, he turned and left.

On the following Friday, in response to a letter he received from Sylvia saying that Lord Hendlewycke had gone suddenly to Switzerland, and telling him her mother would much like to see him to accompany them in the car on their return journey across France to Boulogne, he obtained a week’s leave, and duly arrived at the Hôtel de l’Univers, at Tours.

On alighting the concierge informed him that the ladies were out motoring, but an hour later he met them on their return, and received a warm welcome. His main object in travelling to Touraine was to meet again Madame Claudet.

“Ah, Mr. Falconer!” she exclaimed, with her pretty French accent, as they shook hands. “Sylvia expected you yesterday. We’ve been having, oh!—such a delightful time.”

“Yes. It has been real interesting,” said Mrs. Beverley. “We’ve been all over Brittany, and now we’ve seen nearly everyone of the châteaux of the Loire.” Then turning to Madame, she said: “Come on, Margot, dear. It’s time we got upstairs to dress.”

From the first Geoffrey realised that the two ladies were on most affectionate terms. They, indeed, addressed each other by their Christian names. And he wondered.

Madame Claudet looked strikingly handsome as she sat that night at dinner, dressed in a very smart, low-cut black gown trimmed with silver, with a silver ornament in her hair. Sylvia, too, looked charming, in a flimsy dance frock of pale-grey.

As they sat together Mrs. Beverley explained their programme, namely, to return by way of Blois, Orleans and Fontainebleau, to see the forest and the château, and thence skirting Paris by Versailles, Beauvais, Abbeville, and Boulogne. That was agreed upon, and later in the evening Geoffrey went out with Sylvia for a stroll beneath the trees in the pleasant Boulevard Heurteloup.

“I had a dreadful time with Hendlewycke,” the girl said as they strolled together. “He bored me to death, and I fear I became very rude to him in the end. That’s why he made an excuse and went off in a huff to Switzerland. Of course,” she added, “mother was furious, but now she’s getting over it. I believe we shall never see him again.”

“Don’t make too sure, dearest,” her lover said. “Remember, he’s after money, and he thinks he’ll get it through you. Lady Hendlewycke! How very nice it would sound!” he added tantalisingly.

“Geoff, you’re horrid!” declared the girl, pouting.

“I suppose you find Madame Claudet a very pleasant companion?” Falconer went on, walking slowly, for the evening was bright, and under the trees many people were enjoying the cool air after the heat of an oppressive day.

“Yes. She’s so awfully jolly.”

“Has she been with you all the time since I left you?”

“Except when she went to Paris. She left Dinard suddenly, and was only away about fifteen hours. She’s such a rapid traveller. I fancy I should have been half dead with fatigue if I had done such a journey in that time. She could have had only about a couple of hours in Paris to do the business.”

“With her bankers—was it not?”

“Yes—with the Paris agent of her bank. She’s been selling some property in Brazil. She’s such a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan—and mother is charmed with her. She is coming to stay with us in London.”

“Excellent!” the young man exclaimed, reflecting, however, upon those strange messages to that mysterious man in Ryder Street. “Your mother seems devoted to madame,” he went on.

“Yes. But she’s really awfully good fun. Besides, speaking French as she does, she’s been most useful to us on our tour. I really don’t know what we should have done without her.”

“And yet you only knew her slightly.”

“Yes. But we knew a lot about her. Wasn’t it strange that we met her at Dinard? We shall have a lovely run across to Boulogne. I suppose it will take us a week or more,” the girl went on. “To-morrow we are going to take you to see the Château of Chinon. You recollect in one of your letters you said you would like to see it. We were there last Wednesday week. So we’re going again to-morrow.”

She went on to ask him the reason he had wired about Madame Claudet, but Falconer successfully evaded her many inquiries.

On the following morning, with the three ladies, Geoffrey was driven along the thirty miles or so of delightful road to the ancient and obscure little town, with its narrow crooked streets, the pretty Vienne river, the historic, old-world place dominated by its three wonderful châteaux: that of St. Georges, built by Henry II of England, the Milieu, and the Coudray, in which lived Joan of Arc—the three forming one great fortress.

The guardian took them around the three castles, to the three towers of Boissy, with its fine Salle des Gardes, and lastly to the three-storeyed prison tower, of which so many terrible stories of mediæval tortures are told. Afterwards they lunched at the old Boule d’Or, down on the Quai Jeanne d’Arc, and then drove to Chenonceux on the road back to Tours, to visit the charming little château—one of the most unique of all Touraine, and which at that moment was in the possession of a well-known American who had bought it from the French Government.

Next day the four set out on the return journey to London. Before leaving the Univers, however, a very unpleasant incident occurred. Geoffrey had paid his bill with a thousand-franc note which he had obtained from the bank in London before his departure and had received the change. Just, however, as he was entering the car to leave, the manager came to him hurriedly and asked him to step into the bureau for a moment. There the note he had given was shown him, and declared to be counterfeit!

Geoffrey stood stupefied, while the manager waxed very angry, declaring that since the war France had been flooded by spurious money brought there and changed by foreigners. Falconer declared his innocence, apologised, and was about to take back the note, when the manager in fury retained it to forward to the Bank of France for destruction. So he was compelled to pay his bill a second time, and also to lose forty pounds or so.

Then, feeling very crestfallen, he rejoined the ladies, without, however, letting them know what had occurred.

That night they stopped at the Hôtel Moderne, at Orleans, and after dinner Geoffrey, without telling them of the incident at Tours, warned them to be on their guard against spurious French bank notes.

“Oh, yes,” said Madame Claudet. “I have heard that recently great quantities of forged notes have been passed all over France. Somebody told me they are being made in Spain. One has to be always on the look-out for them. It would be so annoying to pass one in innocence.”

“Indeed, one could very easily fall into the hands of the police,” exclaimed Mrs. Beverley. “I had a most unpleasant time in Dinard. I bought that little butterfly brooch at a jeweller’s close to the casino, and paid for it, when, to my horror, the man said that one of the notes—one for five hundred francs—was a forgery.”

“What did you do, my dear?” asked madame.

“Do? Well, I felt a perfect fool. I tore the note up and gave the man another.”

“You never told me that, mother,” Sylvia remarked.

“No, dear. I felt too angry about it. So I didn’t tell anyone. It occurred four days before we left Dinard.”

It was upon the tip of Geoffrey’s tongue to relate his own experience at Tours, but he hesitated.

The run next day to Fontainebleau was glorious, and indeed the whole trip across to Boulogne was in most delightful weather, and they all thoroughly enjoyed it. At Boulogne they left the car to be brought to London by the chauffeur, and caught the next boat across to Folkestone and so on to London.

Geoffrey’s leave was up, so he had to be at the Works at Chelmsford on the following day. He seized the opportunity to run over to Witham, and there discovered that during his absence Mr. Mildmay had received two further cipher telegrams, one sent from Fontainebleau, and one from Beauvais, both signed “M. C.”

Now in his many conversations with the handsome widow she had never mentioned that she had any friend in London. On the contrary, on the night they had stopped at Abbeville, while they were dining at the old Tête de Bœuf, she had exclaimed across the table to Mrs. Beverley:

“It really is most sweet of you, dear, to put me up in London. I know nobody there nowadays. I’ve been away so long.”

She made no mention of the man who occupied those expensive chambers in Ryder Street, and as far as Geoffrey knew the pair had never met. Naturally, the young wireless engineer was often at Mrs. Beverley’s house, and his own observations, combined with what Sylvia told him, made it apparent to him that Madame Claudet was a most extravagant woman.

“We are out every night somewhere,” the girl said. “And madame will never allow us to pay a farthing. She must be very rich, for she’s ordered eight new frocks from Lucille’s.”

“She has no friends in London, has she?” Falconer asked casually.

“She didn’t have any when she arrived, but, of course, she now knows one or two people to whom we’ve introduced her.”

On the following day another curious telegram came through the wireless station at Witham. Dispatched from Marseilles, it had been sent across by wireless from Paris, and was addressed to Mildmay. It was in plain language, and read: “Urgent that Marguerite should come over. The change would do her good.—Jules.”

This puzzled Geoffrey more than ever. Why was madame wanted urgently at Marseilles, and what hidden meaning was contained in the declaration that the change would do her good? He was very anxious to ascertain if she ever met the mysterious Mildmay, and for that purpose he went to London one evening and again saw his friend the liftman.

No lady had visited Mr. Mildmay to his knowledge. She certainly might have called when he was off duty.

Hence Falconer determined to watch again, and after the lapse of several weary evenings, he one night followed Mildmay to the Savoy, where, just before supper-time, he took a seat in the lounge and idly lit a cigarette.

Ten minutes later Geoffrey saw standing at the head of the short flight of stairs the familiar figure of Madame Claudet, wearing a gorgeous theatre wrap. Her quick eye recognised Mildmay; therefore she went to take off her wrap, and a few moments later joined him.

From a distance Falconer watched them closely. Mildmay’s greeting appeared the reverse of cordial, for on his face was an angry, morose expression. After a brief conversation, they passed into the supper-room, where, in order to escape recognition, Geoffrey was forced to leave them. But he had established the fact of their secret friendship.

Next evening when he went to Upper Brook Street he found Sylvia alone, her mother having gone to the theatre with madame.

“Isn’t it a shame!” she remarked. “Madame Claudet has to go to Paris the day after to-morrow—on some of her horrid banking business again. Mother has introduced her to her bank in Pall Mall, so that she has an account in London, therefore these journeys will be avoided in future.”

Geoffrey, who had not allowed either Mrs. Beverley or her daughter to suspect his doubt concerning the handsome widow, agreed, and expressed a hope that the lady would soon return.

Next day, having to be at Marconi House, he snatched off a few hours in the afternoon, and succeeded in watching madame leave Upper Brook Street alone, and following her to Ryder Street, where she called upon Mildmay. It was very apparent, by the timid way she slipped into the doorway of the chambers, that she feared being watched. Why?

She remained there for about half an hour, when, emerging, the liftman hailed a taxi for her and she drove to Upper Brook Street.

Geoffrey was perplexed why the mysterious Jules in Marseilles should be so concerned regarding madame’s health. Hence he determined to watch her movements closely until she should leave Victoria. That night he did not return to Warley, but slept at his club, and at ten o’clock next morning idled unseen at the corner of Upper Brook Street, in case she should come forth. He had ascertained that she was leaving Victoria at midday.

At about half-past ten madame came out alone, carrying her handsome gold-mounted handbag, and in Grosvenor Square she hailed a taxi, in which she drove to a bank in Pall Mall, in order, no doubt, to obtain money for her journey.

She remained within about ten minutes or so, then, re-entering the taxi, she drove back to her hostess’s house.

A quarter of an hour later Geoffrey called to wish the gay widow au revoir, and Mrs. Beverley invited him to stay to luncheon. At about half-past eleven madame left for Victoria, her hostess going in the car to the station to see her off. Hence Sylvia and her lover were left together.

Geoffrey Falconer had become disappointed and ill at ease, for the mystery concerning the widow still remained unsolved.

Mrs. Beverley returned, and they had luncheon together, the young wireless engineer remaining all the afternoon.

Just as they were seated at tea, Shaw, the footman, brought a card to his mistress, who glanced at it, and said:

“Oh! It’s Mr. Elton! I wonder why he wants to see me? Ask him in here.”

The man bowed, and a few moments later a tall, clean-shaven business man was ushered in. In a second it was plain that he was considerably perturbed.

“Mrs. Beverley,” he said, glancing at Sylvia and Geoffrey, “I am very sorry to disturb you with a most unpleasant matter. May I see you alone?”

“Unpleasant matter!” gasped the South American woman. “What do you mean? Whatever you have to say can be said right here.”

“You have a Madame Claudet staying with you. You introduced her to me, and she opened a small account at our bank,” he said. “Well—I may as well tell you that I have the police outside, and I am here to give her into custody!”

Mrs. Beverley stood open-mouthed.

“Custody!” she gasped. “For what?”

“She called at the bank this morning, and changed seventy-four thousand five-hundred francs in French notes for English notes. These were, at noon, sent along to the head office in Lombard Street, where they have been found to be marvellously clever forgeries!”

“Impossible!” declared Mrs. Beverley, utterly staggered.

“Alas! it is only too true. The bank has lost nearly three thousand pounds.”

Then Mrs. Beverley, having explained how her late guest had left for Paris that morning, refused to believe that she could be guilty of any such fraud.

Here Geoffrey interrupted, and related how he had unconsciously endeavoured to pass a forged note at Tours, and he recalled to her mind the incident at the jewellers in Dinard. Both those circumstances pointed to the fact that the woman had taken from the purses of both Geoffrey and her hostess real notes, substituting false ones, with the idea of watching whether they would be passed or not.

“I would like a word with the police,” Geoffrey added, and with the bank manager he left the ladies to recover from their sudden shock.

In the library he saw the detective-inspector, and briefly related the mysterious messages received by Mr. Mildmay, and the circumstance of the electric motor and the locked room.

Within half an hour a priority telegram had been sent by wireless by Scotland Yard to the commissary of police at the Gare du Nord, in Paris, to arrest madame on her arrival, while a visit to Mr. Mildmay’s chambers revealed in the locked room a perfect plant for the reproduction of French and Spanish bank notes of various denominations, the most scientific and complete ever found in the possession of bank-note forgers.

Two hours later, when Mildmay returned, he found himself suddenly in the hands of the police, and both he and madame—who was not a widow at all, but his wife who had been distributing forged French and Spanish notes all over Europe, and reaping a rich harvest—later on received exemplary sentences at the Old Bailey.

CHAPTER VI

THE CLOVEN HOOF

“IT should be quite a pleasant trip for you, Falconer,” remarked the little, middle-aged, well-dressed man who was one of his superiors, as they sat together in a room in the Engineering Section at Marconi House on a bright October afternoon. “The plant went out from the works at Chelmsford three months ago, and we have been advised that it has all arrived in Hungary, or I suppose they call it Czecho-Slovakia now, and it is lying at the station at Arad.”

“I will do my best,” replied Geoffrey, greatly delighted at the instructions he had just been given, namely, to proceed to Hungary to erect two complete one-and-a-half kilowatt stations for continuous-wave telegraphy and telephony. “I have never been in Hungary, and it will, no doubt, be interesting.”

“It will. I’d dearly like to go with you,” laughed Mr. Millard, one of the best-known of wireless engineers. “The sets have been purchased by the Baron de Pelzel, on behalf of the new Government of Czecho-Slovakia, and one of the conditions of the contract provides that we should send out an engineer to erect the stations.”

“Will anyone go with me?” asked Geoffrey.

“No. There is, I think, no need. I myself looked through the instruments before they were packed. All is in order. You can employ local labour. There are surely some quite good electricians in Hungary. The first station is to be erected somewhere near Arad—wherever that may be—and the other in some other part of Hungary. We thought you would like an opportunity to go abroad.”

Geoffrey thanked the chief of his department, and then, after receiving a number of other instructions, he went down in the lift and out into the busy Strand.

Half an hour later he was at Mrs. Beverley’s.

“Hulloa, Geoff!” cried Sylvia as he entered the room. “Where have you sprung from? I thought of you down at Chelmsford with your uncomfortable old telephones on your ears, turning little handles very slowly, and listening! Oh, Geoff, you look so funny sometimes when you listen! You look as if your whole life depended upon it,” added the girl chaffingly.

“And so it does, dear. At least my bread-and-cheese depends upon it.”

“Why, the other day Colonel Maybury, of the Air Ministry, told me that your improved amplifier will probably bring you a comfortable fortune in royalties!”

The keen, smooth-haired young fellow shrugged his shoulders, and replied:

“I only hope it will. We wireless men are never optimists, you know. We always look for failure first. Success surprises us, and bucks us up. When one is dealing with a science which is in its infancy one must first look for failure.”

“My dear Geoffrey, as I’ve said before, you are so horribly philosophic about things,” she declared with a laugh.

At that moment her mother entered, and invited Geoffrey to stay to dinner en famille. The ladies, however, put on dance frocks, for they were due at Lady Waterden’s at nine o’clock. So about that hour, after Falconer had told them of his impending journey to Hungary, he saw them into the car and then walked to the corner of Grosvenor Square, where he took a taxi to Liverpool Street and caught the train to Warley.

At the Works at Chelmsford next day he was handed a copy of a letter from the Baron de Pelzel, who had purchased the installations on behalf of the Government of Czecho-Slovakia. It was a private letter dated from the Schloss Nyék, in Transylvania, recalling the fact that all the plant had already arrived at Arad, and asking the Marconi Company to send their engineer to Budapest as soon as possible, where he would meet him at the Ritz Hotel and consult with him.

A week later Falconer left London—after an affectionate farewell to Sylvia—and travelling by the Orient express by way of Paris, Wels, and Vienna, duly arrived at the Hungarian capital. The moment he entered the taxi to drive to the Ritz—that hôtel de luxe overlooking the Danube—a great change was apparent in what was once the gayest city in Europe. The war had brought disaster upon the unfortunate Hungarians, who, owing to the terribly low rate of exchange, and the difficulty of food imports, were now half-starving.

As in the late afternoon Geoffrey went from the station along the wide handsome street half the shops were closed, and the passers-by were mostly thin-faced, ill-dressed and shabby.

At the hotel a brave show of luxury was made, and naturally the charges were high—in Austrian coinage. The price asked for a room with bathroom adjoining was enormous, but when he calculated it in English money at the current rate of exchange it was about two shillings and sixpence a night!

He inquired at the bureau if the Baron de Pelzel had arrived, and received an affirmative reply. The Baron and his niece had gone out motoring to Szajol, a place on the River Tisza, and would return about six. He had left that message for Geoffrey.

About half-past six a waiter came to Falconer’s room asking him to go along to the Baron’s sitting-room, which was on the same floor. This he did, and there met a tall, well-built, very elegant, brown-bearded man of about forty, with a round, merry, fresh-complexioned face and a pair of dark, humorous eyes.

He welcomed Falconer in very good English and at once introduced him to his niece, Françoise Biringer, a tall, rather slim, dark-eyed girl, very smartly attired, who spoke to him in French. Apparently she knew but very little English.

Then when the girl had gone to dress for dinner, the two men sat down and discussed the business in hand.

The Baron seemed an extremely affable and cultured man, as so many Hungarians are. He lived mostly in Paris, he explained, but since the war he had assisted his Government in various matters.

“I hope you will have an enjoyable time, Mr. Falconer,” he went on. “When I was at Marconi House they told me they would send out an expert engineer to fit both stations and get them going. How far do you think I can speak over the set they have sent me?”

“Speech should carry from seven hundred to nine hundred miles—perhaps more under favourable conditions, but Morse signals will carry very much further.”

The Baron seemed highly satisfied.

“You see, my Government is greatly interested in certain mining enterprises, and it is my plan to set up two wireless stations on either side of Hungary, so that we can conduct rapid business from one zone of operation to the other, and also with Budapest when we so desire. But,” he added, “it is annoying that the plant should have been sent to Arad. There must have been some mistake. I went to Arad last week and saw the railway people there. It has already been passed on to its proper destination. But I do not expect it will arrive for a week or even ten days, so during that time I hope you will honour me by being my guest here, as well as during the time you are engaged in fitting the installation.”

“I shall require assistance,” Geoffrey said. “Do you happen to know of, say, two good electricians whom I could engage as assistants?”

“I will inquire,” replied the Baron. “No doubt we can find two good men who, during the war, were engaged in radio-telegraphy.”

Afterwards Geoffrey, well-impressed by the genial Baron, returned to dress for dinner, and later on took a perfectly cooked meal with his elegant and courteous host and his niece. The young man found the pretty Françoise extremely interesting. They discussed many things at table, new books, new plays, and, of course, the terrible havoc of the war.

The Baron was pro-British in all his remarks. He deplored the ridiculous weakness of the poor old doddering Emperor Franz-Josef, who, as every one knew, was beneath the thumb of a wily adventuress, and with vehemence declared: “We were always Britain’s friends. We should never have opposed her. Look at our poor Hungary now! Only ruin and starvation! Until we can recover ourselves we shall be at the mercy of any of the petty Powers who make themselves so conspicuous and obnoxious at the eternal pourparlers presided over by your Premier. We want peace, Mr. Falconer,” cried the Baron furiously. “Peace, and with it renewed prosperity. But there!” he added. “Pardon me! I apologise. Françoise knows that this constant casting of dust in the eyes of our poor starving people goads me to the point of fury.”

Even though Hungary was in such evil case, and half the population were starving, yet at that hotel people—many of them war-profiteers as in London—dined expensively, danced, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. To them it mattered not how freely the bones of the poor rattled, or how many children died daily of sheer starvation. They had money—and with it they bought merriment and “life.”

After dinner the Baron’s car took them down the Nagy-Korut—the Great Boulevard—to the Folies Caprice, where they spent the evening at an excellent variety performance.

That night when Geoffrey retired to his room he was fully satisfied with the warm reception and generosity of the Baron, and charmed with the chic and verve of his pretty niece Françoise, who seemed to have spent most of her life in Paris, where her father had an apartment close to the Étoile.

Next day the Baron invited the young radio-engineer to have a run in the Mercedes, and the rather morose Frenchman, Lebon, who drove, took them out to Tepla, a very beautiful spot with warm springs that have been visited for centuries by the Hungarian nobility. They lunched at the Sina-haz, one of the many excellent hotels, and ran back through Trencsen, where they pulled up to find the “Lovers’ Well.”

After an inquiry from the Baron, who alone spoke the Hungarian tongue, they discovered it just outside the village, within the confines of the ruin of a Roman castle—a well dug in the rock.

The Baron and the peasant who conducted them to it had a short chat. Then Françoise’s uncle turned to them, and explained in French:

“A most curious story this good man tells. It seems that centuries ago a young Turk of high rank and family offered a large ransom for his bride, who was in captivity in this castle. But the lord of the castle, Stephen Zapolya, demanded as the price of her release that her lover should dig a well through the rock. After seven years’ hard work the well was completed, and the spring is to this day called the ‘Lovers’ Well.’”

With Françoise, Geoffrey peered down into the pitch darkness, and saw that it was really cut in the rock. As they did so, their hands came into contact. Indeed, she grasped his instinctively as they stood together at the edge of the deep well.

Then she withdrew her hand quickly with a word of apology, and ten minutes later they were in the car back upon the broad highway which led to Budapest.

The autumn days passed very pleasantly. Living so much in Paris, as he had done of late, the Baron, apparently, had but few friends in Budapest. He, however, had much business to attend to in the daytime on behalf of his Government, hence Falconer and the Baron’s pretty niece were thrown constantly into each other’s society.

She was a smart girl, full of a keen sense of humour, and possessing all the verve of the true Parisienne. She knew Budapest, of course, and acted as Geoffrey’s guide in the city, but her heart was always in Paris. She regarded the Hungarians as an uncouth race.

Her mother had been French, she told him one day. She had, alas! died two years ago. But she had induced her father to take the flat in Paris rather than remain in the wilds of Hungary.

More than once Falconer wrote to Sylvia telling her of the society junketings in Budapest, while the city starved. Each night they dined expensively and went either to the opera, or to the Vigszinhas to see comedy; to the Fortress, or the People’s Theatre. They also went to the Arena in the Town Park, the performances at which were quite as good as in pre-war days.

One evening as Geoffrey sat in the palm court of the Ritz with Françoise, she exclaimed suddenly in French: “I think we go to-morrow or the next day. My uncle was with Count Halmi this afternoon, and they were speaking of it. All the wireless apparatus has arrived at Zenta.”

“Zenta? Where is that?” asked Geoffrey, removing his cigarette, for the pair were alone together in a corner of the lounge. Françoise looked very pretty in a jade-coloured dance frock, for a dance to weird Tsigane music was to commence in the great ballroom in half an hour.

“Zenta! Why, don’t you know? Has not the Baron told you? It is his estate right away on the other side of Hungary—near the Russian frontier. I confess that it is out of the world, and I do hope you will not be bored to death there!”

“No doubt I shall not; I have my work to do,” laughed the well-set-up young Englishman, for he was really having a most enjoyable time.

Hence he was not surprised when two days later his host, the Baron, departed for the Schloss Zenta.

In the express between Budapest and Debrechen, on the line which leads out to the Polish frontier, the Baron, lolling lazily in the corner of the first-class compartment, remarked in English:

“I hope, Mr. Falconer, you have not been disappointed with Budapest. Unfortunately I have had so many official affairs to attend to. We shall be at home at Zenta to-night. I fear it may be very dull for you, as it is far away up in the mountains. I only yesterday received word that all your apparatus has arrived there.”

“What height is it?” Geoffrey asked, as he was concerned with the height of his aerial wires.

“I hardly know,” the Baron laughed. “I’ve never tested it with an aneroid. No doubt you will. It is high, and that is why I thought it would suit you, because I’ve always understood that aerial wires for wireless are best on a hill.”

“Certainly they are,” said Falconer, gazing out upon the beautiful panorama of stream and mountain through which they were passing. They were entering the most remote, but most beautiful, district in all Hungary, that which lies between the High Tatra—a lovely mountain district known so little to English travellers, save those familiar with the Carpathians—and the Roumanian frontier.

At evening they arrived at a small, picturesque town called Nagy-Károly, the capital of the Szatmas country, nestling between the mountains, and at once a powerful car took them for about thirty miles up higher and higher into a wild remote district, the very name of which was unknown to Geoffrey. Presently, just as the night was drawing in, the pretty Françoise pointed to a high-up château perched on the edge of a steep rocky precipice, and said:

“Look! There is Zenta—at last!”

It looked, as indeed it was, one of those ancient strongholds of the Hungarian barons who had for ages resisted the repeated invasions of the Turks.

Later, when they arrived and the Baron showed him round before dressing for dinner, he found that it was a splendid old fortress, full of rare antiques and breathing an air of days long gone by, while at the same time it was also the comfortable home of a very wealthy man.

That night as they sat at dinner in the long panelled dining-room adorned with many heads of stags and bears, trophies of the chase, the Baron raised his glass of Imperial Tokay and welcomed his guest beneath his roof.

“Here,” he said, “you have a very historic old place which you are going to fit with the latest invention of wireless—the radio-telephone. A strange combination, is it not? All your boxes have arrived, and they are in the back courtyard. I am sorry that I was not able to arrange for expert assistance for you, Mr. Falconer, but I have two very good electricians arriving to-morrow. My agent in Vienna is sending them.”

And at the same moment Karl, the Magyar servant, in his brown velvet dress and big buttons of silver filigree, helped him to a succulent dish of paprika lamb, which followed the halaszle, that famous fish soup which is served nightly in all the wealthier houses in Hungary.

“Have the engines and all the other plant arrived?” Geoffrey inquired.

“Everything. Twenty-eight packages in all,” answered the brown-bearded man, while Françoise, with her bare elbows on the table, glanced across at the young Marconi engineer, and remarked in French:

“I suppose you will be horribly busy now—eh, M’sieur Falconer?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” he replied. “I have lost more than a fortnight already. But it has, I confess, been most enjoyable.” Then turning to the Baron, he asked:

“Have you engaged any operators to work the set?”

The question, put so suddenly to De Pelzel, nonplussed him. He was compelled to hesitate for a few seconds—a fact which did not escape the alert Geoffrey.

“Oh! how very foolish of me!” the Baron exclaimed in his suave, easy manner. “I have been so terribly busy of late, and also rectifying the blunder of sending the boxes to Arad, that I quite forgot the necessity of a staff to work the installation when it is complete. I will at once see about getting some ex-radio military men from Vienna.”

For half an hour after dinner a gipsy orchestra, four swarthy-faced men in brown velvet, with dark, piercing eyes, and lank black hair, gave some wonderful music with their violins. Then, when near midnight, the man-servant Karl showed Geoffrey to his room—a big, gloomy, dispiriting place, lit only by two candles in ancient silver holders.

When Karl had shut the door, Geoffrey instantly experienced a curious feeling of impending evil. Why, he knew not. He was there upon business for his company in that remote, out-of-the-world place, and his host, the Baron, was most kind and affable, while his niece was quite charming. Yet somehow as he lay awake the greater part of the night he became consumed by a strange apprehension.

At the Ritz, in Budapest, and also in the train, he had noticed on several occasions a curious exchange of glances between uncle and niece—or was it only his fancy?

Was anything amiss? He lay listening to the owls hooting in the great forest which surrounded the castle on three sides, and reflected deeply. Françoise, he remembered, had during the past few days questioned him very cleverly, yet very closely, concerning himself and his family. Could there be any motive in that? In the silent hours of that night he became haunted by dark suspicions, but next morning when he awoke refreshed and went out in the autumn sunshine along the terrace, which gave a magnificent view of the great Hungarian plain for many miles, all his apprehensions were quickly dispelled.

Inwardly he laughed heartily at his own misgivings.

At eleven o’clock he drove with the Baron about three miles into the forest to a large high-up clearing—the spot which De Pelzel suggested should be the site of the new station. Indeed, two new log huts were already built for the transmitting and receiving gear, with a remote control to the generator plant.

Geoffrey, looking round upon the dense firs which screened them on every side save to the east, was surprised that such a site should have been chosen. But next second he recollected that the Baron knew nothing of wireless requirements.

“To tell you the truth,” Geoffrey said frankly, “I do not favour this spot at all. Results would be far better if we fitted the station somewhere else, for instance, near the terrace at the Schloss.”

“I quite imagine it, Mr. Falconer,” replied the eminently polite Baron. “But, unfortunately, my Government is desirous of possessing a confidential means of conversation between the two mining zones, and I have granted them permission to establish it here on my estate.”

“And the corresponding station?” asked Geoffrey.

“I will explain the situation of that later—when we have decided upon this.”

Falconer was disappointed. He saw that the aerial would be far too directional for the best results.

“This evening,” the Baron went on, “I hope your two assistants will be here. This car will then be at your disposal to take you backwards and forwards from the castle.”

To protest against such a site was, apparently, useless. All that Geoffrey could do was to warn the Baron that the results were not likely to be too good.

“Well,” he laughed, “I’ve bought the plant, and if I choose to erect it anywhere, I suppose I am at liberty to do so. You, Mr. Falconer, with your expert knowledge, will, no doubt, be able to make it work all right!” he said good-humouredly.

“Well—I’ll try,” Geoffrey replied, and on his return to Zenta he sat down and wrote a long letter to Sylvia, telling her his whereabouts, and how the material had been addressed to Arad wrongly, of his life with the Baron, and of the rather unsatisfactory site that had been chosen.

He wrote four closely-filled pages, and having finished took it to one of the small rooms where Françoise was sitting reading a French novel.

“The post goes out every night at seven o’clock,” she said. “If you will put it in the rack by the front entrance Karl will see that it is put with the others this evening. Ludwig goes in the light car, and takes the letters into Deva. They go by road to Nagy-Károly to-morrow morning, and on by rail.”

Next day two shrewd-looking Austrian engineers presented themselves as Geoffrey’s assistants. Both spoke French, and when Falconer questioned them he discovered that the elder of the pair knew a good deal about radio-telephony.

They therefore set to work to open the huge boxes of apparatus which had been over three months on their way from Chelmsford. Each was marked, and they, of course, only unpacked one complete set, together with the aerial masts and wires. This work took three days, after which the whole of the plant was carried up by horses through the forest to the clearing which had been made near the top of the mountain.

Day by day Geoffrey was out there with his two assistants, first erecting the aerial—one of the newest type—and then making an “earth” by sinking three-foot copper plates edgewise in the form of a ring, and connecting all of them to a central point. Each evening he was back at the castle, where he spent many pleasant hours with the Baron and his charming niece. The latter, indeed, took him on several occasions to see the most delightful pieces of mountain scenery while the Baron, hearty and full of bonhomie, was keenly interested to watch Geoffrey at work fitting the complicated-looking apparatus.

Yet, curiously enough, Geoffrey’s strange feeling of apprehension had not passed. He could not rid himself of that creepy feeling which had stolen over him on the night of his arrival at the castle of Zenta. Why, he could not tell.

He was surprised that he had no answer to his three letters to Sylvia since he had been there, but he recollected that Mrs. Beverley had spoken of going to Paris for a fortnight or so, to do some shopping, hence it was quite possible that mother and daughter had left London.

It struck him, too, as somewhat strange that the Baron’s pretty niece should evince so much inquisitiveness concerning his affairs. When they were together she frequently turned the conversation very cleverly, and questioned him about his friends in England.

“I’m terribly bored here,” she declared in French one night after dinner, as she sat with a cigarette between her fingers and yawned. “At last I’ve persuaded my uncle to let me go back to Paris. I shall return very soon.”

“Will you?” asked Falconer. “I expect to be here quite another fortnight before we can get going. Then I have to erect the other station. Have you any idea where that is to be?”

“No,” she said. “Uncle has never told me. But, no doubt, it will be a long way from here.”

The secrecy concerning the position of the corresponding station also puzzled the young fellow. The Baron had, however, promised to let him know in due course, so he continued his work out in the forest, and gradually he assembled the engine, generator, and all the apparatus necessary for radio-telegraphy and telephony.

One afternoon he returned to the castle unusually early, and was surprised to discover the Baron—who had not seen him—emerge from his bedroom and slip down the stairs. On examining his suit-case a few moments later he saw that the lock had been tampered with, and all his papers had been overhauled!

What object, he wondered, could his genial host have in prying into his private affairs?

By day the two Austrians working under his direction were ever diligent—both being excellent fellows, and very careful and precise in their work, which is most necessary in setting up a wireless station. At night they remained at the castle in quarters which the Baron had provided.

So far from everywhere was the castle that the Baron seldom had visitors except on two occasions, when two gentlemen, one a short, stout, thick-set man, probably an Austrian, and the other a middle-aged Russian who seemed something of a cosmopolitan, arrived, and after spending the night, drove away again.

From Françoise he understood that the Austrian, whose name was Koblitz, was a Government undersecretary, and the Russian’s name was Isaakoff, and that their visits were upon official matters concerning Czecho-Slovakia.

At last, one day when Doctor Koblitz had unexpectedly arrived alone, the new wireless station in the forest was completed, and Geoffrey thoroughly tested the reception side, which he found gave highly satisfactory results, considering the screening from the trees. Both the Baron and Doctor Koblitz, together with Françoise, took the telephones and listened to the signals from Elvise, Rome, Warsaw, Carnarvon, Arlington, Lafayette, Lyons, and other of the “long-wave” stations. Indeed, during the whole afternoon Geoffrey entertained them by tuning-in messages and copying them from dots and dashes of the Morse code.

Both the Baron and Koblitz expressed their delight; therefore that evening Geoffrey ventured to ask where the second station was to be erected, for quite ten days before all the remaining cases had been despatched to a destination of which he had been kept in ignorance.

“My Government have not yet decided,” was his reply. “The boxes have been sent to Versec, close to the Serbian frontier. No doubt to-morrow or next day we shall hear what is decided. You said this afternoon that you have finished, and that all is in order to transmit—as well as to receive?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey replied, “all is ready. I have only now to put up the corresponding station.”

“Could you, for instance, send off a message for me to-morrow—say at noon?”

“Certainly,” said Falconer. “We are ready to run and give a test whenever you like.”

“Excellent. Then we will go over in the car to-morrow and send out the test message—eh, Monsieur Koblitz?” was the genial, brown-bearded man’s reply.

That night Geoffrey failed to sleep. Five weeks had passed since he left London, and though he had written to Sylvia several times, he had received no word of reply. If she had been in Paris, she was surely at Upper Brook Street again!

He was ignorant of the significant fact that each letter he had left for Ludwig to post had been taken by Françoise and handed to her uncle, who had opened it and read it in conjunction with Karl, the faithful man-servant. Afterwards each letter had been burned. This had been repeated each time Geoffrey had written a letter, either to Marconi House, to his father at Warley, or to any other person.

On Sylvia’s part she was still writing to the Ritz, at Budapest, whence she had had a letter from her lover, and they were retaining the letters expecting the young English engineer to return, as the Baron, unknown to Geoffrey, had promised.

Next morning broke chill and misty over the Carpathians, and at half-past eleven the Baron, accompanied by Falconer, Françoise, and Koblitz, drove to the newly completed wireless station.

Inside the transmission hut as they stood together, the Baron took out a slip of thin paper which he carefully unfolded and handed to his companion, saying:

“The call-signal will not be found in the official book.” Then added: “As you see, the message is seven-figure code.”

Geoffrey looked and saw that the call-letters written upon the slip of paper were C.H.X.R., followed by a jumble of figures interspersed with letters of the alphabet.

The initial letter of the call showed that the station wanted was either in Spain, Portugal, Morocco, or Roumania. No doubt it was in the latter country.

“The call-signal allotted to this station is the letters O.S.R.U.,” the Baron said, after referring to his pocket-book.

So the young radio-engineer at once sat down to the key and tapped out the usual preliminary call, followed by his own call and the call of the unknown station he wanted.

“Get them first by telegraphy, and then I will telephone to them,” urged the Baron excitedly.

Within ten minutes Geoffrey obtained a response, and after sending the code message by telegraph, he switched on the telephone transmitter, and handed the microphone to the Baron.

“Hullo! Hullo! Hullo! Petresco? Petresco?” he called, holding the transmitter close to his lips. Then in English he went on: “Can you hear me? Is speech all right? This is a test to you. Please tell me whether you have heard me distinctly. Hullo! Petresco? Hullo! Petresco? This is O.S.R.U. calling—calling C.H.X.R.”

And he handed the microphone to Geoffrey, who at once repeated the query, and concluded it with the words always used in wireless telephony: “O.S.R.U., changing over.”

In a few moments there came a clear voice evidently at a considerable distance, saying:

“Hullo! O.S.R.U.? Hullo! Your signals are quite O.K. Your modulation quite good. Congratulations!”

He handed the head-’phones to the Baron, who, with great satisfaction, heard the speech repeated. They were certainly in touch with the mysterious station in Roumania.

While the test was in progress Françoise stood in the narrow little room watching intently.

“Really marvellous!” Mademoiselle declared when she herself put on the telephones and heard the reply again repeated in a clear, rather musical voice.

Then, after another ten minutes, the Baron asked Falconer to switch off the generator and close down, as they would be late for luncheon.

“It does you very great credit,” declared the owner of the great estate of Zenta. “I never dreamed that we should be in such complete touch so quickly.” And the man Koblitz also tendered his congratulations upon the achievement.

Later in the afternoon Mademoiselle Françoise left for Paris, and Geoffrey shook her hand as she entered the car. After dinner Falconer smoked with the Baron and his friend until about eleven o’clock, when he put down his cigar and wished them both good-night. It had become apparent that the pair wished to be rid of him for some reason. Therefore he retired.

Back in his great, gloomy bedroom he stood for some time at the window, gazing out upon the gorgeous scene of moonlit mountain and silent Carpathian forest. The attitude of the two men during that evening had become suspicious—the more so because the Baron had so constantly evaded his question as to the site of the second wireless station, and also the identity of the mystery station, “C.H.X.R.” Who, too, was Petresco? It was apparently a Roumanian name. Once again a strange intuition crept over him—a premonition of impending evil.

A quarter of an hour later he removed his evening shoes and crept back again down the great oak staircase to the door of the room wherein the two men were in consultation.

Bending he could hear their voices speaking low and confidentially. But they were speaking in Hungarian, hence he could not understand a single word. Probably it was only politics they were discussing; therefore, after waiting ten minutes, all the time in fear of the approach of Karl, he was about to return to his room when, of a sudden, he heard a few words in French.

Koblitz was speaking.

“Yes, I quite agree,” he said. “Your plan is excellent. The wireless station must remain a complete secret. This young fellow’s lips must be closed. The two men we have here are both good wireless men, and are affiliated to our cause. Hence they can be trusted completely. Falconer we cannot trust—even if we attempted to bribe him, for he is an Englishman and would accept nothing.”

“I am glad you agree, mon cher,” the Baron replied. “At the wireless station to-morrow he will accept a drink from my flask—and then—well, the forest will an hour later hold its secret,” he remarked meaningly.

Geoffrey held his breath. Could it be possible that their plan was to poison him, and bury him in the forest, now that he had completed his work?

It was quite apparent that the station he had erected was a secret one, established for some illicit purpose.

He listened again, but Koblitz was only congratulating his friend upon the success of what he termed “the great scheme.”

Silently Geoffrey crept back up to his room. His mind was made up. By his natural intuition of impending peril he had been forewarned. Hence putting on a pair of strong walking boots, he assumed his overcoat and let himself out of the great rambling place by a door he knew. In the moonlight he ascended the steep winding path which led to the wireless huts, and on arrival there, unlocked the house in which the transmission panel was erected. Then, switching on the light, he took up a hammer and deliberately smashed every one of the big glass valves.

Not content with that, he also smashed every spare valve, and then destroyed the insulation upon two transformers of the receiving set, thus putting the whole station out of action.

Afterwards he relocked the door and made his way back past the castle and out upon the high road which led down to Nagy-Károly. Through the greater part of the night he walked, until at a small mountain village he was able to induce a peasant to harness a horse and drive him into the town.

Before nine o’clock that morning he called upon the chief of police, and through a man who spoke French, gave him a description of the secret wireless set, and of the dastardly plot to kill him and dispose of his body by burying it in the forest.

At once the police official was on the alert, for the Schloss Zenta, he said, belonged to a certain young Count Böckh, who was a minor, and at the university of Budapest. He had never heard of the Baron, who had, no doubt, established himself there unknown to its rightful owner, but pretending to the servants that he had rented it furnished. This was later on ascertained to be a fact.

Within an hour urgent telegrams were exchanged between the Ministry of Police in Budapest and the chief at Nagy-Károly, so that at noon, when the Baron and Koblitz put in an appearance at the railway station—intending to fly after finding that Falconer had gone and that the secret wireless station had been put out of action—they were at once arrested and sent by the next train under escort to Budapest.

Later, after much inquiry, the police discovered that the pseudo-Baron—whose real name was Franz Haynald, a well-known revolutionist—had, with Koblitz and a number of others, formed a great and widespread political plot, financed by Germany, to effect a union with Hungary and Bavaria. Austria was to be overthrown, Vienna occupied jointly by Bavarian and Hungarian troops, and Czecho-Slovakia was to be blindfolded by creating a revolution in Jugo-Slavia. The idea was, with the aid of Tzarist Russia, to establish a great “New Germany,” which was to be more powerful than ever, and become mistress of the world.

This certainly would have been attempted—for the erecting of that powerful wireless station was one of the first steps—had not Geoffrey Falconer acted with such boldness and decision.

Haynald, with Françoise—who was the daughter of the man Koblitz—Koblitz himself, the servant Karl, and twenty others are all now undergoing long sentences of imprisonment.

CHAPTER VII

THE POISON FACTORY

GEOFFREY FALCONER stood at the window of the big old Adams room at the Savage Club, chatting with a journalist friend, Charles—alias “Doggy”—Wentworth, of the Daily Mail.

Before them lay Adelphi Terrace and beyond the Embankment and the broad grey Thames with its wharves on the Surrey bank, London’s silent highway.

It was the luncheon hour on a day in early spring. The trees along the Embankment, and in the Gardens below, wore their fresh bright green, not yet dulled by the London smoke, while along the Embankment the trams were rolling heavily between the bridges of Blackfriars and Westminster.

The room in which they stood was familiar to Bohemian London—the world of painters, poets, actors, novelists, sculptors, journalists, and scientists, who lunch and smoke in the same great room with its portraits, caricatures, and trophies—perhaps the only spot on earth where a man’s worth is nowadays not judged by his pocket or the estimation of his own importance. Confined to the professions, it is a club where as long as a man is a good fellow and has no side he is popular. But woe betide the member who betrays the slightest leaning towards egotism.

The members, leaving the little back bar, had already begun to drift in to take their places at the little tables which occupied half the big common-room. The unconventional shouts of “Hulloa, Tommie!” “Hulloa, Jack!” “Hulloa, Max!” were heard on every side—Christian names and nicknames of men some of whose names were in the homes of England and America as household words, men of mark whose portraits greeted one every day in the picture papers.

Just as “Doggy” was about to turn aside with his guest, a friend of his approached the pair. A tall, lank man with a furrowed face, “Dicky” Peters, foreign editor of the great London journal, the Daily Telephone, was known to both, as indeed he was known to every journalist in London.

“Well, Dicky, what’s the latest?” asked Wentworth, a man ten years his junior, but who was among the most brilliant men in Fleet Street.

“Oh, nothing much,” laughed the other good-humouredly. “Only that infernal Moscow wireless press. It gets on one’s nerves.”

“How?” asked Geoffrey, at once on the alert.

“Let’s go and feed, and I’ll tell you.”

The trio went past the row of old leather-covered couches from the “smoking-room” to the “dining-room,” between which there was no partition, and presently as they discussed a plain English luncheon which even peers as guests did not disdain—for every one is on equality in the Savage—Peters began to rail at the wireless reports from Moscow.

“Well, Falconer’s a Marconi man,” remarked Wentworth. “Perhaps he can explain.”

“I don’t understand it at all,” Geoffrey said. “Of course I’m on the engineering side. I don’t know much about the operating side—except in experimenting.”

“Well, I think the whole thing is most puzzling.”

“How?”

“Well, one day we get the wireless press from Russia and publish it. Next day we have an entirely different and contradictory version. And, oh! the Bolshevik propaganda—well, you see it in many papers. Sub-editors all over the country are using no discretion. We get all the jumble of facts, fictions, declarations, but I never publish any. This latest propaganda against Britain is most pernicious. In America they are publishing all sorts of inflammatory stuff against us regarding Ireland—all of it emanating from the Third International—or whatever they call themselves.”

“The Bolshevik press news should be wiped out,” declared “Doggy” Wentworth. “No sane man who reads it ever believes in the glorious and prosperous state of Russia under Lenin!”

“I agree,” said Falconer, interested in the conversation between the two journalists. “I often listen to ‘M.S.K.’ at night and read him, but his stories are of such a character that I wonder any newspaper publishes them. We never refer to it in our Marconi Press which we send out each night to the cross-Atlantic ships.”

“Yes, but how about the revolutionary propaganda regarding Ireland? We get a pile of it in the office every night,” said Peters. “I never publish it, but over in America they get it too, and I’m certain it does Britain incalculable harm.”

It was at a moment when a wave of Bolshevism was sweeping across Europe, a hostility to culture and to intelligence which had, in Russia, brought about a terrorism which was assisted by a police system which left far behind it the ideas and the proceedings of the Tsar’s secret police. And those responsible for the chaos in Russia were, it was known, endeavouring to stir up revolution in Great Britain, and thus assist Germany in her defiant attitude towards the Allies.

That night the young Marconi engineer dined at Mrs. Beverley’s, and sat beside Sylvia. Only three other guests were present, a well-known peer and his wife, and a prominent member of the Government, Mr. Charles Warwick.

Over the dinner table, in consequence of some serious reports in that night’s newspaper concerning the advance of the Red Army in the south of Russia, the conversation turned upon the situation, Mr. Warwick expressing an opinion that half the news concerning the Red successes was incorrect.

“I agree,” declared Falconer. “Only this morning I was discussing the same subject with two journalists in the Savage Club. It seems that Lenin and his friends are sending out by wireless all sorts of untruths concerning our rule in Ireland—allegations calculated to incense other countries against us.”

“Well, if that’s so, Geoffrey, why don’t you wireless people try to suppress them?” remarked Sylvia.

“An excellent suggestion!” laughed the smooth-haired young fellow. “But I’m afraid it would be impossible to stop the wireless waves they send out from Moscow each evening. When you press a wireless key the waves radiate in every direction, and reach far and wide. There is no invention yet to suppress wireless signals, except to jam them by sending out stronger ones upon the same wave-length. That can, of course, be done, but it would interfere with all wireless traffic.”

“Somebody really ought to blow up the Moscow wireless station,” declared Lord Cravenholme, an elderly blunt man, whose wife was many years his junior.

“Yes,” agreed Warwick. “The sooner somebody puts an end to their lie-factory the better.”

“Britain’s enemies are always ready enough to believe any fiction alleged against her. And, of course, the crafty Germans are behind all these attempts to stir strife,” his lordship declared, poising his hock-glass in his hand.

“Well,” exclaimed Sylvia, “I really think there’s an excellent chance for you, Geoffrey.” And she laughed merrily.

“Yes,” added her mother, “If you could manage to stop it all, you would certainly be a public benefactor, Mr. Falconer. I read in the American papers I get over some very nasty things about you here—all of it emanating, no doubt, from enemy and revolutionary sources.”

“Ah! Mrs. Beverley,” exclaimed the young Marconi man, “I’m afraid that such a task is beyond me. In the first place, nobody can get into Russia just now. Again, if the station were wrecked, Lenin’s people would soon rig up another. So I fear that we are suggesting the impossible.”

Later that evening, when Geoffrey and Sylvia were alone together in the morning-room—the others being in the big upstairs drawing-room—the girl mentioned that the odious fortune-hunter, Lord Hendlewycke, was to take them by car on the following day to tea at the Burford Bridge Hotel, at Box Hill.

“Oh, how I detest him!” said the pretty girl with a sigh. “And yet mother is for ever asking him here. I’m sick of it all. Wherever we go he turns up.”

“Because your mother has set her mind upon your becoming Lady Hendlewycke,” he said in a low, intense voice. “Why is she in London—except to marry you to somebody with a title? I know it’s a very horrid way of putting it, dearest, but nevertheless it is the truth.”

“I know,” she sighed. “But I hate the fellow—I hate him! I’m for ever having headaches, and pretending a chill in order to avoid meeting him. But he is so horribly persistent.”

He took her in his strong arms and kissed her fondly, saying:

“Never mind. Be patient, dearest. He will grow weary very soon. Be patient—for my sake!”

But at that moment the footman entered, and springing apart, they rejoined the others upstairs.

Geoffrey could only remain for half an hour, as he had to catch his train from Liverpool Street. He was back at Warley just before eleven. His sombre old home was all quiet, for the servants had retired, and his father was busy writing in his study when Geoffrey entered.

Together they smoked for about a quarter of an hour, after which his father extinguished his oil reading-lamp and retired.

Geoffrey, as was his habit before turning in, entered his wireless room wherein he had fitted that most up-to-date set—a bewildering array of apparatus—chief among which was his improved amplifier and a double note magnifier of his own design.

He placed the telephones over his ears, and having switched on the seven little glow lamps or valves of the amplifier, and the two others of the magnifier, tuned-in one or two stations.

“G.F.A.A.G.”—a great airship to wireless men—was out upon a night cruise from Pulham, in Norfolk, over England. He soon picked her up, and heard her taking her bearings from the direction-finding station at Flamborough, on the Yorkshire coast. After which she spoke by wireless telephony to her base at Pulham, and then to Croydon, Lympe, near Folkestone, and to St. Inglevert in France.

Afterwards she carried on a conversation with the air stations at Renfrew and Castle Bromwich. She was told by Flamborough that her position was thirty miles due north of Cardiff, going westward.

Such was one of the wonders of wireless.

His thoughts, however, were elsewhere. He was still pondering over those budgets of lies sent out from Moscow four of five times each twenty-four hours.

He placed his hand upon the knob of his “tuner,” and raised his wave-length to five thousand mètres. Other stations were transmitting, but he heard nothing of “M.S.K.”—the call-letters assigned to Moscow. Higher he raised the wave-length until, on seven thousand six hundred mètres, he found that high-pitched continuous-wave note, which he recognised as the lying voice from the ether.

He took up a pencil and began to write down rapidly in French a most scurrilous and untrue allegation against British rule in Ireland, intended for the anti-British press in America.

Halfway through he flung down the pencil with an exclamation of disgust, and removing the “Brown” head-’phones, switched off, and went upstairs to bed.

Next day, at the Marconi Works at Chelmsford, he discussed with several of his fellow-engineers the scandal of the Moscow Bolshevik propaganda, but each of them declared that nothing could be done to suppress it. Lenin and Trotsky ruled Red Russia, and certainly the tide of lies sent out broadcast into space could not be stemmed.

Sylvia’s words constantly recurred to him. She had urged him to do something to stifle the pernicious propaganda against law and order in Great Britain. But how?

Many days went by. He was busy in the experimental laboratory up at Marconi House, and had but little time to devote to anything except the highly scientific problem which he was assisting three great wireless experts to try to solve.

About three weeks had passed when one afternoon he happened to be in the great airy apartment at Chelmsford where various instruments were being subjected to severe tests before being passed as “O.K.”—note-magnifiers, direction-finders, calling-devices, amplifiers, and all the rest—when, with the telephones on his ears, he heard Moscow sending out “C.Q.”—or a request for all to listen. Then again came that never-ending praise of Soviet Russia, which, under the absolute rule of a little group of men, mostly Russian or German Jews obeying the orders of Lenin—the new Ivan the Terrible—and his war minister, Trotsky, was, it was said, converting Russia into a terrestrial paradise. On the contrary, it was well known that Russia was a terrestrial hell, where torture was deliberately being used on a great scale, and with a cruelty that had never been surpassed, even by the Spanish Inquisition. The recapture of Kharkoff by Deniken had revealed a most terrible state of affairs, atrocities of which even the terrible Turks would have been ashamed. And yet the Moscow wireless was inviting the people of Britain and America to rise and establish a similar régime!

As Geoffrey listened attentively, his ear trained to the variations of the sound of the signals of different stations, it suddenly occurred to him that the “note” was slightly different from that which he had heard and discarded on so many occasions.

He called across to one of the technical assistants, and he also agreed.

“It’s probably due to some atmospheric interference,” the latter remarked.

Again the young radio-engineer listened. But it seemed to him to be a different note, though the wave-length was about the same. It was higher pitched, and just a little more difficult to tone.

When any problem arose, of whatever nature, Geoffrey Falconer never rested until he had solved it. That was how he had invented his improved amplifier. He had all the patience, the disregard of disappointment, the dogged perseverance, and the refusal to accept failure which characterises the great inventor. In the days long past most inventors died in poverty. Now in the days of stringent patent laws, fortunes are sometimes made out of a new safety-pin, or a sweet-smelling hair wash.

Though he carried on the important experiments both at Marconi House and at Chelmsford, and also at another station which had been established in secret not far from London, he nevertheless each night when at home listened in for “M.S.K.,” and diligently took down all the wilful perversions of the truth sent out by Soviet Russia.

On four different occasions, while listening upon his own set at Warley, he became convinced that some new station had been set up in Moscow for the deliberate purpose of circulating the most glaring untruths concerning events in Ireland. The text of all the messages was now much more bitter than before.

Time after time he sat back in his chair, utterly puzzled.

Here was a dastardly and insidious attack being made upon the country by disseminating false news by wireless, and yet nobody was able to suppress it.

One day, being up in London, he was re-entering Marconi House by the back way in Aldwych, and waiting for the lift, when suddenly an idea crossed his brain. It was only a vague suggestion, yet that night in the rural quiet of his home at Warley he listened in for Moscow, and succeeded in determining the wave-length accurately. It was neither the five thousand mètre “spark” transmission, nor the seven thousand six hundred mètre, but lower—four thousand seven hundred, to be exact.

Evidently Lenin had established an entirely new lie-factory for Britain only.

Night after night Falconer, after his return from the works, listened for Moscow—at seven o’clock and at nine-thirty on “spark,” and at ten-fifteen on continuous-wave. The latter was, however, absent. It had apparently been cut off, and the new anti-British station substituted.

Though Geoffrey saw Sylvia constantly, he said nothing to her regarding the problem. Often when up at Marconi House he met her at half-past five and they had tea at the Savoy or the Carlton, after which he caught his train back into Essex, there to spend the evening in calculating and devising all sorts of new “gadgets,” with the object of improving wireless telephony—the science which must, in the near future, revolutionise commercial communication.

The difference in the strength of signals from the new station of Soviet Russia, as heard in his telephones, puzzled him intensely. As an expert he felt that there was something unusual—hence, to an experimenter, of outstanding interest.

Therefore, he set to work to determine, if possible, the exact location of Lenin’s latest wireless station. With that object he one evening travelled to Lowestoft, and at the direction-finding wireless station there beside the sea, had a long chat with the engineer-in-charge. The station is normally used by aircraft to locate their position if in any difficulty with fog while passing between the terminal aerodrome at Croydon to Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, or other Continental cities. The two direction-finding stations worked in conjunction, one at Chelmsford and one at Pevensey, on the marshes between Eastbourne and Hastings—a triangle between which the sources of a wireless call can be plotted, and exactly determined.

For an hour Geoffrey discussed the problem with Mr. Finlay, the engineer, who at once volunteered to assist. Then Falconer left, and two days later arrived at the Pevensey station, down upon the pebbly beach. Here, too, the engineer-in-charge was eager to render assistance.

Geoffrey and he were walking over the beach at the edge of the sea, smoking their pipes in the afternoon sunshine.

“I’ll call you up from Chelmsford on Thursday night—if the mysterious station is transmitting then,” Falconer said. “Listen, and you will no doubt hear him on about four thousand seven hundred mètres—a rather high-pitched note. If he is going I will call you up on Morse and signal ‘Forty-four.’ I’ll do the same to Lowestoft. Then you can plot with Chelmsford where he is located.”

“He may not be in Moscow at all,” remarked Finlay. “It may be some disguised station.”

“That’s exactly my own idea. But we can, no doubt, locate him, wherever he may be.”

So on the following Thursday night at about nine o’clock Falconer sat in the direction-finding station at the Works long after every one had left, listening intently upon the four thousand seven hundred mètre wave-length. He had waited in patience for about twenty-five minutes when at last there sounded a long shrill whistle, and the Bolshevik station began to poison the ether with its lies.

For five minutes he listened. Then placing his hand upon the transmitting switch, he drew it over and spoke over the wireless telephone to both Lowestoft and Pevensey, giving the code-word, “Forty-four.”

“O.K.” came the answer from both operators, and at once they began to make measurements upon the big maps in front of them.

All three direction-finding stations, at Chelmsford, at Pevensey, and at Lowestoft were now engaged, by working with each other in turn, in determining the exact position of the Bolshevik lie-factory.

In each station shrewd, clever young men, with the telephones over their ears, worked the big ebonite handles of the direction-finder—a piece of wonderful apparatus in a square box with sloping top, and several dials upon which minute scales were drawn.

The operator at Pevensey and the one at Lowestoft exchanged conversations in a jumble of numerals. Then Lowestoft called Chelmsford, and within ten minutes the position of the mysterious station was measured out upon the map, and Geoffrey, bending eagerly, found that it had been located at a point somewhere in the centre of Copenhagen, and not in Moscow at all!

The anti-British station was still working on, as it did every evening; therefore, three times its bearings were taken, and each result came out the same.

“Thanks, Lowestoft! Thanks, Pevensey! Much obliged!” Geoffrey said over the wireless telephone. “Switching off!”

He looked for a long time at the map, and with the officer-in-charge of direction-finding he discussed the matter for a long time.

“In Copenhagen it should be easy to spot the whereabouts of the secret station. Indeed, upon a large-scale map of Denmark almost the very spot could be determined,” the direction-finding officer said.

Geoffrey lost no time next day when in London in obtaining a large-scale map of Denmark, as well as one of the city of Copenhagen, from a shop in Fleet Street, and a fortnight later, with the aid of an eminent geographer—a friend of his father—he was able, by making careful measurements, to locate the secret Soviet station as being in the Raadhus-Plads.

A week later, having been granted leave of absence from the Marconi Works at Chelmsford upon another pretext, he travelled to the Danish capital, where he put up at the Hôtel d’Angleterre, in the Kongens-Nytorv. In his luggage he carried his own supersensitive receiving set, all of which he had constructed himself.

To the hotel personnel he made it known frankly that he was a wireless engineer, and on a table in the corner of his bedroom overlooking the square he set up his instruments, after hiring from a local garage an accumulator for his valve-filaments—namely, to light up the seven little cylindrical vacuum-tubes of his supersensitive amplifier.

On the night of his arrival in Copenhagen, after dining alone in the big white-and-gold salle-à-manger, he ascended to his room and sat there all the evening with the telephones over his ears. He could hear the British Admiralty working to Malta; Paris working to Warsaw; Carnarvon working to Belmar, and Bordeaux transmitting across the Atlantic. On that starlit night the ether was alive with messages by “spark” and continuous-wave being sent across the seven seas.

For over five hours he listened attentively, but all he heard was the usual commercial messages, most of them in code of various kinds. Then he took off the telephones and went out for a stroll along the Bredgade as far as the Esplenade, in order to refresh himself after his long and unsuccessful vigil.

Next day he wandered about the clean busy streets of the Danish capital, idling before the shops in the Ostergade, the Kjobmager Gade, and the Amargertov, or reading newspapers in the cafés, the Continental, the Bristol, or Otto’s. In spring Copenhagen is always bright and lively, and he found the city quite charming.

At night, however, he returned to his vigilant watch, for the secret Bolshevik station was not now working every night.

For five nights in succession he waited patiently, hour after hour, but though he listened to thousands of messages, yet “M.S.K.” remained silent on its new wave-length.

Geoffrey Falconer was, however, quite unaware that the adjoining room was occupied by a grey-haired, undersized little man, who had been on the quai at Antwerp when he landed, and having followed him to Copenhagen by way of Kiel, had taken up his abode in the next room.

In the hotel the two men passed each other frequently, but Geoffrey was entirely unsuspicious that his movements were being so closely watched.

He, however, as is the practice of most case-hardened cosmopolitans, always kept the key of his room in his pocket, contrary to the hotel rule of leaving it in the key-office. When one is at a hotel and keeps one’s key in one’s pocket, only the chambermaid’s or the manager’s master-key opens the door. Hence intruders are debarred.

On the eighth night of Falconer’s stay his suspicions became aroused because he suddenly found the little old man keeping him under observation. At first he was in a quandary, but presently, after due consideration, he resolved to act with greater discretion.

The Raadhus-Plads, as those who know Copenhagen are well aware, is in the centre of the city, and the focus of the network of tramways, just as is the Piazza del Duomo in Milan. Time after time Geoffrey had passed backwards and forwards across the spacious square, but he could detect no aerial wires such as would be necessary to transmit the anti-British propaganda into the ether.

Each night he wandered into the square and gazed up at the many illuminated sky-signs upon the shops around, until he began to conclude that the bearings taken at Chelmsford must have been inaccurate.

He had been in Copenhagen ten days when one night, while seated in his bedroom at about ten o’clock with the telephones over his ears, he heard the mysterious station start up, calling “C.Q.,” namely, asking everybody to listen.

And then on a pure musical note there was tapped out a message, alleging that Britain was doing serious injustice in Ireland—a message calculated to inflame public opinion.

That it was close by Geoffrey detected at once. The signals were too loud on the “second intensity” of his double note magnifier, so he cut it out, and read it loudly from one “Q”—or detector valve.

He put down his ’phones, switched off, and leaving the hotel, walked again to the Raadhus-Plads. Around the square the well-lit electric trams were circulating slowly, while all around were the illuminated advertisements of motor-tyres, mineral waters, cocoa, and soap, a picturesque night scene beneath the clear starlit sky.

Watching him unseen was his little grey-haired neighbour from the adjoining room in the Angleterre. The old fellow was, no doubt, a very clever watcher. As a matter of fact, he was Ivan Stromoff, one of the most astute officers of the secret police under the régime of the last Tsar Nicholas, now, of course, pressed into Lenin’s service.

The secret police of Russia were ever corrupt, and they had now been suborned by the Bolsheviks to act in the interests of the Soviets as they had previously done in the interests of the Monarch.

While passing across the Kongens-Nytorv—the King’s new market—the fashionable centre of Copenhagen, Geoffrey again realised that the little old man was following him. So during the following day he walked the streets of the Danish capital with the sole purpose of drawing on the old fellow who was keeping such strict surveillance upon his movements. Everywhere he went the little old fellow shadowed him.

Therefore, at about ten o’clock on that evening he managed to elude the watchful old man, and taking a taxi, drove to the central bureau of police. He was taken at once to Marius Lund, the director of the police, and when alone with him, explained the object of his visit to Denmark, and asked that he might be given assistance in order to unearth the secret wireless station of the revolutionaries.

Lund, a broad-shouldered, fair-haired Dane, at once became sympathetic, promising all the assistance he could render.

“We in Denmark are always anxious to support the Allies against the machinations of Germany and Russia. So I will give you whatever help you may require. Already we have been advised of your presence here, Mr. Falconer, and I confess it has aroused some suspicion, because you had in your baggage some wireless apparatus.” And he laughed.

Falconer explained all the circumstances, how the bearings taken in England had shown that the Bolshevik transmission set was not in Russia at all, but somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Raadhus-Plads in that city.

“But had we not better obtain the aid of one of the engineers at the radio-telegraph station here? Mr. Petersen, the chief engineer, I know quite well,” the head of the Copenhagen police suggested.

In consequence an introduction was next day effected between the two wireless engineers, who sat together in the big wireless station at Lyngby, outside Copenhagen, the note of which with its call-signal, “O.X.A.,” is well-known to every wireless man. There they thoroughly discussed the whole matter.

“We experience no interference,” said the Danish engineer. “But we use the six-hundred mètre wave in transmission, while you say ‘M.S.K.’ is under five thousand mètres. Anyhow it is highly interesting, and we will certainly investigate it.”

Together they strolled around the big busy square at noon, but their expert eyes could detect no sign of aerial wires. If a wireless station existed in that vicinity it was certainly extremely well disguised.

Yet upon them both the little old man, who occupied the bedroom next to Geoffrey’s, kept active vigilance, though that morning he was followed by a detective. It was apparent that by some means or other the Bolsheviks knew of Falconer’s journey and its object. That he was being watched was proof in itself that the station, though well concealed, certainly existed somewhere or other in the city.

At the suggestion of Marius Lund, both radio-engineers remained inactive during the following three days, for the first point towards success would be, he said, to get rid of the silent watcher, without allowing him to suspect that he in turn was being watched.

So the police called one morning at the hotel, and finding a fault with the old man’s passport, ordered him to return to Hamburg, whence he had come. This he did with ill-suppressed chagrin.

Hence the investigators were free to watch. One evening while Geoffrey could plainly read upon his own set in his bedroom at the Angleterre the messages sent out by “M.S.K.,” yet at the radio station, a couple of miles away, they could not be heard by the operator on duty, merely because of the difference of the wave-lengths employed.

That night Geoffrey Falconer and his Danish friend sat outside the Bristol Café in the great square, for the night was quite warm and bright. As they gazed around at the brilliantly lit Place, the busy centre of Denmark’s capital, they were more than ever mystified.

Only on the previous day Geoffrey had received from the engineer-in-charge of the direction-finding station at Lowestoft a report of a further test, and the bearings had not altered in the slightest. That secret wireless station, which was endeavouring to do so much harm to British interests and Britain’s prestige abroad, was somewhere near them—but where?

His companion confessed himself utterly perplexed as just before midnight they strolled homeward.

Yet as soon as Geoffrey entered his room and switched on his receiving loop-aerial—a wooden frame three feet square, upon which was wound a number of turns of wire, and which took the place of wires out of doors—he heard the Bolshevik’s message being sent out strongly across the North Sea to England!

On the following night the young Marconi engineer determined to watch alone. He dozed upon his bed until midnight, then rising and putting on his overcoat, he went forth to the Raadhus-Plads, which was at that hour almost deserted.

He took a seat outside the Bristol, and idled over coffee and a cigarette until one o’clock, when the establishment closed. Then he got up and wandered around the square, not meeting more than half a dozen persons, for the trams had ceased running, and only now and then there passed a taxi on its way home.

Rain began to fall in a slight unpleasant drizzle; therefore, turning up his coat collar, he drew into a doorway in order to keep as dry as possible.

Suddenly, just after two o’clock in the morning, two men and a woman emerged from a small café close by, that had been closed for a couple of hours. One man was carrying a suit-case which seemed very heavy for its size, and as the trio passed, Geoffrey overheard them talking together. They spoke in Russian!

Having realised this, Geoffrey followed them at a respectable distance through the deserted streets, past the Tivoli Gardens to the Central Railway Station, where the suit-case was deposited in the consigne. Geoffrey noted the case well. It was of dark-brown leather, and bore the initials, “G.E.K.”

Then the young woman left her companions and went in the direction of the Lange Bridge, while the men retraced their steps back to the obscure little café.

Early next morning Geoffrey sought Marius Lund and related what he had seen, whereupon they both went to the railway station, and having interviewed the stationmaster, the bag was obtained, and on opening it with a skeleton key, it was found to contain several portions of apparatus for wireless transmission.

“Well,” remarked Geoffrey, when he examined the contents of the suit-case, “I can’t see how they can transmit from that café. They have no aerial.”

“We will investigate before long,” said the police director, closing the bag and relocking it.

Within an hour Geoffrey accompanied him to the café, a dingy little place to which no one apparently went. They had previously discovered that it was kept by a man named Vedel, whose nationality was inscribed upon the municipal register as German.

As they entered, leaving four police agents in plain clothes outside, the man Vedel came forth, and behind him the second man whom Geoffrey had seen during the night.

The police director demanded to know where their secret wireless station was situated, but they at once denied possessing one.

“We shall search this place,” said Marius Lund. “You may as well tell us the truth at once.”

“Search—and welcome,” was Vedel’s defiant reply.

Hence, while the pair were prevented from leaving the premises, they searched the whole house and went out upon the roof, but found not the slightest trace of a wireless installation.

They had drawn blank!

In chagrin Geoffrey began to wonder what the police thought of the mare’s nest he had discovered, when Vedel, believing that he was about to be arrested, gave himself away by drawing a revolver and firing a shot point blank at Geoffrey, narrowly missing him.

In a flash the police agents secured and disarmed him, while Lund also ordered the immediate arrest of his companion—who gave the name of Köbke—and both were hurried off to the police bureau.

The wireless engineer, Petersen, was at once telephoned for, and together they made a second examination of the premises, when after nearly an hour they found in the cellar a concealed door which led into a second cellar beneath a courtyard behind the house, wherein stood a small printing office.

In this subterranean chamber beneath the printing office they found a fine continuous-wave transmission set of one-and-a-half kilowatt power, together with its generator. Apparently the printing office had been established as a blind, so that the neighbours should believe the noise to be that of printing machinery.

Then they searched for the aerial wires, but it was a long time ere they discovered them. At last, to their great surprise, they found them very cunningly concealed behind and about an enormous sky-sign which, illuminated at night, advertised the merits of a certain brand of cocoa, a sign which Geoffrey had noticed nightly, never dreaming, of course, that the secret lay hidden up there.

The two prisoners who were proved to be dangerous emissaries of the Moscow Bolsheviks, were convicted, and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment for establishing secret wireless against the laws of Denmark, the result being that the world has ever since been spared the dissemination of the poisonous Bolshevik propaganda.

And the credit of its suppression was certainly entirely due to Geoffrey Falconer.

CHAPTER VIII

THE GREAT INTRIGUE

“HULLOA? Hulloa? Hulloa? Hulloa, Croydon? Brussels calling!” cried Geoffrey Falconer one afternoon over the wireless telephone at the aerodrome just outside Brussels. “It’s Falconer speaking. Changing over.”

“Hulloa, Falconer? Yes,” came a clear voice through the ether. “Changing over.”

“Oh, it’s you, Heddon. Would you please ask Dennis to speak to me if he’s there?” said Falconer.

“Right-o! Stand by, and I’ll try and get him. Switching off.”

Falconer, seated at the operating bench in the small wireless office, the window of which commands an extensive view of the aerodrome, with the city of Brussels in the distance, still retained the head-telephones, and waited.

About five minutes later he heard the strong continuous-wave sent out by Croydon, and a moment later another voice exclaimed:

“Hulloa, Brussels? Hulloa, Brussels? Croydon calling. Dennis speaking. Dennis speaking. Over.” Falconer drew over the transmitting switch and then asked Dennis, the pilot, whether he was bringing over the air mail in the morning. Receiving an affirmative reply, Falconer said:

“Do me a favour, old chap, and bring over two or three things for me. You can get them put on passenger train to-night if you’ll telephone to the Works at Chelmsford for them. I want them very urgently to-morrow.” And then he gave descriptions of two air condensers and a double note magnifier and a microphone, adding that the tests he was making at the new wireless station he had just fitted near Dinant, on the Meuse, were satisfactory, but he hoped to still improve them.

Dennis, having written down the list, promised to bring them over by air next day, adding that he would be at Brussels just about one o’clock.

Then Geoffrey rose, handed the telephones to the Belgian operator, and switched off.

He had been nearly two months in Belgium, and had had quite a pleasant time. The Marconi Company were fitting the new aerodrome at Bouvignes, opposite old-world Dinant, with a one-and-a-half kilowatt telegraph and telephone set of exactly the same pattern as the new one they had installed at Croydon. Bouvignes had been adopted as the centre of Belgian civil aviation, air lines having been arranged to perform daily services to Paris, Copenhagen, Berlin, Milan, and other cities; hence it was necessary to be in wireless communication with the aerodromes at those places.

Only three weeks before Mrs. Beverley had brought Sylvia over to see Brussels, as she had never been there, and Geoffrey had for a week acted as their guide and shown them the sights of the pleasant little Belgian capital. Of course, during the greater part of the day he was away at Bouvignes, but he returned to Brussels each evening, and the lovers spent many happy hours together.

Now, however, mother and daughter had gone on to Paris, leaving the young engineer to complete his work in preparation for the official tests before the new station was taken over by the Belgian authorities.

So next day about one o’clock Geoffrey returned to the aerodrome outside Brussels, and asked the Belgian wireless operator the whereabouts of the Handley-Page.

“She was over Ghent when I spoke to her five minutes ago. She ought to be in quite shortly,” was the reply in French.

So Geoffrey went outside and strained his eyes to the south-west until he at last saw a speck in the distance which each moment increased, until the giant machine approaching came gradually lower, and after making a turn of the aerodrome, landed gracefully against the wind.

“Hulloa, Falconer!” cried Dennis, a round-faced, boyish-looking fellow, as in his leather suit and helmet he climbed out of the machine. “I’ve got your gear all right.”

They waited for the passengers to land, five of them, and chatted the while. Then from among the sacks of mail from England he pulled out a small wooden box, saying: “I went up to Liverpool Street and got it early this morning.”

The customs officer asked what the box contained, whereupon Falconer, who was known to him, chaffingly said it contained cigars. The good-humoured Belgian only laughed, and shrugging his shoulders chalked it as “passed.”

That afternoon, having an unexpected appointment at the Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs, Geoffrey resolved to remain the night in Brussels. Therefore, he had taken a room at Wiltshire’s Hotel up on the Avenue Louise, rather than at the Grand or the Palace, for in summer, both being down in the city, they are unpleasantly hot. He kept his appointment at five, and then walking back to the hotel, dined, and set out for an evening stroll back down the steep hill into the city, where at one of the little tables set on the pavement before the Café Métropole, in the Place de Brouckère, he took his café noir.

Unknown to him, however, a slightly-built, thin-faced young man, who had been watching outside the hotel for nearly two hours, had followed him, and taken a seat unobtrusively near the table Geoffrey had selected, but inside the café in such a position that he could remain and watch.

There is always light, movement, and gaiety on a summer’s night at that point of the Belgian capital, for along the broad pavement passes a perfect panorama of Belgian life.

Geoffrey had been seated for about a quarter of an hour, and was idly smoking a cigarette when suddenly a tall, well-dressed, rather elderly man who was passing, caught sight of him, halted, and crossing to him, exclaimed in excellent English:

“Well, my dear Monsieur Falconer! Fancy finding you here—in Brussels!”

Geoffrey sprang to his feet, for instantly he recognised in the stranger a Frenchman named Henri Amelot, a radio-engineer like himself, who was attached to the powerful wireless station at Croix d’Hins, near Bordeaux, which the Americans erected during the war for direct wireless communication between the American army and Washington, and which had now been taken over by the French Government.

He had met Amelot at Bordeaux about three months before, and he had been of considerable service to him, hence their meeting was a most cordial one, and they sat together for a long time, until darkness fell and the great arc lamps shone above them. And all the time the silent watcher sat idling over the Independance, but glancing at the pair furtively ever and anon.

Amelot told Geoffrey that he was in Brussels in connection with some newly-invented apparatus which they were about to test at Croix d’Hins, while the young Englishman explained the object of his visit to Belgium.

“Then your new Marconi set at Croydon gives wonderful results,” Amelot was saying. “Your Air Ministry ought to be greatly pleased with it. I was listening to it at Le Bourget the other day. Speech was marvellously clear.”

“Yes,” replied Geoffrey. “It is an exactly similar set that we are fitting at Bouvignes. My only regret is that Monsieur Marvaut, the Director of Civil Aviation, is absent from Brussels. He’s been away all the time I’ve been here, and there’s no sign of his returning yet—so his lady secretary, Mademoiselle Levie, tells me.”

“Marvaut was in Paris,” said the French radio-engineer. “I saw him about a month ago. He went afterwards to Marseilles. But you mentioned his lady secretary. I did not know he had one. His secretary, Charles Roosen, is with him.”

“But Mademoiselle Odille Levie called upon me on the first day of my arrival in Brussels, and conveyed Monsieur Marvaut’s regrets at his absence,” said Geoffrey.

“Ah!” remarked Amelot. “Then I suppose she is another secretary.” And the subject dropped. Later, Falconer walked with his friend to his hotel, the Palace, and then continued his way alone up the boulevard to the Avenue Lousie, being followed by the silent watcher who had sat so patiently in the café reading the Independance Belge.

Next morning at ten o’clock a waiter brought to Geoffrey the card of Mademoiselle Levie, and on entering the lounge a pretty, dark-haired, extremely chic young lady rose and greeted him merrily.

“I heard from Dinant that you were here, M’sieur Falconer,” the girl said. “Last night I had a message from Monsieur le Directeur to say that he is returning to his country château on Tuesday next, and asking whether you could make it convenient to visit him on that evening. He is rather unwell, it seems, and his doctor has forbidden him to come to the Ministry at present.”

“Where is his château?” asked Geoffrey.

“The Château de Rochehaut, in the Semois, not very far from Dinant,” the girl replied. “He has asked me to get his official car from the Ministry and take you there.”

“It is very kind of Monsieur Marvaut,” Falconer said. “Please tell him I shall be delighted to visit him. I hope the wireless station will be ready for the official tests by Wednesday.”

“Very well,” she said. “I have the car outside now. If you are returning to Dinant I can take you as far as Namur—for I am going there. The morning is delightful.”

Nothing loth, Geoffrey quickly packed his suit-case, paid his bill, and putting into the car the box of instruments which had come over from London by air, got in beside his extremely handsome companion.

But the driver of the car, a smart chauffeur, though Falconer was ignorant of the fact, was the same man who had so closely watched his movements at the Café Métropole on the previous night. The morning was indeed glorious, and the run out to Etterbeek, and through the beautiful forest of Soignes to Groenendael, and on by way of Ottignies and Gembloux to Namur, thirty miles distant from Brussels, was most enjoyable.

Mademoiselle, bright and vivacious, was in excellent mood. Several times she had come from Brussels with messages from the director, and called upon him at the Tête d’Or Hotel, in Dinant, where he had taken up his quarters. Yet more than once it had struck Geoffrey as curious that the messages had always been verbal ones. And now it seemed strange that the invitation to visit Monsieur Marvaut had come through her, and not in the form of a personal letter.

As they were speeding along into Namur, Mademoiselle suddenly turned, saying:

“I expect you may have to wait for a train to take you on to Dinant. I have plenty of time—so I’ll take you on to your destination.”

Hence he asked her to lunch at the Tête d’Or on their arrival, and they took their meal at a little table out on the veranda which overlooks the rock-girt river, a corner well shaded, where, seated opposite to each other, they both chatted and laughed merrily.

“I saw you one night about three weeks ago at the Opera, in Brussels, M’sieur Falconer,” the girl exclaimed, laughing. “You were in a box with two ladies, one was elderly, and the other was probably her daughter—eh? You seemed very attentive to them—especially to the younger one.”

Geoffrey smiled mysteriously.

“Well—I did not know that you were watching, mademoiselle,” he said laughing. “They were friends of mine.”

“Your fiancée—eh?”

“How absurd!” he exclaimed. “Whatever makes you think that?”

“Oh!—well—from your careful attention to her,” said mademoiselle, raising her wine-glass. “When a man is engaged he always has it written across his back. Women can conceal their love, but a man seldom.”

“Just as, I suppose, women delight in tears—eh?”

“Ah! don’t let us be too philosophical. The weather is too good. Let’s keep that for a dark and rainy day,” she laughed, leaving her companion surprised and puzzled that she should have been watching him on that night when he took Mrs. Beverley and her daughter to the Théâtre de la Monnaie.

From the first this very smart girl had puzzled him. In the midst of his work over at the aerodrome on the opposite side of the river she had come to him once or twice with messages of unimportance.

Suddenly, as they sat together over their dessert and liqueurs, Geoffrey recollected Amelot’s words, and asked:

“Where is Monsieur Roosen?”

“Roosen?” she echoed in rather a blank voice, gazing at her companion across the table. He noticed that her countenance changed. But it was only for a moment. “Oh! you mean the—the other secretary who always travels with Monsieur le Directeur. Ah! I do not know, m’sieur. He is away.”

Her confused attitude when he had unexpectedly mentioned Roosen’s name struck him as distinctly curious. Mademoiselle Odille was very charming, it was true, but she was somewhat of an enigma.

Presently she put on her gloves, and rose.

“Thank you, monsieur, for a very excellent déjeuner,” she said. “And now I must leave you to your wires and bewildering apparatus, and get back to Namur and on to Brussels.”

“You must come and see the official tests on Wednesday, mademoiselle. No doubt you will like to hear the wireless telephone,” he said.

“I shall. I’m intensely interested,” she declared. “But remember on Tuesday I will meet you here at about seven and take you over to the Château de Rochehaut.”

And she got into the car and drove away.

Geoffrey telephoned over to the aerodrome to send the service car over for the box of apparatus, and when it arrived, he drove across the river and through the ancient village of Bouvignes. The old place, surmounted by the ancient ruins of Crêve Cœur, the castle where the Three Ladies of Crêve Cœur, sole survivors of the garrison besieged by the Duc de Nevers in 1554, hurled themselves from the tower to death in the eyes of their French conquerors, was quiet and out of the world. But Geoffrey was much preoccupied as the car tore through the dusty village and away up to the plain, where the great new aviation ground was being constructed.

On one side stood the row of up-to-date hangars, with all the latest inventions of British and French aviation, while on the other, facing it, rose the aerial wires on eighty-feet poles temporarily erected, for the lattice masts were in process of manufacture.

In two long army huts, situated a short distance from each other, the wireless office had been established. One of them housed the generator and transmitting gear, while in the other was the operating key and reception set. To the latter hut Geoffrey went, and there, with the assistance of a Belgian wireless operator, he unpacked the double-note magnifier and condensers which had travelled by air from Croydon.

Then throughout the remainder of the afternoon the keen young engineer was engaged in setting them up upon the operating bench. With many patient tests he listened-in constantly for various stations of between nine hundred and sixteen hundred mètres. The small oblong box, on the ebonite top of which were fixed two little vacuum tubes which shone brightly when current was passed through them—the piece of apparatus used in conjunction with the seven-valve amplifier—magnified the weakest signal to such an extent that the telephones could hardly be borne upon his ears.

He had another there, but it somehow did not give such good results as the one he had just requisitioned from Chelmsford. As a matter of fact, it was one of a rather newer design, for wireless apparatus is every week improving. And so rapid is the advance of radio discoveries that much of the latest experimental apparatus to-day will six months hence be relegated to the scrap-heap.

Through the whole afternoon he worked on patiently, joining up the receiving circuit of many wires, the transmission side being already in running order. Only three days before he had spoken over the radio-telephone to Croydon, Lympe, Pulham in Norfolk, Le Bourget, and Cologne. Each test gave excellent results, even though the atmospheric conditions were none too good.

So he had every hope of the official tests being satisfactory. As a loyal and trusted servant of that wonderful organisation, the Marconi Company, he had worked hard and done his level utmost to make the Bouvignes station a credit to his employers. Hence he was most anxious that on the great day when the final tests were made everything should go right, and that signals by continuous-wave telegraphy, direction-finding, and radio-telephony should be equally satisfactory.

He was listening to Paris transmitting to Bucharest, reading the commercial messages, and gazing through the small window of the Army hut away across the grass-covered aerodrome to where, below, the winding Meuse lay bathed in the soft evening light. Still listening, he raised his wave-length until he heard the peculiar arc note of N.S.S.—which is Annapolis in the United States—sending its time signals, for it wanted a minute to five o’clock. Having compared the time with the big round clock above the bench he reduced his wave-length to one thousand mètres, when suddenly he heard the shrill high-pitched note of a continuous-wave transmitter which sounded as though it were in the near vicinity.

It was calling S.R.4. repeatedly, without giving its own call-sign. But as the wireless station being called did not appear in the official register at his elbow, he took it to be some private station and disregarded it.

At that moment Captain Hanateau, who was in charge of the new aerodrome, entered the hut, saying in good English:

“Here is a telegram for you, Meester Falconer.”

Geoffrey thanked him, tore open the message, but as he read it, he held his breath in anxiety and astonishment. His heart stood still.

It was from Mrs. Beverley, dated from the Grand Hotel, in Paris, asking whether Sylvia was with him. Four days before she had suddenly packed a small dressing-case during her mother’s absence, and left the hotel, leaving behind a note stating that in consequence of an urgent telegram from Geoffrey she had gone back to Brussels and would write.

Geoffrey had sent no telegram! What could have happened?

The Captain saw that the news distressed the young radio-engineer, and expressed his regret if the message was disconcerting.

“Yes, it is,” replied the young man as he removed the telephones from his ears and re-read the long message. “Is the car in use? I must go to Brussels at once.”

“You can have it, of course. I’ll go and order it for you.”

Therefore, a quarter of an hour later Geoffrey was speeding back over the dusty road to Brussels. On arrival his first inquiry was at the Palace Hotel, where Sylvia had stayed with her mother. Nobody, however, had seen her there since her departure for Paris. He drove up the boulevard to Wiltshire’s, and there made similar inquiry, but to no purpose. To other places he went that night, making diligent inquiry everywhere, and then he drove out to the aerodrome, for she had been with him there once or twice. But no trace could he discover of her.

So at eleven o’clock he sent a telegram to her mother saying that he had not seen her, and that apparently she had not come to Brussels. He added that he had sent her no telegram.

Sylvia, to whom he was so devoted, was missing! But why?

Just before midnight, so perturbed had he become, that he went to the Bureau of Police, and there saw Monsieur Guiette, the well-known Belgian chef de la Sûreté. To him he told the story, after explaining who he was. The official heard him patiently, and promised to have some inquiries made. He suggested, however, that inquiries should be also made in Paris, as perhaps the young lady had not left for Brussels after all.

“She may have gone to London with some motive known only to herself,” Monsieur Guiette suggested.

“But the telegram which purported to have been sent by me must have been despatched from Brussels,” urged Falconer.

“Agreed, monsieur, but that telegram does not appear to have been seen. The young lady herself says that she received a message from you. She evidently did not leave it for her mother to see.”

At two o’clock next morning Geoffrey was in the express for Paris, where he arrived at breakfast time, and in frantic haste sought Mrs. Beverley.

“I can’t think what can have happened,” she said in great distress. “The other morning I went out to Armenonville with my friend, Mrs. Bridges, but Sylvia could not come, as she had an appointment at her dressmaker, Martin’s, in the Rue de la Paix. When we returned at one o’clock we found that she had gone, leaving this note.”

Geoffrey read the scribbled note of his well-beloved, which explained how soon after her mother had gone she received a wire from him urging her to come to Brussels at once, as he was in a great difficulty, so she had caught the next train.

Falconer stood staggered. He had sent no telegram, and he certainly was in no difficulty.

“It is curious that she did not leave the telegram for you to see,” remarked the young radio-engineer.

“She forgot it, I suppose,” replied the mother.

“True, but it may be that she did not go to Brussels at all! The police will probably assist us, though they are never very anxious to help when people leave home of their own accord.”

“Oh, do go and see them, Geoffrey. Do go!” Mrs. Beverley implored, for she was in a terribly agitated state of mind. She had inquired of the servants at Upper Brook Street, but they had seen nothing of Miss Sylvia.

Geoffrey, spurred to activity by his deep affection for the girl, took a taxi at once to the Prefecture of Police, and a detective was detailed to go with him to the Gare du Nord and there prosecute inquiries. From the stationmaster they learnt that the person who had booked passengers by the Brussels express on the morning of Sylvia’s departure was a certain Mademoiselle Le Grelle. She was also on duty at the booking-office at that moment; therefore, they at once sought her, and the detective closely questioned her as to whether the young English lady, whom Geoffrey described, had taken a ticket for Brussels on the morning in question.

Mademoiselle reflected for a few moments, and then said:

“Yes, I recollect quite well. A young English lady asked me the quickest route to Brussels. I told her that the quickest was by Maubeuge, but the direct, without change, was by Amiens and Valenciennes. She chose the later route. The lady I mean wore a long pale-grey cloak and a small hat trimmed with blue. She was the only girl from Paris by that train.”

“It was Sylvia!” gasped Falconer. “She has a grey cloak. Then she did go to Brussels—after all!”

“Apparently, m’sieur,” remarked the detective. “It is certainly for the Brussels police to inquire at once whether she arrived there.”

Back at the Grand Hotel he related to Mrs. Beverley Mademoiselle Le Grelle’s statement, her description of her dress, and the small dressing-case she carried.

“Well, Geoffrey,” exclaimed the anxious widow “I’m at my wits’ ends to know what to do, or how to act. My girl has disappeared. Surely she had no secret appointment with anybody?”

“I feel certain she had not,” declared Falconer. “There’s some deep plotting at work somewhere. Of that I’m absolutely convinced. But we now have the first clue to her, and we must follow it up without a moment’s delay.”

“Yes, I agree,” said Mrs. Beverley, standing at the window of her private sitting-room, which looked out upon the busy boulevard. “We at least know that she actually left for Brussels. And if she did—then she went there to meet you.”

“But I sent her no urgent telegram! I wrote to her about a week ago saying that I expected to be back home in ten days—after the official tests were through.”

It was then about one o’clock, so Falconer ate a hurried lunch with Sylvia’s mother down in the big restaurant, and at three o’clock returned to Brussels. He was not a man to allow the grass to grow under his feet, for again before eleven o’clock—while Mrs. Beverley elected to wait for news of her daughter in Paris—he was closeted once more with the famous detective, Monsieur Guiette.

The astute, bald-headed little man heard him through, nodding ever and anon, until at last, he exclaimed:

“Bien! M’sieur Falconer. I will have every inquiry made to-morrow, and will send you word to—where?”

Geoffrey hesitated. He was in the midst of the serious wireless tests, and had arranged with other stations to listen-in for his speech.

“Oh, it will be best to telephone to me at the Tête d’Or at Dinant, or to the new aerodrome at Bouvignes,” he said.

And then he took his hat, and departing, ascended the hill to the Avenue Louise, where he spent a sleepless night at the hotel.

Sylvia, his beloved Sylvia, was missing! Had she fallen victim to some evil and cleverly conceived plot? In the dark hours of the night he became seized by all sorts of terrible apprehensions. That false telegram sent from Belgium showed a distinct malice aforethought, She had, without doubt, fallen into the hands of enemies.

But where?

Unable to sleep, he rose, opened the window, and gazed forth upon the well-lit leafy avenue, so gay and brilliant by day, but now entirely silent save for the soft rustling of the leaves. It was three o’clock in the morning, and he had travelled many miles to and fro to France since last he had slept.

Sylvia’s disappearance was a mystery, deep and inscrutable.

Without some strong motive, such as the receipt of the telegram of distress, she would certainly never have left her mother and travelled so hastily back to Brussels.

For over an hour he sat at the open window trying to solve the problem, and hoping that Monsieur Guiette’s inquiries would have some result. She would certainly have to show her passport at the frontier, where a register would be kept.

Day broke, but he did not return to bed. At five he dressed, and then, after his coffee, he strolled anxiously down the Montagne de la Cour in the morning sunshine towards the Bourse, waiting for midday, when he had arranged to call again at the Prefecture, and hear the result of the inquiries at the frontier.

Noon came at last, and he again sat in Monsieur Guiette’s dull drab room.

“Well, m’sieur,” exclaimed the bald-headed little official, “it seems that mademoiselle, the South Américaine, left Paris as you allege, travelled by the train you mention, and showed her passport at the frontier. She told the passport officer that she was going to the Palace Hotel here, but evidently on arrival changed her mind. Then,” he added, “she was noted by the police at the barrier when she arrived, and was seen to be met by somebody—a woman.”

“Met by a woman?”

“Yes. Here our information becomes a little hazy,” replied the great detective. “One witness says that the woman outside the barrier rushed up to her and gave her some message, while another witness, the collector of tickets, declares that it was a little old man who speaks English, and sometimes acts as guide, who met her.”

“But what happened then?” exclaimed Geoffrey bewildered.

“Both persons tell the same story, that a car was in waiting, and that the young lady entered it very hurriedly, apparently much upset at what had been told her, and was driven away.”

“Driven away into the unknown—eh?”

“Exactly, m’sieur.”

“And how shall we now follow her?”

Monsieur Guiette raised his shoulders, and after a moment’s silence, answered:

“The young lady has simply disappeared. We have had in the years of my service, both before the war and since, a number of such cases of English and American ladies being lost in Belgium. But such cases are always difficult to deal with. Girls have lovers—secret lovers—so very often. And when at last traced they are always highly indignant—and never tell us the truth. Ah! m’sieur, when one deals with love one is always mystified.”

“But in the present case I am convinced that Miss Beverley has fallen victim to some plot. She received a telegram purporting to have come from myself, whereas I sent her no message. She obeyed my wish, and on arrival here was given a false message, to which she instantly responded.”

“Yes, m’sieur; I quite agree. But we cannot go further. How can we?” asked the famous commissary.

“I certainly think we ought to. A lady has been enticed to Brussels by a false telegram, and it is the duty of the police to follow up the clue which I have supplied!” exclaimed Geoffrey in indignation at the apparent reluctance of Guiette to carry the inquiry further.

“Please, do not be distressed,” said the famous detective pleasantly. “I have already given orders that the inquiries are to be pushed forward in every quarter. The case interests me personally. And,” he added, “I entirely agree with you. There is some very deep-laid plot, otherwise that urgent telegram would never have been forged.”

Geoffrey was now torn between love and duty. From the Prefecture he at once walked to the Place de la Monnaie, and from the central telegraph office despatched a long message to the missing girl’s mother. He urged her to wait in patience, as Sylvia was known to be in Belgium, and all inquiries were being instituted.

Afterwards he lunched at the Taverne Joseph, close to the Bourse, and later was compelled to take train back to Dinant, leaving the further inquiries in the hands of the Brussels police.

That evening, with faint heart, he returned to the wireless office at the aerodrome and tried to continue his work, tuning up the wireless set ready for the official tests. But it was in vain. He was, very naturally, thinking more of Sylvia than of the elaborate and highly-efficient apparatus under his care, notwithstanding the fact that it represented the latest development of the Marconi Company’s system of instant communication, and was, therefore, of special interest.

Next day was Tuesday. At first he resolved not to keep his appointment with Mademoiselle Levie, who was to take him to see Monsieur Marvaut at his country house on the Semois. Yet Marvaut was the director of the civil aviation, and it was his duty to the Company to see him, if only for an hour. He had told Monsieur Guiette this, and promised to be back in Bouvignes for the test next morning, so that he could be rung up from Brussels.

Torn by stress of apprehension he managed to control himself sufficiently to meet Mademoiselle Odille when about seven o’clock in the evening she drove up before the Tête d’Or, in Dinant to keep her appointment. The thin-faced watcher was again driving. Meeting Geoffrey she laughed merrily, and asked:

“Could we have a more glorious evening? It has been perfect ever since we left Brussels.”

“Won’t you come in for a moment, mademoiselle?” Falconer asked.

“No, thanks. We’re late now,” she said. “I promised monsieur to get you to the château before dark. Come, get in.”

So Falconer got in beside her, and a few moments later they were speeding along the narrow, old-world streets of Dinant, past the tall Roche-à-Bayard, a rock in the riverside road, and on through the charming little village of Anseremme. Then by the winding road through beautiful country they went by way of Malvoisin and Monceau, down into the Semois valley, one of the most picturesque spots in southern Belgium, that country now remote and still undisturbed as it was before the Hun invader swept through it with fire and sword on his way to Brussels.

They had left the river and passed through a great dark forest when, in the falling darkness, the young man who drove the car—the same person who had watched Geoffrey in the Café Métropole—suddenly turned into a well-kept side road which led to a large country mansion, the Château de Rochehaut.

The door stood open as they pulled up, and on alighting, mademoiselle conducted him through a large but well-lit entrance-hall, upstairs to a small, well-furnished room on the first floor, where she left him, saying that she would go and fetch Monsieur Marvaut. The heavy curtains of purple silk damask were drawn, and the place presented a more cosy aspect than is usual in Belgian houses.

Suddenly the door reopened and Geoffrey stood amazed, for he met Sylvia face to face!

Both uttered exclamations of intense surprise, and both asked questions at the same moment.

“How came you here, dear?” asked Falconer eagerly. “Why, the police are hunting for you everywhere.”

“I know,” exclaimed a big, thick-set man who had followed the girl into the room, and was grinning evilly. “And the police will never find either of you.”

“Who are you—and what do you mean?” Geoffrey demanded quickly.

“I mean what I say!” was the man’s defiant reply.

“I have met you somewhere before,” remarked Falconer much puzzled, while the girl, who seemed half dead with fright, clung to her lover’s arm.

“Yes,” was the fellow’s response; “we met at the Castle of Zenta, in Hungary, where not only did you escape, but you were the means of sending our brave leader, Franz Haynald, and Koblitz and Françoise to prison. I have come from Hungary in order to carry out what has been decided in consequence.”

“And what is that, pray?” inquired Falconer.

“We succeeded in bringing your fiancée here so that you may both share the same fate—death!” he said in a low, hard voice, his eyes full of the fierce fire of vengeance.

“Stand aside!” shouted Geoffrey. “Let us pass!”

A second later the young engineer found himself cornered with a heavy automatic pistol.

“Move, and I’ll fire!” hissed the man whom he now recognised as a revolutionist named Stadler, who had visited the pseudo-Baron at the great castle in the Carpathians.

Then swift as lightning the fellow slipped out of the door, banged it after him, and ere Geoffrey could reach it, he had bolted it on the outside.

Both realised that they were caught like rats in a trap.

Geoffrey in an instant dashed to the window, only, however, to find to his dismay that it was closely shuttered and barred from the outside. Precautions had been taken to prevent their escape!

“Ah!” cried the fellow from the other side of the door, “let the police search! They will never find either of you now. You see the stove? Go across—and open it.”

They both glanced across the room and noticed a round iron stove about five feet in height, used for burning charcoal in winter.

Falconer crossed, and on opening it, saw within what seemed to be a steel cylinder.

“You’ve seen it—eh?” asked the voice mockingly. “That cylinder contains poison-gas! I will give you two minutes before I turn on your lethal draught—two minutes to wish each other a long farewell,” and the brute laughed heartily in his fiendish triumph.

Sylvia gave vent to a loud piercing shriek when she realised the horrible fate in store for them, and then she fell fainting into her lover’s arms. He bent and pressed his lips to hers for a second. Afterwards he placed her in a chair, and taking up another and heavier chair, began to attack the door furiously, smashing the chair in his efforts.

“The two minutes are up!” cried that mocking voice with a low, exultant laugh. “Good-bye!”

Next second a loud hissing came from the stove as the deadly gas, released suddenly, filled the room. Geoffrey caught a whiff of it, and instantly sank to the ground, inert and unconscious.

When they recovered consciousness they both found themselves in hospital wards, attended by doctors, and both learned later that it was Sylvia’s shriek which saved them.

Monsieur Guiette had fortunately suspected that Sylvia had met with foul play, and wondering whether some mishap might not occur to Geoffrey, had ordered his men to keep strict observation, unknown to the young Englishman, with the result that in the very nick of time they had been able to rescue both of them from that fatal room, and unearth a desperate and widespread plot. They also arrested the dangerous Hungarian revolutionist, Hermann Stadler—who had rented the château furnished—as well as the young motor driver, and the pretty girl, Stadler’s niece, who had so cleverly posed as the secretary to the Director of Civil Aviation. In a wood at the back of the château they found in a secluded spot an open grave ready for the reception of the victims!

The wireless tests at Bouvignes were delayed for two days until Falconer recovered, but at them Monsieur Marvaut—who had just returned from France—was present, and all went off most satisfactorily, the results being declared to be greatly to the credit of Geoffrey Falconer.

CHAPTER IX

THE THREE BAD MEN

GEOFFREY FALCONER, Mrs. Beverley, and Sylvia were spending a week-end at Tansor, in Northamptonshire, with George Barclay, a friend of the South American widow, who rented a hunting-box and rode regularly with the Fitzwilliam Hounds.

On the night of their arrival when they sat down to dinner with Barclay and his go-ahead wife and the latter’s cousin, a pretty girl named May Farncombe, all were full of expectation of some good runs. To Geoffrey, who had recently returned from a mission abroad, the fine English country house, with its old-world atmosphere, its old oak, old silver, and air of solidity, was delightful after the flimsy gimcracks of foreign life. The young radio-engineer had earned praise from Marconi House for the manner in which certain missions abroad had been carried out, and he was rapidly advancing in the world of wireless.

That evening proved an extremely pleasant one, and both Geoffrey and Sylvia were attracted by the chic of May Farncombe, who was tall and dark, about twenty-two or so, with a remarkable figure shown to advantage by a smart dinner-frock. She talked well, sang well, and was most enthusiastic over hunting.

The meet next morning was at Wansford, that one-time hunting centre beside the River Nene, and as Geoffrey rode with Sylvia and May, he noticed what a splendid horsewoman was the latter. She rode astride, her dark hair coiled tightly, her bowler hat with its broad brim suited her face admirably, while her habit fitted as though it had been moulded to her figure. Tied in her mare’s tail was a tiny piece of red silk, a warning that she was a kicker.

Hounds met opposite the Haycock, once a coaching-inn, but now a private house, and the gathering became a large one. From the great rambling old house servants carried glasses of sloe gin for all and sundry who cared to partake of the old English hunting hospitality. Geoffrey’s host introduced him to the Master, while the crowd of horses and cars became more congested every minute, and everywhere greetings were being exchanged.

Presently Barnard, the huntsman, drew his hounds together, the word was given, and all went leisurely up to draw first cover.

The morning was a damp cold one in mid-February; the frost had given, and every one expected a good run for the scent would be excellent.

The first cover was, however, drawn blank, but from the second a fox went away straight for Elton, and soon the pace became fast and furious. After a couple of miles more than half the field were left behind; still Geoffrey kept on, and while Sylvia remained far behind, yet May Farncombe was considerably in front of him. Suddenly, without any effort, the girl took a high hedge, and was cutting across the pastures ere he was aware that she had left the road. That she was a straight rider was quickly apparent, but Geoffrey preferred the gate to the hedge and ditch which she had taken so clearly.

Half an hour later the kill took place near Haddon, and of the half-dozen in at the death May Farncombe was one.

When Geoffrey came up five minutes later, she rode forward, crying:

“What a topping run, Mr. Falconer! I have enjoyed it thoroughly!” Her face was flushed with hard riding, yet her hair was in no way awry, and she presented a really fine figure of the up-to-date athletic girl.

Just, however, as Geoffrey and his companion sat watching Barnard cut off the brush, a tall, rather good-looking, fair-haired man rode up, having apparently been left behind, as he had. As he approached, Geoffrey noticed that he gave his handsome companion a strange look almost of warning, while she, on her part, turned away her head. It was as though he had made her some secret sign which she had understood.

That May Farncombe knew him was apparent. The slight quiver in the man’s eyelids, and the almost imperceptible curl of the lips had not passed him unnoticed. There was some secret between them, of what nature he, of course, knew not.

“I wonder who that man is?” Geoffrey remarked quite casually, as soon as he was out of hearing.

“I don’t know,” was her prompt reply. “He’s often out with the hounds.”

Falconer smiled within himself. He saw that she did not intend to admit that she had any knowledge of him. Like all women, she was a clever diplomat. But the man had made a sign to her—a sign of secrecy.

And at that moment Sylvia rode up with their host, George Barclay, and joined them, crying:

“Oh! what a run! I was left quite out of it. You were both at the kill, I suppose?”

That night Geoffrey sat alone with his host after the others had retired, and from him learnt that Mr. Farncombe, his wife’s uncle, had lived a long time in Marseilles as agent of a great English shipping company, and that May had been born in France. Falconer then mentioned the stranger who had exchanged those meaning glances with the girl, to which Barclay replied:

“I often see the fellow hunting. He comes from London, and stays at the George, at Stamford, I have heard.”

The days passed. Geoffrey managed to obtain an extension of his leave, and with Sylvia and May went to several meets—at King’s Cliffe, at Laxton Park, and also at Castor Hanglands. On each occasion the stranger from London was there. His name, Geoffrey found out from the George, at Stamford, was Ralph Phillips, but who or what he was nobody knew. So long as he paid a generous subscription to the Fitzwilliam pack, nobody cared.

That May Farncombe in denying all knowledge of the man had deliberately told an untruth, was quite plain. Geoffrey, however, kept his own counsel, and while spending many happy hours with Sylvia—Lord Hendlewycke being away at Cannes staying with an aunt—he nevertheless made no mention of his discovery.

How far Geoffrey was justified in watching the girl’s movements is no concern of the writer. But he did so, for he had unexpectedly alighted upon certain suspicions, and was determined to elucidate them.

Late one afternoon, Mrs. Beverley and her daughter having gone with Mrs. Barclay to make a call at Burghley, Geoffrey went for a stroll alone. While passing along the footpath from Tansor to Fotheringhay, he was skirting the edge of a big wood, when he caught sight of a flash of red among the bare black trees. It was May Farncombe.

He drew back instantly and watched. She was standing with the mysterious Mr. Phillips, who was speaking in a low, earnest tone. He seemed to be giving her directions, while she appeared to be remonstrating with him in an appealing attitude.

Fearing discovery, the young radio-engineer turned, and treading softly over the dead leaves—which were fortunately wet—crept away.

He met her next at the dinner-table, when he noticed how pale and anxious she was, apparently entirely changed from her usual light-hearted self. She, of course, said nothing of the clandestine meeting, but made pretence of being interested in wireless, asking him many questions concerning its present development and its possibilities.

“Are many fresh discoveries being made?” she presently inquired.

“Discoveries!” echoed Sylvia. “Why, Geoffrey and his friends are making marvellous discoveries and improvements every day. But he won’t tell you anything, my dear,” she added; “so it’s no use asking.”

“I could tell you a good deal,” Falconer said laughing “only I’m not allowed. The patents of many of our fresh discoveries are not yet quite safe.”

“Ah! then I understand,” said the dark-haired girl at his side. “But wireless is such a bewildering puzzle,” she went on. “Somebody was telling me the other day some most extraordinary things—that a ship, for instance, could be guided through a tortuous channel by means of a cable laid in the channel, and that on the way they could actually signal through the water to the end of the cable.”

Geoffrey smiled, and asked who had told her.

She tried to recollect. It was at a dance in London—a man she met who was connected with some wireless firm. She had forgotten his name. She had danced with him twice, and had then seen no more of him.

“Well, Miss Farncombe, you will be a little surprised to hear that system you speak of was invented no less than twenty years ago! It depends on a simple principle well known to scientists, but has been of no practical use until comparatively recently, when the wonderful Thermionic Valve enabled us to enormously increase the sensitiveness of the apparatus. The Americans got some kudos in connection with the laying of a ‘leader’ cable, as it is called, at the entrance to New York Harbour recently, but it is not generally known that we had the system working over here during the war.”

“Ah! Geoffrey,” laughed Sylvia, “it all seems so simple to you, no doubt, but to me it is wonderful. I am glad to hear the British were not so behind as so many would have us believe. You are such a modest old thing—I feel sure you had something to do with the development of this invention. Come, tell me now.”

“Oh! really nothing at all, Sylvia,” he replied, “except perhaps to design an amplifier which was used with the first leader cable at—well, one of our naval bases.”

“I thought so,” said the girl whom he loved so dearly.

“But how about the long-distance telephone?” asked May Farncombe.

“What do you know about such a telephone?” Geoffrey asked in surprise, as the girl had referred to a technical point which only a man versed in wireless could understand.

For a few seconds the girl seemed rather confused. Then she said in a rather faltering voice, as she took up her wine-glass: “Oh! I don’t know anything about wireless, you know. Somebody told me of some wonderful results in telephoning over long distances.”

Those words caused Geoffrey Falconer to ponder.

He dropped the subject. Loyal as he was to the great Marconi Company, he refused to discuss any of its confidences over a dinner-table. And he was relieved when the general chatter became concerned with a dance which was to be given at Peterborough on the following evening.

Next morning, about eleven o’clock, Sylvia and Geoffrey went out for a walk together on the high road which leads into the quiet little town of Oundle. Sylvia in a thick grey coat and a canary-coloured scarf, and carrying a stiff ash stick, went along with true golfing stride.

Strangely enough, she was the first to mention the girl Farncombe.

“I can’t fathom May at all,” she said. “To me she’s a mystery.”

“Why?” asked her lover, pretending ignorance.

“I don’t know, but she knows so little of you—and yet she knows so much!”

“How?”

“Well—her knowledge of wireless last night was extraordinary. She seems to know things that are entirely confidential. How? I don’t like such people, Geoff. They’re a bit uncanny!”

“Yes,” he laughed. “She’s somewhat of a mystery. But when one goes to a house-party one is sure to meet people who are mysterious. Yet they may be, after all, the most ordinary persons. It is one’s own point of view that often creates mystery. That’s my opinion.”

With that Sylvia agreed. Yet, of course, her lover had become more than ever puzzled over their fellow-guest, and was glad when Sylvia let the subject drop.

Sylvia and he were lovers, it was true, but he was so plain, straightforward, and honest, that he could not bring himself to reveal to the girl he loved the facts which had come within his knowledge.

If May Farncombe had a secret lover, what business was it of his? True, her undue knowledge of wireless inventions was somewhat strange, but what was most probable was that some friend of hers, perhaps the fair-haired man who had met her clandestinely, had given her just a little superficial knowledge—just as so many people possess.

Geoffrey bade farewell to his host and hostess three days later, and left for Warley, Mrs. Beverley and her daughter remaining for a few days longer. Sylvia had become very friendly with May, and Mrs. Beverley had asked her to stay with them for a fortnight or so in Upper Brook Street in about a month’s time.

Back at the Works at Chelmsford, Geoffrey continued his research work, assisting two well-known engineers in some highly interesting experiments. Privately he was experimenting with the amplification and magnification of wireless signals as applied to a new automatic call-device for use at sea. One had recently been perfected by young Falconer privately, but at present it was a secret, and not yet patented, for a slight point about it was not to his satisfaction.

Each night at his own private experimental laboratory at Warley he spent hours upon hours in trying to devise some means of removing the one slight defect of his new apparatus. Several automatic call-devices had been invented, and the Marconi one for use on ships had proved extremely satisfactory. Yet Falconer, true experimenter that he was, was never satisfied with results. He always endeavoured to make further improvements.

The calling-device, it may here be explained, is a piece of apparatus which will only ring an alarm bell when the call-signal of a ship—three or four letters of the alphabet—or the distress signal, “S.O.S.” is sent, and even then it is so arranged that the letters to which it is set to respond must be repeated before the alarm rings. The object of such a device is to enable small ships to work with one operator, who need not keep constant watch. As a rule passenger boats of any size carry three operators, who keep constant watch for calls day and night. But Geoffrey hoped that, by an improvement of the new device, a greater perfection still could be arrived at.

His hope, indeed, was to so devise a scheme that any message sent out to the call-signal to which it was set, would be printed in Morse automatically upon a tape instrument, so that even if the operator were not within call, the message would be recorded. Such achievement, however, was fraught with many technical difficulties of wave-length and other things, as all wireless men will quickly foresee. Still he worked hard and patiently each evening after his return from the Works.

Now and then he went to London and spent the evening in Upper Brook Street. Once or twice he dined out with Sylvia and her mother, and went to one or two dances in Mayfair, but the greater part of his spare time was occupied with his wireless calling-device. His superiors at Marconi House knew the trend of his experiments, and encouraged him, for Marconi apparatus is always being developed, improved, and again improved, until absolute perfection is at last arrived at. The calling-device in use was perfect, but if the incoming message could be recorded, then the improvement would be of immense benefit to both shipowners and shipmasters.

One day when he called at Mrs. Beverley’s, he found that May Farncombe had arrived upon her promised visit, and he sat in the drawing-room chatting for a long time with Sylvia and her friend.

“Geoffrey has actually torn himself away from his horrible old wireless,” Sylvia remarked. “For nearly a fortnight we’ve hardly seen him.”

“I’ve been awfully busy on a new gadget,” the young man replied with a laugh. Then, turning to May, he added: “Sylvia is always poking fun at me because I happen to be enthusiastic over my work.”

“Well, I don’t mean anything, my dear old boy,” laughed the girl. “You know that. What I think is that you apply yourself far too closely to it—at the Works all day and then continuing your work at home, sometimes into the early hours. You’ll injure your health if you don’t take care.”

“What are you particularly interested in discovering just now?” asked May.

In reply he explained, and found that she listened quite intelligently.

After an early dinner he took them both out to a theatre, but was unable to see them home, having to leave before the performance was over in order to catch the last train.

As he came out of the theatre a man in evening dress was standing upon the step, leisurely smoking a cigarette as though waiting for some one. As Geoffrey brushed past him, he glanced round, and was surprised to recognise in him the mysterious stranger of the hunting-field—the man known at the George, at Stamford, as Mr. Ralph Phillips. An omnibus going direct to Liverpool Street was passing at the moment, and Geoffrey jumped upon it.

The encounter was a strange one. Was it by mere accident that they had met? Or was the man Phillips awaiting May Farncombe? The incident sorely puzzled him. The pair might be lovers in secret, but their attitude when he had found them together certainly negatived such a supposition.

Back at Warley that night Geoffrey found that his father had gone to bed, so he sat in his wireless room for a long time trying some new adjustments upon the piece of apparatus he was bent upon improving. But recollections of the man Phillips kept running through his brain, so that at last he went to a drawer, and taking out some small snapshot photographs, selected one which he carried to the light and carefully examined. It was a photograph of Phillips which he had taken surreptitiously in the hunting-field. The man in hunting pink had dismounted and was leading his horse, while close beside him May Farncombe could be seen mounted, chatting with Sylvia, who was riding at her side.

“I wonder?” he muttered to himself. “I wonder what it all means? Why does he haunt the girl so? Why do they in public appear as strangers? I wonder?”

And he placed the photograph in his wallet, and turning out the lights, ascended to his room.

About ten days went by, when one evening, being in London with Maurice Peterson, one of the engineers from the Works, they looked in at the Palace Theatre after dinner. The performance was excellent, as usual, and later when they strolled into the bar the first person they encountered was the mysterious Phillips, well-dressed, and wearing a smartly-cut grey overcoat.

In a moment Peterson greeted him warmly, and said:

“Falconer, let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Paget.”

The two men shook hands. Paget! Then Phillips was not the man’s real name, Geoffrey thought.

“I think we met in Northamptonshire—didn’t we?” asked the man who called himself Paget.

“Oh, you’ve met before—eh?” asked Peterson.

“Yes; in the hunting-field,” Falconer said vaguely, and then all three had drinks together, and Falconer and his friend were afterwards compelled to leave.

“Who is that man Paget?” Geoffrey asked as soon as they were in the taxi.

“Oh, quite a nice fellow. I met him one day in the train as I was coming back from Carnarvon. He seemed to know something about wireless, and he gave me his card. So we met once or twice afterwards. He has rooms in Half Moon Street.”

“And he’s fond of hunting,” Falconer said. “Have you ever seen him with a tall, dark, very good-looking girl?”

“A girl with a mole on her left cheek? Oh, yes. One afternoon about a week ago I called on him and found her having tea at his rooms. I didn’t catch her name. She was dressed in brown, and had a beautiful set of furs.”

It was May Farncombe!

“I know the young lady. She’s a friend of mine,” Falconer said briefly, more puzzled than ever. “But do you really know anything about Paget?”

“Only that he seems to be a man of considerable means, very generous, and quite a good sort.”

Geoffrey remained silent. He was thinking deeply. It seemed that May Farncombe’s knowledge of wireless—and she quite unconsciously had betrayed a fairly wide grasp of the science and its latest developments—had been derived from the man whom she had pretended was a stranger to her.

Paget’s attitude towards Geoffrey’s friend had been most affable. He had even called him by his Christian name, and had reminded him of an appointment for dinner two days later.

Before they left the stranger added: “I hope, Mr. Falconer, that we shall meet again very soon.”

They did meet, and once under rather curious circumstances.

Geoffrey each night worked hard at his new design for the calling-device, to which he was attaching apparatus to record upon the tape the signals received. He met with failure after failure until at last, one night, he set his calling-device to receive signals from the efficient station of a Dutch amateur at Amsterdam—known in the world of wireless as “P.Y.N.” In wireless both in America and England, people and places are known by their call-signal, rather than by their names. He knew that on that particular evening “P.Y.N.” would call by Morse before sending telephony and music to English amateurs.

So having set his instrument attached to the “inker,” he waited. Suddenly at nine o’clock the Morse sounder gave two or three sharp clicks. He switched on the tape, and out upon it came a printed message from Amsterdam to certain stations in England.

His invention was complete!

With natural pride and excitement he called the Professor, and the pair stood watching the narrow green tape roll forth from the square brass “recorder” mounted upon its mahogany base—the strip bearing the message clearly printed. The calling-device had only responded to the one signal, “P.Y.N.”

“Congratulations, my boy,” said the old man, well pleased. “You deserve success after all that experimenting and the many hours you have given to it. I only hope it will bring you advancement and money,” he added. “It certainly should.”

“I hope so,” laughed the young man. “I was told at Marconi House only the other day that if I were successful the invention would be of inestimable value. And now it really works!”

Next day when he arrived at Chelmsford he told Peterson of his success, and that morning in the large, well-appointed luncheon-room at the Works—that bright apartment wherein the heads of the departments take their midday meal, and gossip—young Falconer was the recipient of many congratulations.

“Of course you’ll patent it at once,” said one engineer seated next to him—a man whose name is a household word in wireless.

“Yes,” laughed Geoffrey. “I suppose I ought to do so.”

“Ought to? Why, of course. It is a wonderful advance in wireless,” said another man a little further down the table.

That night he was again at Upper Brook Street, and naturally told Sylvia and her friend of his great achievement.

May Farncombe instantly grew interested, and put to him a number of questions. More than ever the clever girl showed a remarkable intelligence concerning wireless.

Mrs. Beverley had a small party that night; therefore, there was dancing, and the evening was most enjoyable. “The Wild Widow” had been a great social success in London, and to her parties flocked the people of the very best set. The penurious Lord Hendlewycke had fallen beneath a cloud, much to Sylvia’s delight, and now her mother seemed keenly on the alert for some rather better match for her daughter—with a man of title, of course. She desired at all hazards to return to Buenos Ayres as the mother-in-law of an English peer.

Geoffrey looked on amusedly at it all. With Sylvia he had a perfect understanding. She had promised him, time after time, that if she ever married he was to be her husband. The rest did not matter. Hence he remained perfectly content, devoting his days—and his nights—to scientific research.

One day Peterson told him that he was dining with Paget that night at the Bath Club, and that his host had telephoned asking him to bring him along. At first Geoffrey hesitated. Next moment he saw that if he became friendly with the mysterious fox-hunter he might learn the truth concerning certain facts which had so sorely puzzled him.

Therefore he accepted.

He found Paget a most genial host. While at table they spoke of wireless, and Peterson made mention of his fellow-guest’s important invention. At once Paget became interested, but Geoffrey merely laughed, and with his usual modesty, turned the conversation into another channel. Afterwards they went to a theatre and concluded a merry evening.

May Farncombe’s stay with Mrs. Beverley was almost at an end. She was joining her aunt in Paris, and then going with her down to Cap Martin. Somehow Geoffrey could not put it out of his mind that something was wrong. There was a secret between the girl and the affable man known at Stamford as Phillips, and in Half Moon Street as Paget. As the looker-on sees most of the game, he resolved to watch at Half Moon Street. This he did on several afternoons, wondering whether the girl, escaping from Upper Brook Street on pretence of shopping, would call there.

On the third afternoon, as he lingered in the vicinity, very careful to remain out of observation from the man’s windows, she came, neatly and quietly dressed, and, unseen, Geoffrey watched her enter the house where Paget lived.

She remained nearly an hour and a half, while he still waited against the Park railings on the other side of Piccadilly from where he had a clear view of Half Moon Street. At last she emerged, and gaining Piccadilly, turned in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. Noting this, Geoffrey slipped into a passing taxi and followed, thus getting in front of her unnoticed in the traffic. At Apsley House he got out, paid the man, and mingling with the hurrying crowd, walked in the direction she was coming.

At last, as though quite unexpectedly, they met. She started as though he were some apparition. For a moment she seemed too upset to be able to speak. Indeed, Geoffrey detected that she had been crying, for her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks showed traces of tears.

He was about to remark upon it, but refrained. Evidently her interview with the fellow Paget had been the reverse of pleasant, and her attitude set him further wondering. She, of course, had no idea that he had watched her go to Paget’s rooms.

He turned and walked with her up Park Lane, amazed to notice how nervous and unstrung she seemed.

“I’ve been out to a scent shop in Regent Street,” she explained. “Sylvia and her mother have gone to tea at Lady Burford’s, and I’m busy preparing to go over to Paris.”

“When do you leave?”

“About next Wednesday, I think. My aunt is coming from Bordeaux, and I meet her at the Hôtel Bristol.”

The mystery of her interview with Paget, and its effect upon her, caused him to ponder as he walked to Upper Brook Street, where he left her at Mrs. Beverley’s door, asking her to give a message to Sylvia that he had been compelled to get back to Warley.

In order to further endeavour to probe the mystery surrounding the man Paget, Geoffrey next afternoon, after leaving Marconi House at a quarter past five, called unexpectedly upon him at his chambers.

Paget, who was seated before the fire in the ease of a black velvet lounge coat, jumped up, greeted him warmly, and bade him be seated in the deep cosy arm-chair opposite, expressing delight that he had called.

“We’ll dine together,” he said, as he passed him the cigarette-box. “Seen Peterson to-day?”

“No. I haven’t been at Chelmsford to-day,” Falconer replied.

“I met another of your fellows from the Works the day before yesterday—a friend of Peterson. He tells me that your printing device is most wonderful—and there’s a lot of money in it. I hope you’ve patented it.”

“Not yet,” replied the young fellow frankly, “but I mean to do so in a day or so—when I get the circuits drawn out.”

“It’s your own invention, I take it? Nothing to do with the Company—eh?”

“At present—no. But the Company controls all wireless patents that are worth anything at all. They will control mine,” was Geoffrey’s reply.

“Well, I hope yours will bring you in a lot of money. It certainly must be of the greatest use in the merchant service, and you are to be heartily congratulated.”

Geoffrey turned the conversation to the Fitzwilliam Hunt, and the several runs in which both had taken part, hoping that he might mention May Farncombe. But he refrained. Indeed, he seemed to have no wish to recall his stay at Stamford. Perhaps it was because he had suspicion that Geoffrey knew that the name he had gone under at the George Hotel was not the one he was now using.

That night they had a pleasant dinner at Jules’, but more than ever it became impressed upon Geoffrey’s mind that the man had some sinister influence over the girl, hence her tears on the previous afternoon. There was a mystery somewhere, but what it was he was utterly unable to solve. Still, no man could have been more genial and light-hearted than that man who, leading a life of luxury, seemed to be surrounded by many friends.

On the following Tuesday night Falconer was again at Mrs. Beverley’s to bid May Farncombe good-bye, as she was leaving for Paris on the following morning. At dinner she seemed anxious to get away from London, and Geoffrey guessed the reason. She longed to extricate herself from some invisible net which the man Paget had cast about her. Apparently, for some secret reason, she was entirely in his power.

“Well, Miss Farncombe,” he said, as they stood together in the hall just before he departed, “I wish you bon voyage, and I hope we shall see you back in London again very soon.”

At that moment they were alone in the big wide hall.

“Hush!” she whispered. “I shall pretend to go to Paris—but I shall only go as far as Dover. Where can you see me alone—in secret—to-morrow night?”

“Anywhere you like,” he replied, much surprised.

“Then let us say in the lounge of the Hôtel Russell at eight o’clock. But not a soul must know!” she whispered.

Then aloud she said cheerily, just as Sylvia came out of the morning-room:

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Falconer, good-bye!”

And they shook hands, and a few moments later he was walking towards Grosvenor Square more than ever perplexed.

Next evening he was again in London, and in great anxiety arrived at the hotel in Russell Square where, passing through the hall, he saw May Farncombe awaiting him in the lounge. She had on her hat and coat, and rose to meet him, pale-faced and anxious.

“You see I’m back!” she said with a faint smile. “We can’t talk here. Somebody may overhear us! Let us walk around the Square—eh?”

This they did. They walked together slowly four times round the Square, though the night was very cold and windy. Neither thought of the weather, for the girl was too perturbed and excited, and the man too annoyed and astounded at what she revealed to him.

The facts which, in desperation she disclosed, staggered him. He promised to assist her, while she, on her part, thanked him profusely and revealed certain extraordinary circumstances which held him dumbfounded and fiercely angry.

At last they turned back into the hotel, and after sitting with her in the lounge for some time, he rose, and gripping her gloved hand, thanked her for her confidence.

“I shall really go to Paris to-morrow morning,” she said. “But remember all that I have said, and respect my confidence—won’t you, Mr. Falconer?”

“I certainly will, Miss Farncombe. Good-bye. You have all my sympathy, I assure you. But keep a stout heart, for I hope in the end all will be well,” he said reassuringly.

“But my secret!” she exclaimed.

“Leave that to me. Good-bye,” he repeated, and turning he left her.

A week later Geoffrey received a note from Paget asking him to dine with him at the Bath Club, an invitation which he accepted. Another and rather older man named Owen, to whom he had been introduced about a fortnight before, dined with them. Afterwards they went round to Paget’s rooms for an hour, and later Geoffrey left by ’bus to catch his train from Liverpool Street.

He was walking along the platform and about to enter the train when Owen, accompanied by a tall, clean-shaven man, came up breathlessly.

“This is the man!” Owen cried, pointing to Falconer. “I give him into custody for stealing my pocket-book! He must have stolen it while we were at the club!”

“What!—what do you mean?” gasped the young radio-engineer, turning upon him aghast.

“I mean that you have my pocket-book upon you—a brown suède one, with sixty pounds in Treasury notes.”

“It’s untrue!” declared Geoffrey. “I know nothing of your pocket-book. But look!” he exclaimed, utterly confounded. “A crowd is collecting. Let’s go somewhere and argue it out.”

“Yes,” Owen agreed, turning to the detective. “Let’s go back to Mr. Paget’s rooms, and then you can take him to the police-station afterwards.”

Geoffrey naturally became indignant, but in the taxi the detective put his hand into the inner pocket of the young fellow’s dinner-jacket and drew forth the missing wallet!

“See!” exclaimed the man; “here is the missing property—found upon you! You can’t make any excuse, can you?” Then turning to Owen he said: “It’s very fortunate, sir, that you came to Vine Street at once—or he would have thrown the case away.”

Geoffrey could not utter a word. He knew that he was the victim of some foul plot, from which it seemed impossible to extricate himself.

Back at Half Moon Street, a prisoner in the hands of the police, he stood with the three men, utterly dumbfounded. He protested that the wallet must have been purposely placed in his pocket when he had taken off his jacket in order to wash his hands. But all three laughed at this lame explanation.

“And what do you intend to do?” asked Falconer.

“To prosecute you for theft,” answered Owen. “And it will be a nice end to your very promising career as a wireless engineer!”

Geoffrey bit his lip in dismay.

“Is there no other way out of it?” he asked in a low, hard voice.

“Yes,” answered Paget, “there is.” And he asked the detective to retire into the next room. Then when the door was closed, the man Paget exclaimed:

“I propose, Owen, that if this young fellow gives us the diagrams of his new device for printing automatic wireless signals from the call-device, that we say nothing about it. It would only be a quid pro quo—eh?”

“Yes. But he might give us false diagrams,” Owen remarked, shaking his head dubiously.

“Make him write a statement that the money has been found upon him, and in order to avoid arrest and scandal he undertakes to hand over to us to-night his diagrams, and also his working apparatus. We will motor down with him to Warley for that purpose.”

To this course the two men agreed. Therefore Paget drew up a confession and undertaking which, under compulsion, Geoffrey signed, rather than be brought before the magistrates next day.

Afterwards all four descended together and went out into the street, where the taxi was still awaiting them.

Just as they were about to enter it Geoffrey slipped a police whistle from his vest pocket and blew it, when instantly four constables and a man in plain clothes closed upon them, and Geoffrey gave all three in charge! The man who had posed as a detective was one of the blackmailing gang!

The faces of the trio were a study. Their plot had been a clever one, but the counterplot which Geoffrey had laid for them had been complete.

The man Paget and his two friends appeared in due course at the Old Bailey, and all three returned to penal servitude, thus freeing poor May Farncombe—whom they had compelled to be their accomplice. They had held her in their power by first compelling her to sign a confession of theft in a similar manner, and then holding over her threats of exposure to her family and her friends.

The plot which the girl revealed to Falconer was a deeply-laid and cleverly-conceived one in order to obtain the secret of his invention, which they had planned to sell to some German firm in New York for a very considerable sum.

Indeed, Paget had already booked his passage across the Atlantic, and would have sailed from Liverpool on the following day had not Geoffrey laid his plans to entrap the unscrupulous trio.

Needless to say that on the day following their arrest steps were taken to patent the new device—which is now safe from infringement.

CHAPTER X

THE MYSTERY OF BERENICE

OVER the picturesque Welsh mountains the wind blew fresh, even though the afternoon was a brilliant one in August.

Outside the great Marconi wireless station high up at Ceunant, midway between Carnarvon and Llanberis, Geoffrey stood with Sylvia and her mother, explaining the huge aerial system with its ten masts, each four hundred feet high, placed around the cluster of white buildings comprising the power-house, transmission rooms, and other departments. The tall masts dwarfed the buildings beneath them, and both mother and daughter gazed up at them wonderingly when Falconer explained that from them messages had actually been sent through the ether and received clearly at Sydney, a distance of twelve thousand miles.

They had spent a most interesting afternoon watching the commercial messages, most of them in code, being transmitted to Belmar, on the opposite side of the Atlantic, and now the car was waiting to take them back to Carnarvon where they were staying the night at the Royal Hotel. They had all three travelled down by the Irish Mail from Euston to Holyhead, arriving there in the morning, and after breakfast at the hotel the car had taken them out to Ceunant, where they had lunched with the engineer-in-charge, and Geoffrey had afterwards acted as their guide, making full explanation of all they witnessed.

“Wonderful!” declared Sylvia as they entered the car. “The public speak airily of wireless, yet they little know to what marvellous perfection it is being brought.”

“That’s so, dear,” replied the South American widow. “I’m sure we’re awfully obliged to Geoffrey for showing us the station. It is a privilege accorded to very few.”

“Well,” laughed Geoffrey, “the company certainly do not encourage the merely curious. Otherwise all our stations would be overrun with visitors.”

The drive back through Llanrug to old-world Carnarvon was delightful, and after tea Sylvia and her lover took a stroll through the town as far as the great mediæval fortress which is washed on two sides by the waters of the Menai Straits and the Seiont. They were shown the Eagle Tower, where the first Prince of Wales was born; the Queen’s Tower, and the other historic portions of the fine old castle, and then returned to the hotel to rejoin Mrs. Beverley.

Later on, while they were at dinner, a tall, good-looking, dark-haired young man entered and glanced around to find a seat.

Instantly Geoffrey recognised him as Jack Halliday, an old schoolfellow at Shrewsbury, who was now a mining engineer, and was rapidly rising in his profession. The men greeted each other warmly, and on being introduced to the two ladies, the newcomer was invited to a vacant seat at their table.

“When I last met you, Jack, you were just going out to Peru,” Geoffrey said.

“Yes, that was a couple of years ago—wasn’t it? I did some prospecting in the Andes, and was quite successful,” replied the young man. “Now I’m off to Egypt for a trip.”

“How lovely!” remarked Sylvia. “I wish you’d go to Egypt, mother.”

“Mine will not be a very comfortable journey,” said the young man. “I’m going prospecting.”

“In search of mines?” asked Sylvia.

“Yes. There is believed to be a rich deposit of gold at a spot a little to the south of the ancient city of Berenice, on the west coast of the Red Sea, not far from Cape Ras Benas. I have obtained from the Egyptian Government a permit to prospect.”

“How extremely interesting!” remarked Mrs. Beverley. “What makes you think that gold is there?”

“Well, it appears that after Pharaoh Ptolemy II founded the port about three centuries before the Christian era, gold was discovered in considerable quantities about eight miles off. For several centuries the mines were worked, until, with the destruction of the city, they were also obliterated,” was Halliday’s reply. “Quite recently, however, my friend, Professor Harte, the well-known Egyptologist, has been exploring the ruins, and among the hieroglyphic inscriptions there, he found mention of the mines and of their richness. Therefore, it is my intention to endeavour to locate them.”

“I wish you every success, Jack,” exclaimed Geoffrey. “You certainly deserve it, for you’re always on the move.”

“And you meet with a good many adventures when you are on prospecting expeditions, I suppose?” remarked the widow.

“Well—a few,” he answered modestly. “It is a pretty rough life sometimes, but one gets used to it,” and his bronzed face relaxed into a merry smile.

The party spent an enjoyable evening together, and while Geoffrey gossiped with the rich widow, his friend Jack had a long chat with Sylvia.

They all retired to bed early, and were up betimes to the usual country hotel bacon-and-egg breakfast, the habit from which the Englishman, however cosmopolitan, can never break himself. In northern Europe they eat cheese for breakfast, in the south the horse-shaped roll with coffee, but the Briton must ever have his eggs-and-bacon in no matter what climate.

On arrival at Euston that evening they parted, and Geoffrey went back to his work in the research department at Chelmsford. He was experimenting with the four-electrode valve, the latest and most scientific invention applied to wireless reception.

Hour after hour, and day after day, with his telephones clamped over his ears, he experimented with new circuits, new inductances, and new condensers, the main object being the application of wireless telephony to commercial and household requirements in opposition to the heavy cost of construction and maintenance of land lines.

Many of the experiments in that great, well-lit room had given marvellous results, which when made public, would cause amazement throughout the world.

One afternoon, ten days later, Geoffrey met Jack Halliday in London. The latter was busy preparing his outfit for the expedition to recover the mine of the ancient Egyptians. Falconer was walking along the Strand not far from Marconi House when they accidentally came face to face. With Halliday was a man of about forty, smartly-groomed and well-set-up, apparently an ex-officer, with a well-dressed and rather pretty young woman. The man’s name was Gilbert Farrer, and the girl’s Miss Beryl Hessleton.

“We’re just going along to the Carlton to tea,” Jack said. “Come with us.”

Geoffrey accepted the invitation, and they all took tea in the palm-court.

Farrer struck Geoffrey as quite a good fellow—a man who had knocked about the world a good deal, no doubt. His companion seemed a smart, go-ahead woman, who smoked her after-tea cigarette in a long amber holder, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy it.

It was soon apparent from the conversation that they were new acquaintances of Jack’s. He had met Miss Hessleton on a steamer between Bergen and Hull a few weeks before, and they had met again by chance at Ciro’s. Then she had introduced him to her friend, Farrer.

After tea, while the orchestra played softly, the conversation naturally turned upon Jack’s expedition, for he had mentioned it to Beryl Hessleton on the trip across the North Sea.

“Well,” said Farrer, “I wish you every good luck on your venture. There’s no doubt that there’s gold in Egypt—and a good deal of it. I recollect when I was at Oxford reading up a lot about the mines of the ancient Egyptians. The workings have, I suppose, during the ages, been buried in the desert sand?”

“Yes,” replied Jack. “The sands are always shifting, and no doubt when the ancient city was destroyed and abandoned before the advance of the enemy, the Egyptians took good care to obliterate their mines.”

“I expect you’ll have some difficulty in finding it,” remarked the smart young lady between puffs of her cigarette. “Oh! how I wish I were a man, so that I could travel and prospect. I’d love it! You’ve got nothing to do, Gilbert. Why don’t you have a trip out to the Red Sea?”

“Ah!” laughed Halliday. “I fear you would soon wish yourself back in London.”

Three evenings later Geoffrey, who had dined at Mrs. Beverley’s, walked round to his club to get his letters before returning home to Warley, when in the hall he found Jack Halliday. The latter had just looked in to leave him a note of farewell, as he was leaving the following day for Egypt.

“Come with me round to Bevin’s and have a bit of supper,” he urged. “It’s my last night in town. And you can get a train home and on to Chelmsford early in the morning.”

“Chelmsford!” laughed Geoffrey. “I can’t very well turn up at the Works in a dinner-jacket!”

But thus pressed, he nevertheless accepted his old schoolfellow’s invitation, and went round to Bevin’s, the smart night club close to Portman Square.

The scene there was one of gay abandon, of reckless expenditure, and somewhat questionable morals. Alas! how the West End has degenerated since the war! Yet these adventures of Geoffrey Falconer have no concern with the morals of Underground London.

Beryl Hessleton and Gilbert Farrer were there, and all four had supper, during which Halliday told them that he hoped to win a fortune upon the information which his friend, the famous Egyptologist, had derived from the ancient monuments in the colossal ruins of Berenice, some of which were quite as wonderful as those at Thebes.

“If I find this mine, I have a first-class firm into whose hands I can easily place the concession,” he said to Falconer across the table, amid all the gay laughter and irresponsible chatter of the assembled company. The West End to-day only emulates the Montmartre of yesterday, with its “Heaven,” “Hell,” and “The Red Windmill,” without counting the “Dead Rat.”

The war has passed, but your cosmopolitan of any nation is just the same easy-going Bohemian traveller, a gipsy whose laughing boast is that when his hat is on his roof is on.

Such a man was Jack Halliday.

Geoffrey next day saw him off from Victoria Station with an array of green canvas bags—long bags like those of cricketers. And with him upon the platform stood Beryl Hessleton. The young mining engineer had been pleasant to her, but he was rather surprised that she should take the trouble to see him off. Geoffrey noted it, but made no comment.

About six weeks went by. One evening, having worked late in the research laboratory at Marconi House, Geoffrey walked westward to his club. On the way he met a middle-aged man-about-town named Franks, whose acquaintance he had formed at Mrs. Beverley’s, and after a brief chat, Geoffrey invited him to dine at the Grill of the Piccadilly Hotel.

While they were eating their meal a stout, white-haired man entered, accompanied by the handsome Beryl Hessleton, who, recognising the young radio-engineer, waved her hand across at him and smiled.

“Hulloa! Do you know her?” asked Franks with some surprise.

“Slightly,” was Geoffrey’s reply.

“H’m!” grunted the other. “A pretty cute crowd she’s in with.”

“How?” inquired Falconer.

“Oh—well. That old chap she’s with is old Daddy Whittaker—a friend of a fellow named Farrer. The whole crowd are international crooks, so be careful if you happen to know them.”

Geoffrey was surprised at this. But, as usual, he kept his own counsel. It seemed that his old school chum, Jack, had got mixed up with a very queer set. But in the West End there are queer sets on every hand, the dancing and drug-taking degenerates of both sexes who live upon their wits, and live very well, too. In certain circles within a mile of Piccadilly Circus, thieves and blackmailing vampires hobnob with young and pretty women of title, while innocent persons of both sexes fall into the vortex of vice and gaiety.

Presently Geoffrey asked, glancing across at Beryl:

“What do you really know about her? She’s rather fond of a great pal of mine.”

“Then I pity your pal, my dear Falconer,” was the elderly man’s reply. Franks was a member of Wells’ and the Bachelors’, and he moved in a very fast, go-ahead set.

“Why?” asked the young radio-engineer.

“Because of the past record of the crowd of which she is the decoy-duck. That’s all,” was his friend’s reply. “Daddy Whittaker, who is sitting yonder with her, is an old gaol-bird who still directs the nefarious operations of a dozen men and women. And woe betide anyone who falls into that girl’s net.”

Falconer, full of thought, went on with his dinner. They were out of hearing of the girl and her companion. At last the young fellow related how he had been at Bevin’s Club with his old schoolfellow, Halliday, where Beryl and Gilbert Farrer had also been.

“Well, all I hope is that your friend Halliday will keep clear of that unholy organisation,” said his companion. “They’ll stick at nothing. But why are they friendly with your old schoolfellow? What is the motive—eh?”

“I don’t know. He’s a mining engineer, and has just gone to the Red Sea prospecting for a gold mine of the ancient Egyptians.”

“Ah! Then he should beware. There’s no doubt some very subtle plot afoot. You should warn your friend to have a care.”

“I can’t get at him. He’s gone out to Cape Ras Benas, and, like all prospectors, has not left an address.”

“That’s a pity. But when you get in touch with him again, warn him at once to avoid Daddy and his crowd as he would a poison bowl. They’re dangerous—very dangerous. I heard from my old friend, Superintendent Tarrant, of Scotland Yard, all about them. You recollect the Alleyn scandals in the papers about nine months ago? Well, old Whittaker and the girl yonder were at the bottom of it all. They escaped prosecution for blackmail, but they had netted over ten thousand pounds out of old Mr. Alleyn.”

Falconer now grew suspicious of Beryl’s acquaintance with his chum. Why had she seen him off so affectionately?

“I wonder where Farrer is to-night?”

“Farrer! Why, he’s a bird of passage—the kind of man who eats his breakfast in London, dines in Paris, and lunches next day beyond the Mont Cenis tunnel. He’s one of the cleverest thieves in all Europe—with Daddy’s brain, of course, behind him,” was Franks’ reply.

Falconer looked across the crowded room to where the old man and the girl were eating their dinner together. To others they appeared to be father and daughter. The man had an evening paper, and now and then glanced at it when the courses were finished.

When Geoffrey and Franks rose, the former looked across and bowed as he went out, full of wonder and suspicion.

The days that followed proved busy days for Geoffrey. An entirely new circuit for wireless telephony had been devised by the well-known radio-expert, Captain Meredith, at the Works, and it was being tested—low voltage on the anode of the valves and a high amperage on the aerial—an achievement which had been attempted for a year with little success. Here, however, the combined brains of the Marconi personnel were again persevering towards perfection, and it had fallen upon Geoffrey to assist in some of the most delicate and intricate experiments.

Hence he had but little time to go up to London to see Sylvia.

One day, about three months later, as he sat down to luncheon in the bright, airy “officers’ mess” at the Works, one of his fellow engineers, named Davies, seated opposite him, exclaimed:

“There’s a big find of gold just made at a mine worked by the Pharaohs in Egypt. By Jove!” he added with a sigh, “mining seems to be more profitable than wireless!”

Geoffrey, pricking up his ears, instantly asked:

“Where is the mine situated?”

“Somewhere on the Red Sea, close to the ruins of an ancient city—I forget the name of the place.”

“Is it Berenice?”

“Yes—that’s the name of the place. How do you know? I was told in London yesterday, and I was told in confidence,” Davies said.

“By whom?”

“By a fellow I know named Farrer. He’s been out there and got a concession from the Egyptian Government. And he’s no doubt made a fortune. I wish I were in his shoes!”

Geoffrey held his breath.

“Is your friend Farrer a mining engineer?” he asked.

“Not at all. He’s a speculator—bought the concession off somebody, I suppose. A lucky speculation. I met him the night before last at the Palais de Danse. He had with him a very pretty girl he called Beryl.”

“And I suppose you met an old white-haired man named Whittaker?”

“Oh, yes—‘Daddy,’ they called him,” was the reply.

“And perhaps you met them at Bevin’s night club—eh?” asked Falconer.

“How did you know that?” inquired his friend.

“Well—because I guessed it.”

“Then you also know Farrer?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey replied briefly, for the conversation had increased his wonder and suspicion. Along the table the conversation turned, as it always does, upon wireless research and the business of the Company, interspersed with personal chaff. At Chelmsford there is a daily reunion of heads of departments at luncheon, where the interchange of ideas is always intellectual, for gathered there are men of the greatest scientific knowledge, mostly young, all enthusiastic, and all experts in their own branches of radio-telegraphy.

Later that day young Falconer went into the testing department where Davies was busily engaged, and returned to the conversation they had had at luncheon.

“Is Farrer an intimate friend of yours?” asked Geoffrey.

“Not intimate. I know Beryl, his pretty little friend. I’ve dined once or twice with him in town.”

“Have you ever met a fellow named Jack Halliday?”

“No. Never heard the name. Why?”

“Well, because Halliday, who is an old schoolfellow of mine, is prospecting for gold on the Red Sea coast.”

“Ah! Then no doubt Farrer has bought his secret.”

“Perhaps he’s stolen it,” Geoffrey suggested.

“No,” declared his friend. “Farrer is a real good fellow, most generous to his friends, and one of the most upright men I’ve ever met.”

Geoffrey, reflecting upon what his friend Franks had told him, became more mystified.

Where was Jack Halliday?

Next day Geoffrey, being in London, called at the address in Bayswater, which Jack had given him.

The landlady said it was true that he had rooms there, but she had not seen him since he left for Egypt. About three weeks ago, however, she received a telegram from him, and this she produced. It had been dispatched from Alexandria three weeks before, and asked Mrs. Gibbons to send through Pickford’s by grande vitesse his big black trunk addressed to Cook’s baggage department at Marseilles, adding that he was unable to return to London at present, as he was sailing for Cuba.

“And you have sent the trunk?” asked Geoffrey of the pleasant, round-faced woman.

“It went on the day after I received the message. Pickford’s collected it,” replied the landlady.

“What did the trunk contain?”

“Oh! of that I have no idea, except that I think Mr. Halliday kept most of his business papers in it,” she said. “Once it was open in his bedroom, and I saw in it a lot of papers tied up with pink tape, like lawyers use.”

Falconer paused. Why had it been sent to Marseilles when his friend had these rooms as his pied-à-terre in London?

They were standing in Jack Halliday’s little sitting-room at the time, and he glanced around. Mrs. Gibbons pointed to one or two souvenirs of travel upon the walls, and a few curios upon a side-table which she kept carefully dusted in the eager expectation of her wandering lodger’s return.

Geoffrey Falconer left Bayswater with a distinct impression that something was radically wrong. He could not understand why Jack, if he were called from his prospecting upon the Red Sea coast to go to Cuba, should have wanted his private papers sent to Cook’s at Marseilles—that great baggage organisation through which passes half the luggage of those going to India and the Far East.

That night he spoke to Sylvia, telling her the whole facts.

“I believe with you, Geoff, that something is wrong. Why should Mr. Farrer, who is not an expert mining engineer like your friend Halliday, be in possession of the secret of the Berenice Mine?”

“I mean to make it my business to inquire,” replied the young fellow. “Jack shall not suffer if I can help it.”

Falconer did not allow the grass to grow beneath his feet, for next day he was on the alert. The telegram had been sent by the Eastern Company’s cable from Alexandria, but at ten o’clock that morning he inquired of S.U.H. (Ras-el-Tin), the radio station at Alexandria, whether the Englishman, Mr. Halliday, could be found in that city.

Half an hour later there came back a reply that inquiry had been made at the chief post-office at Alexandria, but nobody of that name was known there.

The next message Falconer sent was to the engineer-in-charge at Port Sudan, on the Red Sea, south of Cape Ras Benas, asking him if he had heard anything of the young mining prospector, Jack Halliday.

The answer by wireless was “Wait—wait—wait: for two hours.”

Geoffrey waited. Two hours later Port Sudan replied that nothing was known of Mr. Halliday, and suggested that inquiry be made of Cairo. But the high-power station at Abu Zabal, outside Cairo, later on answered as follows to the experimental call-signal he had used:

“2.A.Z. from S.U.S. Reply to your inquiry re mining engineer Halliday, can obtain no knowledge of him here except that he was at Ras Benas two months ago.”

That night Falconer went up to London, and with apparent idleness, he lounged into Bevin’s night club. The place was crowded, and the supper-room full after the theatre. It was not, however, long before he espied the man he sought.

“Hulloa, Farrer!” he cried in warm welcome, and a moment later he bent over the hand of his well-dressed companion, Beryl Hessleton. “Why, I thought you were abroad!” exclaimed Geoffrey.

“Gilbert got back some time ago,” replied Beryl. “He’s had a lovely time in Egypt. I only wish I had been there.”

“Yes,” said the smartly-groomed man in evening clothes, “I really had a tophole time in Cairo. And afterwards I went up the Nile to Assouan. There I met your friend Halliday. He’s found that ancient mine, and I’ve bought it from him. He’s gone to Cuba.”

“Did you buy it?” asked Geoffrey in surprise. “Then I suppose Halliday will soon be back in town again—eh?”

“No, I don’t think so. He’s been engaged by some big firm of American mining engineers to prospect for iron in Cuba, I believe. Anyhow, when we met at the Cataract Hotel, in Assouan, he was full of it. He didn’t seem to think that the mine in Berenice was worth very much—worked out centuries ago, he said. So he sold it to me with the concession—lock, stock, and barrel.”

“And you will re-sell it to a company, I suppose?”

“Perhaps. I don’t quite know yet. I’ve one or two people in the city ready to take it up.”

“But if the mine is worked out, of what use is it?”

“I don’t think that Halliday really explored it very much. He found it, but just at the moment he received the tempting offer from America; so he was glad to get rid of it. I went over to Ras Benas before I bought it, and looked into the hole in the sand which gave entrance to the ancient workings.”

“Well, I hope you will find that it is still a rich mine. Gold is sadly wanted now that America holds all that we had before the war.”

“That’s just it,” said the smartly-dressed man. “Old Julius Evenden used that selfsame argument yesterday when I put the prospect before him.”

“Then you’ve offered it to Evenden?” asked Falconer, naming one of the greatest financial houses in the city.

“Yes, and I believe he’ll take it up. If so, it will mean a fortune for me.”

“Oh! you always were terribly lucky, Gilbert!” laughed Beryl. “Let’s go across and have a drink. I’m sure Mr. Falconer wants to wish you good-luck!”

And the trio passed along to the little bar just off the dancing-room.

A Marconigram sent from Fenchurch Street to Marseilles next day by Falconer elicited the fact, from Cook’s Agency, that the black trunk received from London addressed to Mr. Halliday had been claimed three days after its arrival.

Again Geoffrey inquired by wireless for a description of the man who had claimed it, but the reply was that he was “an elderly Englishman”!

Though Geoffrey was very full of work, experimenting upon the new circuit for wireless telephony, nevertheless he devoted all his spare time to solving the whereabouts of his old school chum. And in this Sylvia gladly assisted him.

By constantly spending his evenings amid the gay crowd at Bevin’s he was able to watch Gilbert Farrer pretty closely. He often met the sprightly Beryl, who was never loth to dance with him, Geoffrey being an unusually good dancer, and good-looking into the bargain. So by being on friendly terms with the girl Falconer was enabled to keep Farrer under observation.

Farrer knew, of course, of Geoffrey’s friendship with the mining engineer, but that fact did not concern him now that he had purchased his interest in the re-discovered mine of the Pharaohs.

At Bevin’s, late one night, Geoffrey had been dancing with Beryl, Farrer being absent. He had not looked in all night, and it was already three o’clock in the morning. Geoffrey was about to return to his club when a white-haired, benevolent-looking old gentleman, whom he at once recognised as “Daddy” Whittaker, the notorious crook, came in and advanced to meet the girl, who, in turn, introduced him to her companion.

“Seen Gilbert to-night?” asked old Mr. Whittaker eagerly of Beryl.

“No; I haven’t seen him all day. He promised to take me to lunch at the Pall Mall, but he never turned up—and he didn’t ‘’phone’.”

“Ah! he’s busy,” replied the old man in a low voice. “He fixed up that little matter with Evenden this afternoon. They are sending out two experts to Egypt at the end of the week.”

“What!” cried the girl. “The Berenice Mine sold! Then Gilbert’s made his fortune! He always was a lucky fellow.”

“Yes; but he doesn’t want it known yet,” the old fellow went on confidentially. “So say nothing about it.”

“Farrer told me about his purchase of the mine,” Geoffrey remarked quite casually. “It’s most interesting—is it not? My friend, Jack Halliday, re-discovered it after the secret of its existence had been lost for two thousand years.”

At mention of Halliday the white-haired old man glanced at him quickly, but his manner did not alter in the least.

“Yes; I believe Gilbert bought it from a man named Halliday, together with the concession which he’s got from the Egyptian Government. Anyhow this mine could not be in better hands than those of Evenden. Of course it may be exhausted. But the experts they are sending out will soon decide that.”

“In any case a company will be formed to run it, I suppose?” asked Beryl, whereupon the crafty old man smiled knowingly, as he remarked:

“An ancient gold mine always attracts subscribers.”

Two days later Geoffrey Falconer sat in the old-fashioned room of Mr. Julius Evenden, the world-famous financier, and made inquiry regarding the Berenice Gold Mine.

At first the head of the great financial house, whose dealings were world-wide, was inclined to resent undue intrusion into his business dealings with Gilbert Farrer, until the young fellow explained that his old schoolfellow had, owing to Professor Harte’s discovery of the hieroglyphics, gone to the ruins of the ancient Egyptian city for the purpose of searching for the long-forgotten mine.

“I never heard Professor Harte’s name in connection with the affair,” said old Mr. Evenden. “Of course, he is one of our greatest Egyptologists. Perhaps he is on the telephone,” and he rang his bell and gave his clerk instructions to endeavour to get through to the Professor.

Ten minutes later Mr. Evenden was speaking with the Professor, who lived at Wimbledon, and urged him, if possible, to call at Great Winchester Street that afternoon.

The hour fixed was four o’clock, and Geoffrey was present at the interview.

When Mr. Evenden informed the great Egyptologist that he had purchased all interest in the re-discovered mine from Gilbert Farrer, he stood amazed.

“But surely my friend Halliday, to whom I gave a copy of the inscription upon the ruins of the Temple of Isis at Berenice, and whom I trust implicitly, would never have parted with his interest in the mine without first consulting me!” he cried.

“Here is the transfer,” replied Mr. Evenden, handing the Professor a document. “It was signed before a French Notary-Public in Alexandria you will see.”

The old Professor adjusted his pince-nez, and after reading the document carefully, examined the signature.

“That is forged!” he declared at once. “I know Jack Halliday’s signature extremely well. I have some of his most recent letters here,” and he took several letters from his pocket. These all three examined very closely. Some were signed “Jack,” others “J. Halliday.” But in no case did the signature on the document exactly correspond with the signature on the letters!

“You see the last letter was dated from Alexandria six weeks ago, and speaks of his success, and his intention of coming straight home,” the Professor remarked.

“Then where is he now—and why has his luggage been sent so urgently to Marseilles and claimed?” asked Falconer.

Mr. Evenden thereupon became suspicious, and related his dealings with Gilbert Farrer, and how he had already paid him a considerable sum on account, until the reports of the engineers he was sending to Egypt should be forthcoming.

“There is no doubt that Halliday has re-discovered the workings,” said the Professor. “But where is he now! He seems to have mysteriously disappeared.”

“The only man who knows his whereabouts is Gilbert Farrer,” declared Geoffrey decisively. “For what reason was that trunk containing his private papers sent so hurriedly to Marseilles?”

“That we must discover,” declared Mr. Evenden. “Our policy must be to act without arousing Farrer’s suspicions,” he added.

Thereupon the three sat down and evolved a plan.

The first step was taken by Geoffrey, who, through Beryl, discovered the whereabouts of “Daddy” Whittaker. Next day he met him by appointment in the Park, and as they were walking together, Sylvia, who was dressed as a tourist, took a secret snapshot of them as they passed.

This photograph was quickly developed, and that same night Falconer left with it for Marseilles.

Two days later he showed it to the employé at Cook’s baggage depôt, who at once, and without hesitation, declared the elder man to be the person who claimed the trunk addressed to Mr. Halliday. The trunk had been signed for and taken away on a taxi-cab. The signature in the book was that of “J. Halliday.” But it certainly was not Jack’s!

Geoffrey took the rapide back to Paris that night, sorely puzzled. What had become of his old chum? Marconigrams were sent broadcast in search of him. The passenger lists of six ships sailing from Marseilles to Cuba were examined, but in no case was there any trace of any such person in the lists.

Early in the morning, as the express halting at Laroche awakened him, it suddenly crossed his mind that Jack’s identity was being obliterated by some clever combination of the crooks. In Paris he would go to the Bureau of the Sûreté and make inquiries.

At noon he was in the dull, drab office of the famous French detective, Gaston Meunier, to whom he told the story, and asked whether he thought his friend had met with foul play.

The little bald-headed official raised his shoulders and replied that, in view of the fact that the trunk had been sent to Marseilles, it was quite possible that Monsieur Halliday had returned from Egypt to France.

Then they went into dates. Afterwards the great detective rose, and left him. Ten minutes later he reappeared, having a number of police photographs of persons who had been found dead, suicides, and those wilfully murdered, whom the police both in Paris and in the Departments had failed to identify.

The period covered was six months.

With great eagerness Geoffrey Falconer examined one after another—many of them pictures of recovered bodies, a terrible, gruesome collection—when at last he came across the picture of a man lying face upward on the grass.

“That’s Jack!” he exclaimed wildly. “I have no hesitation in identifying him!”

Monsieur Meunier turned to the back of the large unmounted photograph, and read what was written there as follows:

“An unknown. Supposed to be English. Discovered at 7.10 a.m., on October 28th, behind a small pottery factory, a mile from the village of St. Uze, close to Valence, Department of the Drôme. The medical examination showed the person to have died from some vegetable poison. It is believed that he was deposited at the spot during the night from a passing car. No arrest has been made. Any details of identification to be sent to the Prefect of the Drôme.”

Three days later Geoffrey arrived at Charing Cross accompanied by an agent of the Paris Sûreté, who at once applied for the arrest and extradition of the adventurer, Gilbert Farrer.

This took place when Farrer called at Mr. Evenden’s office next day—and two months later, at his trial before the Assizes of the Seine, the clever assassin who had stolen poor Jack Halliday’s secret was sentenced to penal servitude for life.

At the present moment he is still in the convict prison at Lyons, while his friend Beryl and “Daddy” Whittaker, who were both deeply implicated in the plot, were each sentenced to fifteen years’ penal servitude at the Old Bailey.

The great Berenice Gold Mine is being worked with huge success, but the profits which should have been poor Jack’s are being paid regularly to his widowed mother, who lives in seclusion in Pembrokeshire, deeply mourning the loss of one of the finest and bravest of Englishmen.

CHAPTER XI

THE MARKED MAN

THE military wireless station at Aldershot had just finished sending the usual extracts from the press to the headquarters of the Rhine Army at Cologne, when Geoffrey Falconer, with the telephones still over his ears, lowered the wave-length of his reception set, and began to listen to the strains of an orchestra being played at The Hague.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and “the Dutch Concert,” to which all wireless men in England listen so eagerly, was in progress.

Seated in his own experimental laboratory at Warley he leaned his elbows upon the operating-bench and listened.

Who would have dreamed a couple of years ago that a concert given at The Hague could be heard with distinctness by wireless in every corner of the United Kingdom! A cornet solo at the moment being played was loud and perfectly clear. He turned a switch, when from the black trumpet of the loud-speaker telephone on the table the sound became so amplified that the instrument could be heard in any part of the house.

During the day he had been engaged upon some highly interesting experiments upon a crystal producing oscillations, audible frequency currents being obtained by two metal electrodes dipped into the powder of a certain crystal. The matter was extremely technical, and would not be understood by any but radio experimenters; therefore, I need not further describe it. Suffice it to say that all the time Geoffrey could spare from the Works at Chelmsford he devoted to research in his own laboratory at home.

Mrs. Beverley and Sylvia were away in the Trossachs, hence he seldom went to London save when duty took him up to Marconi House.

Geoffrey listened to several songs from The Hague, and then put down the head-’phones, switched his aerial wires to earth, and went out into the pleasant old-world garden to smoke a cigarette. The afternoon was clear and bright, and along the grass path of the long rose walk he strolled, his mind full of the scientific problems which he had been endeavouring all the morning to solve. He wandered to the lawn and sat down in the summer-house awaiting the Professor, for always about that hour he, too, came forth from his study to enjoy a cigar. Suddenly, however, the housemaid appeared saying that he was wanted on the hand telephone.

He hastened to the instrument in the hall, when he found himself speaking to one of his fellow-engineers, named Jerrold, who lived at Witham, and who had a private wireless station similar to his own not far from the Marconi station there.

“I say, Falconer,” he exclaimed, “have you been listening lately?”

“Yes. Till about twenty minutes ago.”

“Ah! Then you didn’t hear that message to you—did you?”

“No. What message?” asked Geoffrey.

“Oh, somebody on the wireless ’phone about sixteen hundred mètres wave-length, called you by name, Geoffrey Falconer, Warley, Essex, England.”

“Yes. What did he say?”

“I don’t know whether it was a man’s voice or a woman’s. If a man’s it was unusually high-pitched. The modulation was not very good, though I heard the words quite distinctly, and wondered if you also heard them. It was a kind of warning to you.”

“Warning!” echoed the young Marconi engineer. “In what way?”

“Well, whoever was calling you evidently did not know your call-signal, so called your name. And then he went on to warn you not to go East. If you do, you go at your peril!”

“Not to go East! How strange!” Geoffrey remarked.

“Yes; it’s a bit uncanny—isn’t it? He repeated it several times, and then added the words: ‘Anyone hearing this urgent message, will they kindly give it to Geoffrey Falconer at Warley, Essex, England?’”

“Some silly ass having a joke,” laughed Falconer. “I heard the other day that some horrible spook message was given by a practical joker over the radiophone, and the fellow who heard it, being a spiritualist, nearly died of fright. Perhaps it’s the same fellow up to his tricks again!”

“Perhaps. We’ll listen again for him, and if he gives any more warnings we’ll put the direction-finders on him, and he’ll very soon have his license taken away—if he has one,” said Jerrold.

“Well, it’s curious,” exclaimed Geoffrey laughing. “I wonder why I’m forbidden to go East, and what peril is in store for me?”

“Ah! that I don’t know. The message was given at twenty-eight minutes past three. So we’ll listen to-morrow at the same time, and on the same wave-length.”

“Right-o!” said Falconer, hanging up the receiver and then strolling back into the garden, wondering what the message really meant.

He had no intention of going East, save that he had a week before received instructions to proceed to Lucerne, where, close by, on the Tomlishorn, the highest peak of the Pilatus, above Alpnachstad, the Marconi Company were erecting a one-and-a-half kilowatt telephone and telegraph set ordered by the Swiss Government, the set used at the meeting of the League of Nations at Geneva having proved such a great success.

Lane, one of the engineers, was already out there, and he had been ordered to follow him and superintend the fitting and testing of the station before it was handed over to the Swiss authorities. Switzerland certainly lay to the East, but what mysterious peril awaited him there was certainly obscure. At first he grew a trifle anxious in view of his previous adventures, but later that evening he decided that it was some amateur who, having learned of his impending departure, was playing a practical joke. Yet curiously enough only about three or four people at the Marconi Works knew of the order he had received.

At dinner that night he mentioned the incident to the Professor, but both decided that it was only some silly joke.

On the following Thursday he left Charing Cross for Lucerne, where, at the Schweizerhof, that well-known hotel facing the lake, Lane, who had come by boat from Alpnach, came to meet him. Next day they ascended to the famous Hôtel Pilatuskulm, where they took up their quarters, only half an hour’s walk by a good path to the site of the new wireless station.

Already the two one-storeyed buildings, and the aerial upon masts of steel lattice, were erected. The material had all come out from England, and the contractors had finished their work on the masts. Indeed, Lane and his colleagues from Chelmsford had already commenced their work of fitting the apparatus.

The wireless station which the Swiss Government had ordered was situated high upon the wild rocky mountains, and was intended for the communication of post-office messages with Rome, Vienna, and Paris, the apparatus being the last word in Marconi invention.

The two great buildings which comprise the hotel were full to overflowing, as it usually is in the autumn season, a gay cosmopolitan crowd, who dined and danced and went on excursions either mountaineering or along the great blue lake to Kussnacht to see Tell’s Chapel, to Vitznau, Brunnen, or Fluelen. From the verandas there spread a wonderful panorama of lake and mountain with the various peaks, with the names of which the visitor so soon becomes familiar.

Geoffrey was standing alone on the veranda early one morning admiring the wonderful view in the morning light. There was passing along a very feeble, white-haired, white-bearded old man, accompanied by a handsome dark-haired, well-dressed young woman, who, from the attention she paid him, was palpably his daughter. The old fellow walked decrepitly as one of advanced age, and ever and anon he halted to take in the wondrous scene.

As they passed by they spoke in a tongue with which Geoffrey was unfamiliar. But the young woman, he saw, wore a wedding ring.

Their eyes met, and in hers he noted a strange, appealing look—an expression which, being quite unusual, caused him to ponder. He was rapidly becoming a cosmopolitan after his various missions abroad on behalf of the Marconi Company.

All that day he spent in the wireless hut high upon the bare, rocky mountain, carefully fitting the instruments which were to give such a wide range of telegraphy and speech—the very latest devices that had been invented in the research department at Chelmsford, for, after all, the real brains of wireless are centred in that old-fashioned Essex town.

That night he was back with Lane at the big hotel, and dined in the great salle à manger, amid the gay laughter and chatter.

Across in a corner sat the white-bearded old man with his married daughter. He seemed rather deaf, for ever and anon she bent to speak with him. And as she did so, he saw that she was most solicitous of his welfare, as only a daughter could be.

Later that night, there being the usual dance in the big ballroom, Geoffrey went in, and being attracted by her, invited her to dance with him, and she accepted.

She was alone. The old man had retired to bed.

Geoffrey’s interest was purely one of curiosity. The girl-wife seemed to be carrying out her duty to her father, and was terribly bored in doing so.

Before they parted that night he learned that she had come from Serbia, and that her name was Marya Pavlovitch. She had married a state official a year and a half before. Her father’s name was Colonel Yovan Vanoff, a well-known officer of the King’s Guard at Belgrade, who had fought valiantly against the Turks in the first Balkan war, and had gained distinction at the decisive Battle of Kumanovo.

“My husband is in England,” she told Geoffrey, speaking English well. “He is attached to the Serbian Mission. So I am here with my father, who, alas! is becoming daily more feeble.”

Next evening they met again—and the next. The old man was most affable, and day after day they had long chats in French, in which Lane often joined.

One afternoon Geoffrey went by boat along to Lucerne, eager and anxious. Mrs. Beverley and Sylvia had arrived at the Schweizerhof, that great hotel which overlooks the lake. They had tired of the Trossachs, and also of dusty London, so in accordance with young Falconer’s suggestion, they had arrived to spend a couple of weeks in “lovely Lucerne”—that town in which, before the war, one could spend a week under the wing of any tourist company for the modest sum of five guineas, railway fare included.

Geoffrey met Sylvia and her mother, and after half an hour in the great lounge of the hotel they dined together. The “Wild Widow” was charmed with the hotel and its outlook, while Sylvia, delighted at the retirement of the penurious Lord Hendlewycke, who now no longer visited them, contrived to snatch a few moments alone with her lover.

“Do you remember, Geoffrey, what you told me—that mysterious message by wireless telephone warning you not to go East?” she said anxiously, as they sat in the corridor after dinner, while her mother had gone upstairs.

“Yes,” he replied. “But really the whole thing was so ridiculous. It was, I’m convinced, only some amateur playing a practical joke.”

“Perhaps. But you should take no risks, dear,” she replied. “I don’t like the situation. Remember all that has passed.”

“Why are you so anxious?” he asked.

“Well,” she answered, glancing around, “you are, no doubt, a marked man, Geoff. You have been able to upset the plans of various conspirators, and they, no doubt, seek their revenge. Hence, be careful—do be very careful.”

Geoffrey laughed. He ridiculed the idea that any vengeance should be attempted upon him.

“I have only done my duty, my dear Sylvia!” he laughed. “My duty to the company and my duty to the Nation. Everybody surely understands that.”

“No,” the girl replied; “everybody does not understand. You, as an honest man, are at enmity with a certain revolutionary section of society. They know it. And they may lay their plans accordingly,” she said warningly. “I, of course, have no knowledge of any such plot—but I do urge you, Geoffrey, to keep very wide awake. I have some strange intuition that something may happen to you. Why—I can’t tell you!”

“My dear Sylvia, I hope I am always wide awake,” he laughed, kissing her clandestinely in the shadows, while a few moments later Mrs. Beverley reappeared.

Next morning mother and daughter went up by the railway from Alpnach to the Pilatuskulm, where they lunched with the young engineer and his friend Lane, and afterwards ascended to the newly constructed wireless station. It was not yet in working order, but Sylvia was highly interested, for she had by that time quite a good superficial knowledge of the apparatus and the power-plant, which, by the way, was almost a replica of the set which Geoffrey had installed at Bouvignes Aerodrome, in Belgium.

In the evening they went down again to Lucerne, but not until the following evening did Geoffrey again see the girl with whom he was so deeply in love. As soon as he had finished his work in that high-up spot on the Tomlishorn, he returned to the hotel, and after changing his clothes, descended to Lucerne and dined with the South American widow and her daughter.

Afterwards he went out with Sylvia on to the veranda. The night was a glorious one, the full moon rendering the lake and mountains a scene fairy-like and beautiful such as is presented perhaps nowhere else in the world. The view from the Schweizerhof on a moonlit night is always superb.

Again Sylvia returned to the strange warning from the ether which Geoffrey had received. She again confessed that she somehow felt uncomfortable about it. But her lover only pooh-poohed the affair, telling her that it was not the first time that jokes had been played by wireless.

“Why, not long ago,” he said, “the operator at one of the aerodromes for civil flying was spoken to over the wireless telephone by the Air Minister himself, who explained that he was flying from Scotland in a certain machine, and that in half an hour he intended to descend at that aerodrome. There was a great bustle at the news, but though they waited till dark the Minister never arrived. And not until next day did they learn that it was a hoax played by one of the pilots.”

The girl laughed, but still she urged Geoffrey to take care.

“You really cannot be too careful,” she declared. “I tell you I have once or twice experienced a strange presage of evil.”

“Oh, you make me feel quite nervy!” he declared, and then, as the air was cold, they returned to the palm-court, where Mrs. Beverley was seated.

The widow and her daughter remained in Lucerne for a fortnight, and then leaving Geoffrey to complete his work, went on by way of the Gothard to Milan.

Meanwhile Marya Pavlovitch and her father remained at the Hôtel Pilatuskulm, and both Geoffrey and Lane frequently met them. The girl-wife was most devoted to her father, who was often in a grumpy mood, as is usual with men of advanced age and slight infirmity. Young Madame Pavlovitch was naturally filled with curiosity concerning the new wireless station—for to ladies wireless is usually an enigma to be studied as part of Nature’s half-revealed problem—and several times, leaving her father, she had ascended the steep rock-girt road to the higher heights where, upon a little grass-grown plateau, the two new huts had been built.

Three weeks passed. Geoffrey completed his work, and made tests. The results were perfectly satisfactory. The telephony was reported as “R.9” over the Alps as far as Genoa, and to Marseilles, Coltano in Italy, Munich, Paris, and other places.

The range of speech was even further than what had been anticipated at the Works at Chelmsford. Other wireless systems had been tried by the Swiss Government, and had not come up to the standard required. But here the Marconi Company had scored another success over its competitors.

Since Sylvia’s departure, Geoffrey had often met young Madame Pavlovitch, sometimes on the boat between Alpnach and Lucerne, and sometimes in the streets of Lucerne, for she went there nearly every other day to obtain medicines for her father, she explained. On two occasions he had seen her enter a large detached private house in the Bruchstrasse, not far from the Synagogue. She had not, however, seen him, and he had not mentioned the matter. Yet it seemed apparent that the reason of her visits to Lucerne was to call at the house in question. And further, she always seemed annoyed whenever he met her on the way backwards or forwards along the lake.

One day Geoffrey had returned from the wireless station, and was taking his tea in the lounge, when the hotel manager came to him hurriedly and mentioned that the Colonel had been taken suddenly unwell, and that his daughter could not be found. She had gone to Lucerne after luncheon, he believed.

As the matter seemed one of urgency, and as the young Englishman was going to spend the evening in Lucerne, he resolved while on board the boat to go to the house in the Bruchstrasse, see whether Marya was there, and inform her of her father’s illness.

This he did. A rather tall, elderly man-servant opened the door, and when he inquired for Madame Pavlovitch he ushered him into a cosy, beautifully-furnished room, and without inquiring his name, closed the door and left him.

The room was divided from the adjoining apartment by long white-enamelled folding doors which stood slightly ajar. The man-servant must have forgotten to inform madame of his presence there, for he had been in the room hardly half a minute when into the next room, a big place decorated in white and gold, there came several men who looked like officers in mufti, accompanied by three women, one of whom was little Madame Pavlovitch.

He could not fail to hear what they were earnestly discussing in French. He stood aghast. They were planning the assassination of Andra Nikolitch, the well-known Serbian statesman, who was now President of the Council, and was at the moment staying with the Serbian Crown Prince at the Luzerner-Hof!

The terms in which the matter was being discussed admitted of no doubt that the Colonel’s pretty daughter was at its head, and that the attempt was to be made one morning when the statesman took his usual walk under the trees of the Schweizerhof-Quai.

Geoffrey stood astounded at his discovery. From their conversation it was also plain that at the same time other Ministers were to be murderously attacked in Belgrade.

Suddenly the serious fact dawned upon the young fellow that if he were discovered there he would not be allowed to leave that house alive. Balkan conspirators are not to be trifled with. They hold human life of but little account.

Falconer saw that his only chance of safety was to face the situation boldly. He placed his hand upon his hip-pocket to reassure himself that his revolver was there. Then, suddenly, he stepped forth into the big room and stood before those who had assembled to discuss their dastardly plans.

His appearance caused a sensation almost electrical.

“Why!” gasped the dark-eyed Marya. “It is M’sieur Falconer!”

Next second he was surrounded by the angry company, and in more than one hand he saw an automatic pistol. He was besieged by questions. What could he reply?

He attempted to explain the situation, declaring that he was simply a victim of circumstances, adding:

“I confess I have overheard your most interesting discussion!”

“The Englishman has been spying upon us!” cried a tall, rather elegant man in a dark suit. “If he is not silenced—and at once—he will tell the police! Remember, comrades, he is our enemy!”

“Yet M’sieur Falconer is also my friend!” declared the pretty Marya, springing forward boldly. “I, however, had no idea that he was in this house!”

Geoffrey tried to explain, but the clamour of the others was too great. He told madame that her father was ill, but they only laughed—declaring it to be an excuse. Hence he saw that unwittingly he had entered a veritable hornets’ nest, and that retreat was impossible. If he valued his life he would be compelled to stay and face the music.

He defied them, daring them to lay a finger upon him. But at madame’s urgent request he withdrew his words.

“This house is closely guarded,” she explained, “but the servant, Boris, having seen us together at the hotel and at other places, no doubt believed you to be one of us.”

“And you must become one!” declared an elderly man who seemed to be in authority over the rest. “You know our secret! So you will join us—to-night—now! From this moment you will be watched night and day. If you attempt to warn the authorities you will pay for it with your life!”

Geoffrey protested, but in vain.

Then he was sworn in English and in French.

Afterwards, Marya Pavlovitch turned to the young wireless engineer, and said:

“I will now tell you the truth, M’sieur Falconer. I told you that my husband is in England with the Serbian Mission, but the fact is that he was recalled to Belgrade two months ago, and on arrival he was immediately arrested by order of his enemy, the President of the Council, Andra Nikolitch. A false charge of treason was brought against him, and he was tried in secret and shot,” and her voice trembled with emotion. “He was entirely innocent. Of that I know. Hence we have resolved to rid our country of certain of its unjust rulers.”

“Then you are a widow, madame,” Falconer remarked. “And what is intended is your revenge—eh? My silence will cost Andra Nikolitch and others their lives!” he added very slowly.

“Yes,” said the man who had urged his companions to kill him there and then. “Understand, it is either your life—or theirs!”

The young engineer did not reply.

“You are now one of us,” the man went on in a deep, hard voice. “From this moment you will be closely watched, and any attempt you make to reveal what you know to any person will be followed immediately by death. Please do not forget that!”

“I must now hurry back to my father,” said madame. “The meeting is at an end.”

And Falconer left the house with her and returned to Alpnach.

He could now understand Marya’s wild, bitter hatred of the man who had sent her innocent husband to his death. On the way back he again mentioned it, but she seemed disinclined to discuss the tragedy.

“When is the blow to be dealt!” he asked in a low whisper in order not to be overheard.

“I do not know,” was her answer, “The time is not fixed.”

“But I do not like the idea of being constantly watched,” he said. “It will really be most irritating.”

“If you had not submitted you would not have left that house alive,” replied the pretty, dark-eyed young woman.

“I have to thank you, madame,” he replied. “Yet the knowledge I have gained has upset me considerably.”

“And do you not think that these fiends who murdered my husband richly deserve the fate we have in store for them?” she asked.

Upon that point, however, Falconer refused to express an opinion.

As they entered the lounge of the hotel, he was surprised to see a thin-faced, elderly man seated in a chair pretending to read a paper. Instantly he recognised him as one of the group of plotters he had met in Lucerne. He had already reached the Pilatuskulm, and was undoubtedly there in order to keep observation upon him. Indeed he found that the man, who had given the name of Vulkovitch at the bureau, had engaged the room adjoining his own.

He had hardly entered his room when there was a low tap on the door and Vulkovitch entered, with a word of apology.

“I need not tell you, M’sieur Falconer, why I am here. The object of my visit is to impress upon you the necessity for complete secrecy. It was all the fault of Boris, who, believing you to be one of us, admitted you, but as you have now become associated with us, you must conform to the rules already laid down. If you breathe a single word of what is in progress, then I shall use this!”

And he produced from his inner pocket a large silver cigar-case.

“This is not so harmless as it may appear,” he went on. “It contains an explosive so powerful that if thrown down it would wreck half the hotel.”

“And incidentally blow you to pieces,” remarked Falconer, regarding the case with interest.

The man smiled, and replied quietly.

“If I have occasion to use it I shall myself take certain precautions. Only you would suffer, m’sieur.”

“Well, I hope it won’t be necessary for you to send me into the next world,” laughed the young man. “But certainly the situation is a decidedly unpleasant one—for me.”

“And equally for me,” the Serbian replied. “I regret that I am selected for this not over-pleasant duty, and I only hope you will thoroughly understand what my friends have decided. So I wish you good-night,” and bowing politely he left the room.

Geoffrey Falconer obtained but little sleep that night. The whole thing seemed like a nightmare—the oath of secrecy which he had taken, madame’s tragic story, and her fierce revenge. It seemed that she was paying all the expenses of that group of wild, political extremists from Belgrade.

Next day everywhere Geoffrey went he was followed silently and unobtrusively by the man Vulkovitch. He had a chat with Lane, but within hearing of the man, and pleading being unwell, he did not go up to the wireless station, but remained in the hotel all day in sight of the silent watcher.

He spent the afternoon with the little widow, whose father had recovered, but had not yet left his room.

After tea they went for a stroll together along the mountain path, and Vulkovitch, noticing that he was with her, relaxed his vigilance.

When alone she told him a great deal. She had been passionately fond of her late husband, who, before the war, had been assistant private secretary to King Peter of Serbia. Afterwards he had entered the diplomatic service, serving at the Legation in Paris. Then, when war broke out, he joined his regiment and fought valiantly against the Austrians until the terrible retreat. After the Peace he had been appointed to the Serbian Mission sent to London. But for the past six months, because he had discovered scandals concerning certain of the Serbian Ministers, he had been a marked man, and had eventually fallen the victim of a deliberate plot to close his lips by death.

Her father, however, knew nothing of what was in progress. She withheld the truth of her widowhood from him on account of his weak state of health.

“I am greatly annoyed at being constantly watched as I am,” Geoffrey declared frankly. “I am unable to continue my work at the wireless station because your friends fear that I may reveal the truth to somebody. The situation is most unpleasant.”

“Yes; I quite understand, M’sieur Falconer,” she said. “It was quite by accident that Boris admitted you. You thought to perform a friendly action towards me, and instead you stepped into our group. But I beg of you to have patience. I feared last night that they might kill you. They are all desperate persons, I assure you.”

“Did you form the complot?” asked the young radio-engineer.

“No. They did. They came to me and told me my husband had been tried by secret court-martial and executed, and then suggested revenge.”

Geoffrey reflected a moment.

“They came to you suggesting that you should bear the expenses of the plot?”

“Yes. I inherited a considerable fortune from my aunt, and they suggested that I should take this patriotic step, for by avenging the death of my poor husband I should rid Serbia of her enemies who are posing as her friends.”

Geoffrey pointed out that there could be no excuse for assassination, but she instantly became angry, declaring that she demanded blood for blood.

Two days passed. Wherever Falconer went the silent Vulkovitch watched him until it got upon his nerves. He scarcely dared to exchange words with Lane, who naturally grew curious as to his colleague’s change of manner, for he had suddenly become quite morose. And naturally, for were not the lives of several Serbian statesmen in his hands? He longed to warn the Serbian Premier of his peril. But how?

He longed to leave Switzerland and fly back to England—but he knew the consequences. Those plotters would follow him, and he would share the same fate as that intended for Andra Nikolitch and certain members of his Cabinet.

The third day was a Wednesday, and he had learnt that on Friday a meeting was to be held in Lucerne to fix for the following day the attempt upon the well-known statesman.

He was beside himself in agony of mind. These men—men whom he had never met—were to be murdered in cold blood. Yet he was powerless to raise a finger to save them. King Alexander and his Queen Draga had long ago fallen victims of secret assassins, while more than one Minister in Serbia had died under suspicious circumstances. Both Serbia and Bulgaria—where the poor Prime Minister, Stambuloff, and his successor, Petroff, had both been assassinated—were hotbeds of political intrigue.

Geoffrey, though a threat of death was held over him, had during those two days acted with caution. On the Friday morning he met Lane in the lounge where the silent watcher was standing, and handed him a cigarette from his case, at the same time saying that he had to go into Lucerne, hence he could not go to the wireless station that day.

Then he whispered a few quick words that caused his friend to start.

Lane struck a match, but made only pretence of lighting his cigarette.

Instead, he said:

“Very well. Cheerio! I’ll see you here to-night. The station is on test now. You really must come up and see it to-morrow.” And then he turned away.

Two minutes later Lane was back in his bedroom alone, carefully examining his cigarette. Unrolling it, he found upon the paper a message written in an almost microscopical hand telling him of the meeting of the conspirators at Lucerne that evening and its object, and urging him to take the paper at once to the Lucerne police.

Lane contrived to get to Lucerne, where he saw the Prefect of Police and showed him the paper. It bore the address in the Bruchstrasse; therefore, police agents at once kept observation upon the place, a fact which in secret Lane communicated to Falconer by a meaning glance at the luncheon table, for Falconer always sat at a little table with madame and her father, while Lane sat with two other men close by. One of the men was the silent watcher.

Falconer, though young, was a man of quick initiative. He was in a cleft stick and surrounded by unscrupulous enemies. Therefore he had set his brains to outwit them.

The final meeting of the plotters, before the Minister was to be assassinated by a bomb, was fixed for nine o’clock that night. At six o’clock he watched for madame, who was, he knew, going to Lucerne to be present. She came down, smartly dressed, and as she went out, he hastened and overtook her.

“Madame Pavlovitch,” he whispered, “I want a word with you—a serious word.”

She stopped suddenly, and then they strolled across the gravelled drive.

“I know you are going to Lucerne. But I warn you not to go!”

“Why not?” she asked, surprised.

“Because if you do you will be arrested for conspiracy,” he replied firmly. “Further, you are only being made a tool of by a band of anarchists who are using your money for their own personal ends.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded resentfully. “Have you betrayed us?”

“I have betrayed the men who have betrayed you,” was his answer. “Let us walk along, and I’ll tell you the truth,” he added.

Utterly amazed at the risk which the young Englishman had taken, she strolled at his side and listened eagerly.

“Those people have lied to you,” he said. “They are hoping to carry out a scheme by which certain of your Ministers are to be killed from motives of personal vengeance.”

“How?”

“They have told you a lurid story concerning your husband—that he has been executed. Instead he is in prison at Belgrade for six months. Next week he will be liberated!”

“Alive!” she gasped. “Is Danilo alive? He has never written to me!”

“Because your friends the conspirators have intercepted his letters. The man Vulkovitch was taken away from here directly after lunch, and since then I have been in secret wireless communication with the Minister of Justice in Belgrade, from whom I have discovered the true facts concerning your husband.”

She paused.

“But I must go to Lucerne to-night,” she said, somewhat disinclined to give credit to his story.

“If you go there it will be at your peril. A raid will be made upon the house, and all will be arrested.”

“Are you fooling me, M’sieur Falconer?” she asked, facing him.

“I certainly am not,” he replied. “Keep away from Lucerne, and you will find the whole of the men, who have been posing as your friends and taking your money under false pretences, in the hands of the police.”

At first she was undecided, but he repeated that if she went to Lucerne it was at her own risk.

He had denounced the plotters, and thus saved the lives of innocent men—but he had given no information concerning her, he said.

“Instead of going to Lucerne, leave Switzerland forthwith, madame,” he urged. “Get away—now there is yet time. Within a week I guarantee that your husband will be free.”

The dark-haired young woman took Falconer’s advice, and two hours later, accompanied by her father, she left the hotel. Meanwhile the Lucerne police that night arrested the whole group, and found in the house bombs, firearms, and correspondence which proved beyond doubt the truth of what the young Englishman had written upon the cigarette-paper.

With the exception of madame, the whole desperate group subsequently appeared before the Assize Court of Lucerne, and were all sent to long terms of imprisonment.

But before the trial took place Geoffrey had received a letter from Marya, dated from Paris, telling him that her husband had reappeared as though from the grave, and that they were again united.

And now the most curious part of the whole affair is to be related.

Let it be told in Sylvia Beverley’s own words, as she told it to her lover in the drawing-room at Upper Brook Street a week later.

“My dear Geoff,” she said, “as I told you, I had a curious presage of evil concerning you. Why, I can’t tell. Something seemed to impress upon my mind the fact that if you went East you would be in peril. Days—weeks went on until I became obsessed by the feeling that something was about to happen to you. Perhaps it was an intuition because we love each other so dearly. Yet the fact remains, I was in fear. And because of that, I went to an amateur wireless experimenter whom I know—a man at Folkestone—and I got him to speak that mysterious message to you over the radio-telephone—that message of warning!”

He took her hand in his, and their lips met in a long, passionate caress.

CHAPTER XII

THE CROW’S CLIFF

MRS. BEVERLEY was giving one of her usual dinner-parties at Upper Brook Street. Among the guests were two Cabinet Ministers and their wives, for money can always command guests, the names of whom will be duly recorded in the society column of the Morning Post next day.

Money buys publicity, and without the latter nowadays one may as well live in suburbia, or in the peace of a country village.

When the hostess and her guests went to the drawing-room, Geoffrey—who had just come back from making some adjustments at the wireless station at Renfrew—managed to snatch a quarter of an hour with Sylvia in the cosy little sitting-room next to the library.

The young engineer had been telling her of his work up in Scotland, and of a pleasant Saturday he had spent up Loch Lomond, when the girl suddenly asked:

“How do you like Mrs. Mapleton, whom you took into dinner?”

“Oh, very nice,” he replied. “I suppose she’s a new friend of your mother?”

“No. We met her and her husband a year ago when we were at Hyères. They live near Madrid, and have asked us to go and stay with them for a month at their villa outside the city. Mother has accepted. Didn’t I hear you say that you might be sent out on business to Madrid?”

“Yes. There was some mention of it the other day,” Geoffrey replied. “They were having trouble with their valve-panel at the wireless station at Aranjuez, which belongs to the Compania Naçional, and I heard that it was proposed that I should go out to see what I can make of it.”

“How splendid if we are in Madrid together—eh?” exclaimed the girl enthusiastically. “I do hope we shall manage it. The Mapletons go back in six weeks’ time, and we go with them. He’s an English banker in Madrid.”

Just at that moment one of the guests entered the room, so the lovers were forced to return to the drawing-room, where a little later Geoffrey found himself talking to the rather handsome young woman who had sat beside him at dinner. She was dark, with a very clear complexion and great black eyes, a graceful figure, and a sweet and winning smile. Her husband, to whom she introduced him, was some ten years her senior, a tall, rather spare man with an aquiline face somewhat bronzed by the southern sun.

They chatted together, whereupon Mrs. Mapleton mentioned that Mrs. Beverley and her daughter were travelling with them to Madrid. Then Geoffrey remarked that he would, in all probability, be in the Spanish capital at the same time, and explained the reason of his journey.

“Well, if you are in Madrid, Mr. Falconer, you won’t fail to come and see us—will you?” urged the lady. “We live out at El Pardo—only half an hour from Madrid.”

Geoffrey thanked her, and promised that if he went to Spain he would certainly call upon her.

Two months later he found himself at the old-fashioned Hôtel de Pastor at Aranjuez, which is thirty miles from the capital, and not far from the great wireless station. After remaining there two days making his preliminary investigations of the work he had in hand, he one day took train to Madrid, and went out in a taxi along the terribly dusty road to El Pardo.

He found the house without any difficulty—a great country mansion in the Spanish style—surrounded by beautiful grounds. The door was opened by an elderly English butler, who showed him in and took his card at once to his mistress. In a few seconds Sylvia, who had been eagerly watching her lover’s arrival, rushed forward and greeted him warmly, while almost at the same moment their hostess appeared and gladly welcomed the young fellow.

It was just before luncheon, so Geoffrey, after being shown the glorious gardens and the views, was compelled to remain, and sat down with Mrs. Mapleton, her husband, the South American widow, and Sylvia. The meal was served with considerable pomp by the butler, Martin, the whole staff of servants being English. Mrs. Mapleton, when Martin was out of the room, remarked that she had become tired of the slovenly ways of Spanish servants, and therefore she had engaged English ones, all of them having been in service with English families in France or Italy.

“Martin is, of course, our mainstay,” she added. “He speaks Spanish well, which is a great thing, as we naturally have many Spanish visitors.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Mapleton; “Martin is a real treasure for a busy man like myself. He was in the service of the Marquis de Borja, secretary to Queen Marie Christine, and only left after his master’s death.”

“Then you are very lucky to get him,” remarked Mrs. Beverley. “I know what it is to have a butler upon whom one can rely. A widow like myself is very handicapped in that respect. I am no judge of wine. I leave it all to my man, and I trust him implicitly.”

“Just as we trust Martin,” said the banker’s good-looking wife, and then the entrance of the sedate and respectful servant put an end to further discussion.

Luncheon over, Mrs. Mapleton proposed a run in the car over to El Escorial, the favourite summer resort of the Madrileños, where they visited the wonderful Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo del Escorial, the huge pile of whitish granite, destitute of ornament, and broken by small windows; one of the most remarkable edifices of all time which seems to rise out of the stony sides of the great Guadarrama Mountains, and resembles, except in its majestic façade, a fortress or a prison.

“How wonderful!” exclaimed Sylvia, as they were conducted into the magnificent church built on the model of the original plan of St. Peter’s in Rome, with its forty-eight altars, each containing a valuable painting, its magnificent frescoes, and the immense high altar of valuable marbles and exquisitely gilded bronzes, before which many candles were burning. They were shown the Sacristia, the Panteén de los Reyes, or burial vault of the Spanish monarchs, the Library, and afterwards the Royal Palace.

Later they motored back along a road below which, in the gorgeous Spanish sunset, lay the plain of New Castile and Madrid on the one hand, and the Guadarrama Mountains on the other.

Next evening Geoffrey again returned to El Pardo, and as he stood with Sylvia and Mrs. Mapleton upon the terrace of the villa, the banker’s wife pointed across to a towering rock upon the edge of the mountains.

“Over there is the Crow’s Cliff,” she said. “From it, through many centuries, those guilty of murder were hurled. Indeed, even during the past few years battered bodies of men and women have been found beneath it, victims of those who have taken justice into their own hands.”

“How horrible!” exclaimed the smart young South American girl. “When was the last body found?”

“About a year ago—a labourer in a vineyard close by, on going to work one morning, found the body of a well-dressed young woman. She was believed to be English by her clothes, but she was never identified. The police have abandoned their inquiries, as it is a complete mystery.”

“She was purposely pushed over the Cliff, I suppose?” remarked Geoffrey.

“Perhaps,” replied his hostess. “But it is believed that there have been cases where the guilty have been condemned and executed by their fellows in order to suppress any scandal. More than one person moving in the highest circles has been found dead beneath the Crow’s Cliff.”

“Couldn’t we go up there and see it?” suggested Geoffrey.

“Certainly you could,” she replied. “There is a good road, though rather hilly, and a path which takes you close to the edge of the Cliff.”

So all three went to see the Crow’s Cliff.

The road proved badly kept and shadeless, as are most of the roads in Spain, and the path was rocky and crooked as they ascended to the summit of the Peña Grajera—the Crow’s Cliff.

At last all three walked to the edge of the precipice, where through the ages so many of the guilty ones had been hurled to destruction.

“That story about the young Englishwoman haunts me!” Geoffrey said to Sylvia as they approached the place and peered down upon the river winding across the plain below, which stretched away into the evening mist. “I wonder who she was?”

“Nobody will ever know,” declared Mrs. Mapleton. “Here in Spain many murders are committed on account of jealousy or revenge. No doubt the motive was either one or the other.”

“Terrible!” exclaimed Sylvia, shuddering at the thought of being flung over upon the crags below.

“Yes. In Spain they regard death at the Crow’s Cliff as the most ignominious end any person can suffer,” remarked her hostess. “I’ve heard all sorts of weird stories about the place, which was a place of execution long before the days of the Inquisition. The peasantry believe that on certain nights the ghosts of black-robed and masked executioners haunt this road.”

The girl laughed.

“Of course the ignorant country folk would naturally invent all sorts of horrible stories.”

“Well, it’s a horrible spot altogether,” declared Falconer. And the party walked back to El Pardo together, where they dined late, and it was past midnight before Geoffrey arrived back at Aranjuez.

While during the next few days he continued his work at the great wireless station there—the station known to all wireless men as “E.A.A.,” and which works so regularly with Poldhu—Sylvia and her mother were taken about the country by their hostess to see old-world Toledo, Villarrubia, Talavera, and the Tetas de Viana.

A bald-headed Spanish doctor named Garcia, with his wife, a very handsome woman, had arrived from Burgos, and were also guests of the Mapletons. The Garcias had lived in Madrid for several years, and were great friends of the Mapletons.

Indeed the truth was that when Dr. Garcia had found himself in serious financial difficulties three years before, the banker had secretly assisted him. Hence the doctor was considerably in his debt.

One evening, a fortnight later, the party had been out to dinner at a neighbouring house, and on their return Mrs. Mapleton was suddenly taken very unwell. Her husband and the others became greatly alarmed, and the faithful Martin, who, in turn, became full of apprehension, called Dr. Garcia, who had already retired to bed.

The doctor, when he examined the lady and noted the symptoms, came to the conclusion that she was suffering from acute indigestion, to which, apparently, she was subject. Something she had eaten at dinner had no doubt affected her, for by three o’clock in the morning she was much easier, and by next day the attack had passed.

Indeed they motored into Madrid in the afternoon, where they visited the wonderful private collection of pictures belonging to the Duke of Alba, and the Prado Museum, afterwards enjoying that wonderful view from the Campillo de las Vistillas. Yet on the same evening Mrs. Mapleton was again taken unwell, and the same remedy which Dr. Garcia had prescribed was resorted to, with the result that two hours later she was quite herself again.

Next day when at breakfast, Mrs. Mapleton said to Madame Garcia:

“These attacks of indigestion are most annoying. Time after time I get them badly—and then I recover just as suddenly as I am attacked. The first time I had one was a year ago—and I was terribly ill for three days.”

“But the doctor has put you upon special diet,” was madame’s reply. “If you keep to that you will certainly be all right.”

Martin, who chanced to enter the room at the moment, eagerly asked after his mistress’s health.

That same afternoon Sylvia had an appointment with Geoffrey in Madrid. Her lover had been out at Aranjuez, busily engaged all day trying to improve the continuous-wave panel, and was in ignorance of Mrs. Mapleton’s indisposition. They, however, met as she had arranged, in the palm-court of the great Ritz Hotel in the Plaza de Cànovas, and sat down to a pleasant tea.

While chatting together the girl suddenly became very serious, saying:

“There’s something on my mind, Geoffrey—and—well, I hardly know what to say to you.”

“On your mind!” he echoed. “Why, what about?”

“Well, about Mrs. Mapleton. She’s had two sudden and serious attacks on successive nights. Dr. Garcia, whom you met at El Pardo, put it down to indigestion, but—well, I don’t think it is,” said the girl.

“You seem worried about your hostess,” he remarked.

“Yes. The fact is I’m suspicious of that woman, Madame Garcia.”

“Oh! Why?”

“Well, strictly between ourselves, Geoffrey, very late the other night when every one was asleep I heard Mr. Mapleton quarrelling with his wife, and the doctor’s wife was mentioned by our hostess, who is, no doubt, jealous of her, though she will not show it in public.”

“Oh! Then Mrs. Mapleton is jealous of madame—eh?”

“Yes. And this knowledge has aroused my suspicion. If Mr. Mapleton admires madame, there may be some subtle plot to get Mrs. Mapleton out of the way!” she said.

Geoffrey looked at her open-mouthed.

“Do you really believe that?” he asked quickly.

“I most certainly do. I haven’t mentioned anything to mother,” said the girl. “But I shall be very glad to get away from the place. I’m going to urge mother to make an excuse and cut short our visit.”

“No. Don’t do that,” he answered quickly. “If evil is intended, as you surmise, then your place is there to watch carefully and report to me. Our duty is to save the lady and expose the plot.”

“Spaniards are experts with poisons,” Sylvia remarked.

“I know. Therefore we should both act warily, and await the next development. In the meantime I will make some inquiries regarding the Garcias, who are so well-known here in Madrid.”

What Sylvia had suggested at once aroused Geoffrey’s curiosity, and that evening he took his idol back to the Mapletons at El Pardo, where he was invited to remain to dinner.

He watched Mr. Mapleton and the doctor’s wife very carefully, but he could not detect any sign of undue admiration. Indeed the banker scarcely took any notice of her, being much more attentive to Mrs. Beverley, his guest, while the bald-headed Dr. Garcia was most affable to Geoffrey himself.

The dinner was a merry meal, and every one was chatting about the lovely motor-run they had made during the warm afternoon out to Sonseca, in the Mountains of Toledo, while Martin, grave-faced and urbane, served his master’s guests in eloquent silence.

Falconer, sorely puzzled, left early to get back to Aranjuez. He could now fully understand the suspicions of Sylvia, yet he felt inclined to dismiss them, for he could discover nothing unusual in the Mapleton ménage.

Next evening, however, after his work was over, he went into Madrid in order to institute the inquiries he had promised Sylvia to make.

Of several persons whom he had met since his arrival from England he made inquiry regarding Dr. Garcia. From an old Spaniard, who was manager of an antique shop in the Calle de Don Pedro, and whom he had met out at Aranjuez with one of the wireless operators, he learned a few interesting facts concerning the bald-headed doctor.

“Oh, yes,” replied the old fellow in broken English, “Dr. Garcia is very well known in Madrid. He married a woman from Burgos, Carolina Almagro, about five years ago. She was previously engaged to marry the English banker, Señor Mapleton.”

“What?” gasped Geoffrey. “Was Madame Garcia once engaged to marry Mr. Mapleton?”

“Oh, yes, señor. Every one in Madrid knows that.”

Geoffrey Falconer held his breath, and remained silent for a few moments.

“But how long has Mr. Mapleton been married?”

“Oh, about four years—not more. He married an English lady—and a very nice lady she is. Once or twice she has bought old furniture here.”

“But Dr. Garcia and his wife have left Madrid,” Geoffrey remarked as they sat together in the dark little shop, surrounded by all sorts of curios.

“Yes. He sold the practice to Dr. Salcedo soon after his marriage, and went away. I don’t know where he is now.”

“But tell me,” urged Geoffrey. “How is it that the lady, being engaged to the banker, married the doctor?”

The old man grinned, while his black eyes twinkled.

“There was a whisper of some scandal. They say that is the reason why the doctor and his wife left Madrid.”

All that was being told to Falconer went to establish the motive why a secret attempt should be made upon Mrs. Mapleton’s life. It was all news to Geoffrey. He had believed that Mapleton had been married fully ten years.

In other quarters he prosecuted inquiries, but the result was always the same—the story of the sudden marriage of the English banker’s Spanish fiancée, and the gossip which ensued.

Several further days passed, and then one evening Geoffrey, having been to the Eslava Theatre, was leaving in order to return to Aranjuez, when, to his surprise, he saw walking along the dark street in front of him the familiar figure of Mr. Mapleton, and at his side was Madame Garcia!

They had evidently been to the theatre together. He followed them unseen, and saw them enter the car, and drive back to El Pardo together.

This, indeed, further aroused his suspicions concerning Mrs. Mapleton’s repeated seizures.

Next afternoon he went to El Pardo again with the express purpose of keeping his eyes open, and also of telling Sylvia in confidence what he had learnt.

The pair while walking in the garden agreed that there was distinct suspicion that either Mr. Mapleton might be plotting to get rid of his wife, or that the handsome Spanish woman might be endeavouring to poison her rival through motives of jealousy. As Sylvia pointed out, Mapleton was very rich, while Madame Garcia was the wife of a poor professional man in financial difficulties. The woman could not obtain the luxuries, smart dresses, and sojourns at Aix, Dinant, or San Sebastian, for which she longed.

“She is always deploring the fact that she leads such a humdrum life,” the girl went on. “Only yesterday she told me that she envied us, travelling about as we do.”

“Well, personally, I don’t like madame,” her lover said. “Her eyes are cruel and vindictive, and she seems to bear an entirely false affection for her hostess.”

“Mrs. Mapleton is charming,” declared Sylvia as they halted on the terrace, from which a beautiful view of Madrid could be seen across the plain. “I wonder if her husband has any suspicion? Surely Dr. Garcia could discover whether those mysterious attacks are due to indigestion—or to foul play?”

“The doctor’s wife would never let her husband into her guilty secret,” Geoffrey said. Then after a pause, he added: “Of course if the banker himself had experienced similar seizures one could discern in them a motive—namely, that the doctor being deeply in his debt wanted to get rid of him, for by his death he would get out of his heavy liabilities. But the affair concerns only the banker’s wife.”

“It’s a complete mystery, Geoff,” declared the girl. “I watch them all closely day after day, but I become more and more mystified. I long to tell mother, but I have acted upon your advice, and kept my own counsel. Only to-day at breakfast Mrs. Mapleton, who, of course, is all unsuspecting, invited the Garcias to remain for another fortnight. After that they are going to Granada. And a week later the Mapletons go to Barcelona, where he has a branch of his bank, while we go back to London.”

“Then during the next fortnight we must be very watchful,” Falconer said, and as at that moment Mrs. Mapleton, walking with the handsome Madame Garcia, came along the terrace, they dropped the subject, and Falconer became most enthusiastic regarding the glorious view.

Next morning at about ten o’clock Geoffrey Falconer was busy re-wiring part of the powerful transmitting apparatus at the wireless station at Aranjuez, when one of the operators handed him a telegram which had just been received over the land line from Madrid.

It was open, upon a form, just as it had been received. The words he read were:

“Another seizure. Unconscious for three hours. Just recovered. Meet me at the Ritz in Madrid at four this afternoon.—SYLVIA.”

Geoffrey realised the extreme gravity of the situation. He had been making many secret inquiries. The mystery of it all had not only fascinated him, but it had placed him upon his mettle. Sylvia, the girl whom he loved so passionately, had, by her woman’s shrewd keenness, first aroused the suspicion which had daily grown stronger until the grave peril of the banker’s charming wife obsessed him.

On five different occasions, from that complicated-looking apparatus of the high-power wireless station, with which at the moment he was surrounded, he had sent out with great difficulty and very weakly in the Marconi International Code, long messages to M.P.D.—or Poldhu in Cornwall—inquiries concerning Mapleton and others—which next day had been answered in the same code.

These answers, unknown to Sylvia, had opened up an entirely new channel of inquiry. That telegram from El Pardo confirmed certain suspicions which had come to him during the past two days.

That there was a deliberate and desperate attempt to get rid of Mrs. Mapleton had become an established fact. It only lay with Sylvia and her lover to save the unfortunate victim, to lay bare the plot, and to bring the guilty person or persons to their just punishment.

When at four o’clock Sylvia met Geoffrey in the Ritz, her first words were:

“Poor Mrs. Mapleton had a terribly narrow escape last night! Dr. Garcia grew very alarmed, and at two o’clock this morning telephoned to Madrid to Dr. Figueroa, who, I believe, is one of the most distinguished pathologists in Spain. He arrived at about half-past four, and in consultation agreed with Garcia that it was acute indigestion. Fortunately, an hour afterwards Mrs. Mapleton was quite well again.”

“And what was the attitude of Madame Garcia?” asked Geoffrey eagerly.

“Oh, very agitated and fussy, of course, all of it well assumed. She’s a most wonderful actress. All the women of the South are the same.”

“But does Garcia know?”

“I feel sure he is in complete ignorance. I watch them all every hour—every minute—but I can find no tangible evidence against anyone. The only motive that there can be is Madame Garcia’s jealousy.”

“Then she must be the culprit,” Falconer said. “It is evident that she must somehow doctor her hostess’s food—eh? But surely that must be difficult.”

“No doubt, but it is being accomplished somehow, for how is it that none of us suffer from any ill-effects?” said the girl.

“Because you are not subject to ‘acute indigestion’ as Mrs. Mapleton is,” was his reply as he smiled meaningly. “The attacks are certainly curious. They seem to occur after eating, just as indigestion would occur,” Falconer went on. “But how is it possible that this Spanish woman can tamper with her hostess’s food alone, unless she is in league with the cook, and that is quite inconceivable. The whole history of both Garcia, and his wife, and Mapleton and Mrs. Mapleton certainly points to but one motive—Madame Garcia’s jealousy!”

“But do you think that Mr. Mapleton can have no knowledge of what is in progress?” asked the girl to whom the young wireless engineer was so devoted.

“No; I’m convinced that he has not. His friend the doctor has diagnosed the complaint as indigestion, hence he has no suspicions, and does not seek a further medical opinion.”

“That is so. Mother only yesterday suggested to him in private that he should ask for another doctor to see his wife, but he declared that he had the greatest confidence in Dr. Garcia’s judgment.” Then she added: “It was Dr. Garcia himself who sent into Madrid for another doctor this morning.”

“Then we can do no more, save to still prosecute inquiries, and watch the progress of events.”

During the next two days young Falconer was very busy making some tests with Poldhu. From the “Devil’s Oven,” far away on the rocky Cornish coast, they at first sent him replies on “spark” in response, but after twenty hours of hard work, during which they constantly disturbed the ether by sending long and numerous series of “V’s”—namely, three dots and a dash—the letter of the alphabet used in wireless for testing purposes, his transmission was at last declared by Poldhu to be “good,” but not anything really great—in fact “R.7.,” as Poldhu put it.

There was still a fault somewhere, and amid that tangle of wires, the mass of up-to-date apparatus, and the great vacuum glass globes—huge balls of light when transmission was in progress—he stood dismayed and puzzled. A fault in wireless transmission is often most difficult to trace, and it was so in this case. The two engineers at Aranjuez had failed to discover it, and for that reason young Falconer had been sent over as an expert to find and remedy it. It was the more baffling because after re-wiring it the first time, he was able to communicate with Poldhu about Dr. Garcia and Mapleton. Then a slight fault had necessitated an alteration, and now it was again wrong.

As he stood there that morning gazing into the big valve-panel, undecided as to what test next to apply, one of the operators, a young Spaniard, handed him a message form, saying that it had just come in from Poldhu. It was in the International Code; therefore Falconer went to the adjoining room, and taking down the big book which gives a “figure” and “letter” code in all the principal commercial languages, including Japanese, he soon succeeded in de-coding the message.

When he did so he sat back aghast. The truth was now apparent.

His inquiries in London regarding the Mapletons were slowly throwing a light upon a most dramatic situation.

That day he felt justified in leaving his work early, and in the evening he travelled to the far north of Spain to San Sebastian, that gay seaside resort which is the favourite summer resort of the Madrileños. He arrived there in the early morning, having spent the night in the so-called “express.” He took his coffee at the old-fashioned Hôtel Ezcurra, in the Paseo de la Zurriola, and then he went round to the Prefecture of Police.

To the rather lazy underling whom he found there he made an explanation, and at ten o’clock he was shown into the bureau of the chief of police himself, an elderly, alert little man, who listened to the young Englishman very attentively. As he proceeded with his story, and as he related what had been sent by wireless from England, the official’s interest grew.

For two hours Geoffrey Falconer remained there, examining documents, and questioning four Spanish detectives by the aid of the official interpreter.

“And now, Señor Falconer,” said the chief of police at last, “the best line of action for you is to return and keep a secret and strict watch. You know all I have told you, and what are my suspicions. It is fortunate, very fortunate, that your young lady friend has detected what is in progress. On my part I will send by to-night’s mail a report to the police of Madrid, who will be on the alert for any developments. They will place our great pathologist, Professor Barrera, at your disposal, should any analysis be required. We are at the moment quite powerless to act, but we look to you for such information as shall save the lady’s life.”

About noon on the following day Falconer called at the Mapleton’s house in El Pardo as though upon a casual visit. As soon as he met Sylvia, the girl called him aside, and whispered:

“I’m so glad you are here, Geoffrey. Mrs. Mapleton had another attack last night, but is better now. She is in the habit of eating but very little dinner, and taking some patent invalid food just before going to bed. I managed to save a little of it before Martin cleared it away. I’ve got it in a bottle upstairs.”

“Excellent. I will take it at once to Professor Barrera,” replied Falconer. “He will analyse it, and see whether it has been doctored.”

The young Englishman remained to luncheon, and then, without telling anyone of his journey to San Sebastian, he went back to Madrid, and there saw the Professor, who had already been warned by the police.

Next day, when Falconer called upon Professor Barrera, he was told that into the invalid food had been introduced the juice of a certain poisonous mushroom which produced the exact symptoms of acute indigestion, and which, when absorbed by the human body, was almost impossible to detect. It was one of the most subtle and dangerous poisons known to modern toxicologists.

“The mushroom is a large dark-grey fungus with scarlet spots and grows on the mountains. It is found often in the Guadarrama,” he said. “Whoever is using it must be an expert poisoner.”

With that knowledge, and the other knowledge he now possessed, Falconer waited until evening, and then returned to El Pardo, where he was asked to remain to dinner, and to sleep, as a motor excursion had been arranged for the following day.

He dined, but though he went to his room, he could not sleep. The night was moonlit, and from his window he had a good view of the white road outside. Instead of undressing, he watched that road through the night hours until the first streak of dawn. It slowly became light at about four o’clock, when suddenly he saw the figure of a man going out upon a brisk walk.

Without a second’s hesitation he took his hat, and creeping silently down the stairs, let himself out.

By that time the man, whose figure he had recognised as Martin’s, was far ahead. The morning mist was thick as, leaving the highway, he ascended the steep hill-path, Geoffrey, whose rubber-soled boots made but little noise, following swiftly.

The rough winding way led to the summit of the Crow’s Cliff, until Martin at last reached the top.

Then Geoffrey saw the butler bending down, eagerly, examining a patch of grass near the edge of the Cliff He was searching for that deadly grey fungus with the scarlet spots, which, when gathered at dawn, was most dangerous to human life!

Falconer, modest in his scientific achievements, but bold when faced with an alternative, saw the man in the act of picking one of the mushrooms, and suddenly sprang upon him.

“At last, Martin!” he cried. “So it is you who are trying to poison your mistress! Now I know the truth!”

The fellow, his face blanched, flung himself free.

“What do you mean?” shouted the exemplary butler in wild defiance.

“I mean that you are not Mrs. Mapleton’s servant at all! You are her rightful husband, and moreover you were a partner with her in certain shady transactions. You and she ran a private gaming-house in Bayswater, and afterwards at San Sebastian. From the profits of the place Mrs. Mapleton derived her private income, unknown to Mapleton, who believes it is from Consols. Four years ago one Paul Berton, a rich French landowner, was robbed and died mysteriously in that house in San Sebastian—killed in circumstances which left no doubt in your wife’s mind that you were the assassin.”

“It’s quite untrue!” protested Martin.

“Let me go on,” said Falconer. “Your wife hated you, because you were a murderer. She fell in love with Mapleton, and under threats of disclosing your crime to the police, she compelled you to remain aside, and she married the man she loved. Then you persecuted the unfortunate woman, who believed that she was safely out of your clutches. You compelled her to engage you as her butler. Why? Your first idea was to poison Mapleton, so that you should get his money through his wife. But when she saw through your plot and threatened to expose you, you sought to secretly poison her, and thus close her lips—at the same time throwing suspicion upon the jealous woman, Madame Garcia!”

“A lie—an absolute lie!”

“No, it is the truth, Mr. Sharman—alias Barnes—alias half a dozen other names. Your record is at Scotland Yard, together with your finger prints. I have them in my pocket. Truly, yours is a dastardly and ingenious game. You poisoned poor Berton with the same decoction of mushroom-juice that you are now using on your wife!”

Without a second’s delay the man Martin sprang at Geoffrey, who was close to the edge of the Crow’s Cliff—the execution place of the Middle Ages. Next moment the young radio-engineer, feeling himself gripped suddenly and rushed to the edge of the precipice, executed, to save his life, a very clever manœuvre, and by dint of some swift athletic turns he succeeded in swinging round his adversary until the latter had his back to the precipice.

The two men fought for life, there upon the very brink of the grave! Martin was determined to silence his accuser.

But Geoffrey, who at Oxford had learnt the Japanese system of self-defence, suddenly gripped the assassin by the waist, and rushing him backwards to the cliff, flung him from him with force, crying:

“That is your fate—the same that every secret poisoner deserves!”

There was a scream, and next instant the scoundrel struck a pointed rock just below. Then he fell heavily from crag to crag until, a few seconds later, he lay deep down in the undergrowth at the cliff foot, mangled and dead—his fate being indeed a just one.

Next day the Imparçial, in Madrid, printed a long account of the tragic discovery, with a photograph of the dead English servant. The paper called it “The Mystery of the Crow’s Cliff.” But even to-day Mr. Mapleton with the doctor and Mrs. Garcia naturally regard the whole affair as a tragic mystery, for they still aver that the butler Martin was one of the most trustworthy of servants, and believe that he must have met with foul play at the hands of some low-born enemy. Mrs. Mapleton alone suspects the truth!

Three months after the affair Geoffrey Falconer, who had been paid a very considerable sum for the rights of his improved microphone amplifier and for several improvements in wireless calling devices, asked Mrs. Beverley for her daughter’s hand.

The “Wild Widow” admired him, and after a long discussion, gave her consent. So six months ago they were married at St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, and at the wedding nearly half the engineering staff from the Marconi Works at Chelmsford attended.

Truly the guilty secrets of many men and women have been detected by means of wireless, that science which daily reveals its further wonders to those persevering experimenters who seek so patiently to penetrate its mysteries.

THE END

Cahill & Co., Ltd., London, Dublin, and Drogheda.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tracked by Wireless, by William Le Queux

TRACKED BY WIRELESS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I THE SECRET SIGNAL

CHAPTER II THE VOICE FROM THE VOID

CHAPTER III THE CALICO GLOVE

CHAPTER IV THE DEVIL’S OVEN

CHAPTER V THE MYSTERY WIDOW

CHAPTER VI THE CLOVEN HOOF

CHAPTER VII THE POISON FACTORY

CHAPTER VIII THE GREAT INTRIGUE

CHAPTER IX THE THREE BAD MEN

CHAPTER X THE MYSTERY OF BERENICE

CHAPTER XI THE MARKED MAN

CHAPTER XII THE CROW’S CLIFF

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE