said he was a friend of hers who was interested in the book. She went away, but came back soon afterwards and told me that ‘Antaxia’ was the telegraphic address of a safe deposit in New York. She was very nice and offered to pay for a cable to the deposit. So I wired: ‘Please forward by registered post the book deposited by Charles Hyatt’; and I signed it ‘Eva Hyatt’ and gave my address. By the evening the reply came: ‘Forwarded; your previous wire did not comply with our instructions.’”
“I see,” said T.B.
“Well, that is more than I can,” said the girl, with a smile, “because only one wire was sent. The Senora was surprised, too, and a little annoyed, and said: ‘How foolish it was of me not to ask you your Christian name.’ Well, then the Senora insisted upon my coming to stay with her till the book came. I came expecting I should find Charles, but — but—”
Her eyes were filled with tears.
“I read in a newspaper that he was dead. It was the first thing I saw in London, the bill of a newspaper—”
T.B. gave her time to recover her voice.
“And the Senora!”
“She took this furnished flat near to hers,” said the girl; “she lives here—”
“Does she?” asked T.B. artlessly. He took up the registered parcel which she had put on the table.
It was fairly light.
“Now, Miss Hyatt,” he said, “I want you to do something for me; and I must tell you that, although I ask it as a favour, I can enforce my wishes as a right.”
“I will do anything,” said the girl eagerly.
“Very well; you must let me take this book away.”
“But it is not mine; it belongs to the Senora,” she protested; “and it is to save my brother’s name—”
“Miss Hyatt,” said T.B. gently, “I must take this book which has so providentially come into my hands, not to save your brother’s name, but to bring to justice the men who took his life.”
As he spoke there came a knock at the door; and, hastily drying her eyes, the girl opened it.
A porter handed her a telegram, and she came back into the light of the room to open it.
She read it, and re-read it; then looked at T.B. with bewilderment written on her face.
“What does this mean?” she said.
T.B. took the telegram from her hand; it had been readdressed from Falmouth, and ran:
“By wireless from Port Sybil. Do not part with book to anybody on any account,
“Catherine Silinski.”
T.B. handed the telegram back. “It means,” he said, “that our friend is just two minutes too late.”
XX. At the Admiralty
Wherever men met they spoke of one thing; they had one subject of conversation; in train or in clubroom; in bar or meeting-place, in barristers’ robing-room; in prisoners’ waiting hall — the Castilia, and Spain.
Small doubt but that there were demands, irresponsible demands for satisfaction, after satisfaction had been given. But tangible satisfaction was needed. Spain had dared… insult to the might and majesty of Britain — war must be a logical outcome — and the like.
These outpourings appeared in many newspapers under the heading, “Letters to the Editor.” Some newspapers would not print them because of a curious resemblance between them.
The Editor of the London Journal made this discovery.
The Journal is a newspaper controlled by a great syndicate which owns a newspaper in every one of the great centres of industry throughout Great Britain. It has a system of exchanging confidences, and, as a result, it was found that a letter addressed to The Northern Journal and Times was identical, word for word, with a letter addressed to the London paper. With this difference, that whilst one was signed “J.Y. Bayer,” the other bore the magnificent signature of “Orlando T. Sabout.” The editor sent both letters to T.B. Smith, and T.B. grinned unpleasantly, but with some admiration for the completeness of the Nine Men’s organization.
On top of these letters, was revived a form of publicity which had long since fallen into desuetude — the pamphlet was mooked.
Three pamphlets were shot suddenly into the market. This was the second day after the sinking of the Castilia.
One, the more virulent, was called “A Blow at Protestantism,” and was an invitation to England to sweep Europe clear of the “Catholic menace.’ 9
Neither pamphlet could have been written in two days. They must have been prepared a fortnight to a month in advance of the disaster. They bore no publisher’s imprint or printer’s advertisement.
“This business is a little too hot to hold,” said the editor in a final interview with T.B. “Tonight I must tell the whole of the story.”
T.B. nodded.
“Tonight,” said T.B., “you can tell what you like. I shall have played my stake for good or ill.”
“I have been talking with Escoltier; we have got him lodged in Scotland Yard — though you needn’t mention that fact in your account — and I think we know enough now to trap the Nine Men.”
“Who are they and what does the ‘C’ stand for in’N.H.C.’?”
“I can only guess,” said T.B. cautiously. “Do you know anything about wireless telegraphy!” he demanded.
“Not much,” admitted the editor.
“Well, you know enough to realize that the further you wish to communicate the more electrical energy you require?”
“That much I understand,” said the journalist. “The principle is the ‘rings on the pond.’ You throw a stone into still water, and immediately rings grow outward. The bigger the stone, the farther reaching the rings.”
“At Poldhu,” continued T.B., “Hyatt was in charge of the long-distance instrument. As a matter of fact, the work he was engaged on was merely experimental, but his endeavour seemed to be centred in securing the necessary energy for communicating nine hundred miles. Of course, wireless telegraphy is practicable up to and beyond 3,000 miles, but few installations are capable of transmitting that distance.
“So ‘C’ is, you think, within 900 miles of Cornwall!”
T.B. nodded.
“I have a feeling that I know ‘C’,” he said. “I have another feeling that these wireless messages do not come from ‘C’ at all, but from a place adjacent. However,” — he took from
