Front matter (continued 2)

She wore a satiny dressing gown of ivory-white, which trailed behind her like a bridal garment as she crossed the gallery and descended the staircase. Carelessly thrown over her lovely head was a filmy, white scarf, which billowed about her shoulders like a summer's cloud. There was every indication in her movements that she was on her way to locate the reporter, alleviate his distress, or, perhaps, release him. In spite of her hazardous undertaking, I could not avoid staring after her in deep admiration.

When she espied Niki on the divan, she switched off the flashlight. After satisfying herself, apparently by his heavy breathing, that he was asleep, she proceeded to open the secret panel. Its mechanism was familiar to her; she knew her way into the vaults below.

Immediately she had disappeared through the doorway in the wall, I went into action. Quietly but swiftly, I crept down the staircase. I stepped through the panel opening and stood at the head of the stone steps, where I watched her slow and careful descent of the winding stairs, in the shaky circle of light of her torch. I felt no trepidation over her safety; she was well acquainted with the geography of the place. My only fear was that the reporter might turn her adventurous visit to his own advantage. This seemed unlikely, for he had given me the impression that he was enough of a soldier of fortune to find amusement in his present predicament, despite his brutal treatment. This thought was uppermost in my mind when I heard his voice, raised in an exclamation of surprise.

I could well understand his note of surprise as he tried to connect the circumstances that had so recently and violently placed him in his present situation, with this after-midnight visit of a beautiful young lady in trailing white, lighting her way with an electric torch and jangling a bunch of keys.

"My dear young person, are you playing ghost—or what?" he addressed her, speaking through a small opening in his cell-door, through which, in its ancient pattern, food was passed to prisoners. "I am honored by your visit, of course, but isn't it a little—unconventional?"

"Lots of things are unconventional," was Pat's ready reply.

I could hear distinctly every word they said, owing to the peculiar acoustic properties of the cellar.

"Please don't tell me that you're bringing me a cup of tea!"

"I should adore some," said Pat.

"Adore some—what?"

"Some iced tea," she replied. "It's very hot and stuffy down here. You must be very uncomfortable."

"Oh, I'm okay," the reporter returned, sarcastically. "I've got a nice, soft cement floor to sleep on, and—oh, say! what I would really like is a good stiff highball. My jaw, you know—"

"Yes, I know all about it," Pat interrupted. "Niki must have given you an awful crack. I saw everything from the gallery in the hall!"

"Sympathetic, eh?"

"I very much regret to say I am," Pat answered. "I think my Uncle Henry is treating you outrageously. But he's rather eccentric, as you know, and tonight, I'm afraid he's a little tight, or he wouldn't have done a terrible thing like this."

"Ah, so you're Miss Patricia Preston, the society girl with so much money and leisure she doesn't know what to do with them," McGinity said quickly. "Your photo, sitting next to Prince Matani, at the polo tournament at Meadow Brook last week, in the box with your Aunt Jane, appeared in our Sunday rotogravure section. Don't tell me you've fallen for a foreign gink like that?"

Pat must have stared at him, thunderstruck, for she said, with a gasp: "How do you know so much?"

"I happen to know, and I have my own reasons for knowing," the reporter replied. "We won't discuss that for the moment. Suppose you answer my question?"

There was a pause, then Pat said: "No; it isn't like that. It isn't what you think at all."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that," said the reporter. "Now, I'll tell you something you don't know. Your father, Allston Preston, and my dad were classmates at college—great pals."

"Really?"

"And on the same football team, at Columbia. Inseparable, until they each met the right girl and got married. Your father married into riches and society. My old man wed a poor but beautiful typist."

"I can hardly believe that they were friends," said Pat. "It seems so—fantastic." She paused, then went on, musingly: "Oh, but I would like to think they were—friends. I'm sure your father was capable and qualified, or he wouldn't have been such a close friend of my father."

"And, now, think what capabilities and qualifications his son, Bob McGinity, holds, also a graduate of Columbia."

"McGinity?" said Pat. "Bob McGinity! Oh, now, I remember. Surely—"

"Yes; I was the Columbia fullback, and I'll bet you a dollar to a doughnut, I was photographed more often than you are, now. But being a college graduate and a fullback didn't get me anywhere, so I went into newspaper work. I'm only a cub, but I've got ambitions. After what happened tonight, I suppose you think I'm a pretty rotten reporter."

"I wouldn't express it in that way, exactly," said Pat. "You had your nerve and persistency all right, yet you failed in your immediate object, didn't you? that of obtaining honestly"—she emphasized the word honestly—"the confirmation of Uncle Henry's discovery."

"Then you think I deserved the awful crack the Filipino gave me, and this temporary imprisonment, I take it, until after my paper goes to press?"

"I would like to think that you didn't," said Pat complacently. "However, I'm not in sympathy with Uncle's plan of locking you up here for the night. I couldn't sleep with a clear conscience without making certain you were not seriously hurt. I know you must be nearly starved. So, if you'll agree not to try and escape, or get in touch with your office on the phone, I'll take you upstairs, and get you something to eat, also liniment for your jaw. I consider that you should be very grateful to me."

"Am I grateful?" the reporter replied; "I'm tickled pink. But, after all, what's the use?" he added, rather despairingly. "I've failed. Failed miserably."

"On the contrary, I believe you to be on the way to possible success, in getting all the information you want from Uncle Henry. But you've got to go after him in a different way. Perhaps you need an assistant—an ally."

"Do I need an ally? Oh, boy! And hungry? I could eat my shirt, really. But I'm not hurt as much as you think. What's a little sock in the jaw?"

"Then you'll agree to my proposition?"

A moment's pause, then: "How can my troubles interest you so much? Tell me."

With an attempt at bravado, Pat replied: "I have no personal interest. My whole idea is to get Uncle Henry out of the fix he's got himself into—with you."

The reporter sighed. "I'm incredibly foolish to imagine that you would be interested in me—personally. All the same, I'm eternally grateful, and give you my word I'll not give you the slip, or phone my office."

There was a heavy lock and bolt to negotiate, and when I heard the jingle of the keys and the snapping back of the lock, discretion counselled that I vanish from the scene. I had overheard enough to convince me that Pat was well able to look after herself. The comforting discovery that the reporter's father had been a close friend of Pat's parent had eased the situation immensely.

And yet the uneasy fear assailed me that Pat might get the worst of the bargain. How was one to know that the reporter was as honest and harmless as he sounded? At all costs, I felt, that remote contingency must be guarded against.

VII

I secreted myself in the elevator. A quarter of an hour passed. There was no sound of Pat and the reporter. My uneasiness grew by bounds. Finally, I decided to manifest my presence, if only for the sake of propriety. If Henry should appear unexpectedly and find these two together, alone, it would be hell let loose.

Emerging from my hideout, I found the hall in complete darkness. Not daring to risk rousing Niki, whom I still believed to be asleep on the divan, I stole quietly in the direction of a streak of light, on which my eyes had become focused in the dark. The light came from the dining room. I heard a low murmur of voices. The words were indistinguishable, but one of the voices was indubitably that of Pat's. Then, suddenly, I overheard her giving orders in a slightly raised voice:

"Cold chicken, and a salad.... See that you serve it promptly.... Wine, too—some sherry.... Now, look sharp about it.... And be as quiet as a mouse."

Peering cautiously between the curtains in the doorway, I had the surprise of my life. Pat was serving supper to McGinity in formal state. I could hardly believe my eyes. The reporter sat at the head of the long table, looking rather battered; his handsome, boyish face rather drawn and pale, his coal black hair dishevelled. His clothes looked like they badly needed pressing. The only illumination came from two burning candles in tall silver candlesticks on the table. Pat sat at the far end; a most discreet distance, which relieved my anxiety considerably.

My greatest surprise, though, came in discovering Niki. I gathered that Pat had roused him and pressed him into service. With the marvelous calm of the Oriental, he was placing the doilies and small silver before the reporter, to whom he had so recently delivered a knockout blow. He seemed most willing to assist Pat, to whom he always conceded absolute loyalty.

"Slippery little devil, isn't he?" McGinity remarked, after Niki had glided from the room. "But he's got an awful punch packed in that right arm," he added, as he rubbed his jaw, now slightly swollen and discolored.

"A glass of sherry will do your jaw good," said Pat.

"Supper for two," McGinity remarked, musingly. "It's too bad we haven't some music. You must dance divinely."

"You look utterly worn out," said Pat, steering with tact into another channel. "A shipwreck, and being cast ashore, a knockout blow, and a prison cell, is a whole lot for one evening."

"Another half hour of this—your delightful companionship—I'm sure, would quite finish me," said McGinity. "You've been a godsend."

"If you keep on like this, you'll make me angry, furiously angry," said Pat. "I'd much rather hear—well, how you chose to be a reporter."

"Temporary insanity, I guess," McGinity replied.

"Uncle Henry regards you as utterly insane, so far as news getting is concerned," said Pat.

"Well, then—a nebulous bank balance."

Pat seemed a little vexed. "If you can explain it in any other way, I shall be much obliged," she said, succinctly.

The reporter reflected for a moment, then spoke in a serious tone. "For one thing," he began, "you don't have to possess an intellect above the average to be a reporter. All you need is a nose for news, and lots of nerve. Most fellows use it as a stepping-stone into politics, the law, and the public relationship angle of the stage, screen and radio. Others stick to it all their lives; they can't break away. My dad was an editorial writer on the Herald up to his death. I thought I was cut out to be a lawyer, but I just couldn't click. I was born with the news instinct, I guess. Unlike my studious, conservative parent, I liked my news—hot. Perhaps I've got a yellow streak in me. That's why I'm on the Daily Recorder. I like sensation, big headlines.

"When I was at school, I thought life was learned from books," he went on, warming up a bit. "Life—I love it. And life at its utmost, that's reporting. Life that ticks off love, laughter, tears on every second. A foundling left on a door-step. Strange disappearance of a college girl. She's never seen or heard of again. Mystery. Death by misadventure. Murder. Fire-traps. Tenement fire—father, mother and grown-up kids burned to a crisp. Pet poodle, whining, discloses the baby under a bed, unharmed. Baby is adopted by a rich family. Poodle gets a decoration. Stories! Stories!"

He drew a deep breath, and continued: "The great thrill is putting your story over, hot off the press, satisfying the public's curiosity for news. Exclusive stories! The first thing the City Editor looks for. But there's no credit for them outside the office force. A pat on the shoulder, 'Good work, Bill!' and sometimes a 'by-line.' You write a good story, and you wallow in self-esteem. That's the only real compensation. No wallowing in wealth. The tragedy of reporting is that newspaper stories pay so little and die so quickly. You put your life's blood into them, your very soul. But they're not even yesterday's remembrance. In a couple of days they're dead—dead as a pickled herring!"

"Wonderful!" Pat breathed, as soon as the reporter had finished. "It all sounds so thrilling. I too love adventure—life, but until now—"

"Until you were nervy enough to take risks and rescue me from durance vile," McGinity broke in.

"Until now," Pat went on, "my adventures have been only in the pages of romantic and mystery books, although I've often tried to write myself—I really believe I have the talent. Anyway, I've often longed to step through those pages of romance and mystery, like Alice stepped through the looking-glass."

McGinity grinned. "Reporting isn't wonderland, by any means," he said; "it's the land of stark realities. I've had doors slammed in my face; I've been snubbed, insulted, double-crossed and kicked downstairs; but never—no, never in all my short experience as a reporter for a sensational tabloid sheet like the Recorder, have I ever had an experience like this one, tonight!"

"I'm sorry Uncle Henry was so ungracious and unkind," said Pat, in a low, sympathetic voice; "and Niki so cruel. I'm sure the valet didn't mean to knock you out."

McGinity grinned. "Oh, but I don't mean what you think I mean," he said. He leaned over the table towards her. "I mean this experience—you—at this moment. You—this incredulous you! A beautiful young princess, in these dark, ancient surroundings, and only forty-nine minutes from Broadway. An angel of mercy, too. It's all too fine and lovely to be true. I must be in a dream." He swept his hand across his eyes. "Maybe I haven't come to my senses yet—maybe—"

He stopped short as the telephone bell in the library began to trill sharply. He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Only half an hour before the last edition of his paper went to press. Time enough to get his story in, if only a flash. The old instinct—news instinct—loyalty to his paper, suddenly gripped him; it blotted out everything else—even Pat. He must get his story in. No longer would there be any interference with his plans. All danger—all obstacles—were past, and he was free at last to act.

He jumped to his feet, and with a bound, passed through the open doorway into the darkened library. The trilling of the bell guided him to the desk in the center of the room.

Pat sat staring after him. Then, suddenly, she understood his object. Instantly, she too sprang from the table, and darted into the library after him. A touch of the switch, and the room was flooded with light. McGinity was standing by the desk, in the act of lifting the receiver from the hook.

"I'm afraid you're forgetting yourself," Pat said coldly. "You agreed to follow out my instructions."

McGinity glanced at her strangely. "It's all okay. Everything's all right," he said, in an excited and husky whisper.

"Don't be absurd," said Pat. "Everything is not—all right. You're going to phone your story in, and you promised you wouldn't. Gentlemen always keep promises."

"I'm a reporter, and this is my business," McGinity retorted. "I've got to get this story in, and nobody's going to stop me."

"Very well, then," said Pat, and her voice was strangely flat and lifeless. "You're perfectly at liberty to do so, but—" she added, imperiously, "if this is your gratitude, the sooner we part company the better."

Even at this, his reason did not begin to assert itself. "This is my job," he exclaimed, heatedly. "I wasn't born rich like you. I've got to work for my living. I've got to make good on this story or I'm liable to be fired. You don't want me to lose my job, do you?"

Pat looked at him dumbly. "It means nothing to me—now," she said; "nothing in the least." She turned away from him, and re-entered the dining room.

"Please! Miss Preston!" he called after her. A thoughtful pause, and his lips went to the mouthpiece as though he were going to bite it. "You've got the wrong number," he angrily retorted to the insistent person at the other end of the wire. "Dammit! Get off the line!" He hung up the receiver, and swiftly followed after Pat. Coming up to her, he said, in a low, contrite voice: "I'm sorry if I seemed discourteous and ungrateful just now."

"It was most generous of you not to phone your story in," she said, and shrugged indifferently.

"I sort of lost my head the moment I heard that phone bell ring," he explained, "but a big story like this means a whole lot to me." He ran his hand nervously through his tousled hair. "At least, you might let me phone my office, and give the Night Desk some kind of a report about myself. They haven't heard beans from me since I was assigned to the story, early in the evening."

"Surely," Pat agreed. There was a little gentleness in her voice now. "I'll trust you."

Realizing that matters had approached a crisis, I resolved to make my presence known to Pat while the reporter was busy at the telephone, in the library. I could see she was suffering from nerves. The adventure was proving a little too much for her. When she saw my tall figure moving towards her, in the dimly-lighted dining room, she stifled a cry of alarm.

"It's all right, my dear," I said, taking her gently by the arm. "I've seen and heard everything. You've done nothing discreditable. Let's hope when morning comes, and Henry is sober, he'll act more sensible than he did tonight."

When McGinity returned, and saw me, his face went a little paler. He appeared relieved when I gave him a friendly smile.

"What's happened?" he asked, glancing at Pat, after she had introduced me.

"I don't want you young people to be alarmed," I said, "but there's no telling. Henry's a light sleeper, and he may drop in on you at any moment."

Just then Niki came in, bearing the reporter's supper on a huge silver tray. Niki was probably just as much surprised at seeing me there, as I was in discovering him, in the first place, but his face was still a stolid mask. While he busied himself at the table, I shepherded McGinity and Pat to one side, and said, in a low voice:

"Now, Mr. McGinity, you hurry and eat your supper, and I'll relieve Patricia, and act as your bodyguard until I've locked you up again safely in our cellar."

"But he isn't to be locked up again," said Pat, after McGinity had seated himself at the table. "I've already given orders to Niki to put him in the Blue Room."

I gasped. It was almost incomprehensible. The Blue Room was the most attractive and spacious guest-room in the castle.

"Mr. McGinity can remain comfortably there, without any disturbance from Uncle Henry," she continued, "until Niki serves him his breakfast. As a prevention against catching cold, after his exposure this evening, I've instructed Niki to give him a good alcohol rub-down, and also to massage his jaw. You've no objections, Uncle Livingston?"

"None," I replied. Not a hint that I was utterly flabbergasted.

McGinity heard nothing of this, or seemed to hear nothing. He was obviously engrossed in eating his supper. But not so absorbed as I thought when Pat said: "Well, good-night—all," and turned to leave the room.

Then he leapt to his feet. "Don't go, please!" he pleaded.

"Oh, but I must," Pat said, lightly.

"Okay, then," he said, dejectedly. "See you in the morning, I hope. Thanks for all you've done for me—thanks a whole lot."

A tired smile, a flutter of trailing white, and Pat was gone.

"She's the stuff all right," McGinity remarked, as soon as she had left the room; "true stuff." Then I heard him mutter to himself: "I wonder what she sees in that gink, Prince Matani?"

After that, he barely spoke a dozen words. He looked all in; even a glass of sherry did not seem to revive him. He acted a little dazed. When I told him he was to sleep in our best bedroom, he simply said: "Good."

At three o'clock I left him there, in the hands of Niki, and trudged off to bed myself, feeling like a wet rag, and wondering what the morning would bring forth.

VIII

At breakfast, Henry wore a puzzled and anxious look, for which Pat and I did not find it hard to account. Apparently urged by a twinge of remorse, he had paid a secret visit to the cellar earlier in the morning, and to his great consternation and alarm, had found the reporter missing. Up to breakfast time, he was, of course, unaware of Pat's doings, and had only his own knowledge to go on. Niki had kept his silence, for a very good reason, which was—Pat.

Olinski was a few minutes late in joining us. Luckily only the four of us were seated at the table. Prince Matani had caught an early train for the city. Jane had remained in bed with a nervous headache. Olinski lost no time in making inquiry about the imprisoned reporter. Leaning over to Henry, he asked, in a low voice: "Is everything all right?"

"Disappeared!" Henry replied, in a low aside, using his morning paper, the Times, as a screen for the sub rosa conversation, which then ensued. "Clean gone!" he added.

Olinski looked positively sick for a moment. "Odd, isn't it?" he remarked.

"The whole affair's odd," Henry returned, placing a finger to his lips, to indicate the need for secrecy and caution.

Pat and I were both listening attentively, but camouflaging our attention with some silly chatter and laughter, as if deprecating any idea that we wished to listen in.

"Supposing someone got rid of him—Niki, for instance," Olinski suggested, sotto voce. "Niki's an Oriental. He may have misunderstood your motives. Faithful servant, you know. Heard of cases of that sort myself, in the Orient, not in this country, though."

Henry's eyes seemed to pop, and his face blanched at the suggestion of murder. "Oh, but I think that's impossible," he asserted, unconsciously raising his voice.

"What's impossible, Uncle Henry?" asked Pat.

"Oh!" said Henry, taken wholly by surprise. "Mr. Olinski and I were—er—we were just discussing a rather peculiar happening of last night, after you'd gone to bed. Something of a mystery, which seems difficult of solution."

"Perhaps I can solve it for you," Pat suggested demurely, giving me a knowing wink.

Olinski, who was watching Pat attentively, signed to Henry to remain quiet, and said: "I'm afraid your distinguished uncle has got himself into a peck of trouble."

"The thing's done, and can't be undone," Henry protested vehemently.

"What's done, Henry?" I inquired in a perfectly innoxious tone.

As Henry hesitated, Pat spoke. "Oh, I may as well blurt it straight out," she said. "Uncle Livingston and I were going to announce it, in due form, but I'd just as soon tell you now. Mr. McGinity, the Daily Recorder reporter, whom you cruelly attacked and locked up in the cellar, last night, received proper attention, and was put to bed in the Blue Room, after you and Mr. Olinski had retired. He's now having his breakfast, very comfortably, I hope, in bed."

Henry stared at Pat incredulously. "Um!" he exclaimed at last.

Thereupon, she gave a plain, straightforward account of things. Told all she knew, while I corroborated and amplified her statements whenever necessary. And two more surprised-looking men, I never saw in my life before. As she proceeded, Henry's face cleared. "Um!" he said again, when the full story had been told.

"I don't think I'm much of a hand at advising in such matters," Pat went on, "but in view of the nice mess of things you've made, Uncle Henry—"

As she paused uncertainly, Henry caught my eye. "What do you say, Livingston?" he asked.

"Well, if you ask me, Henry, I agree entirely with Pat," I replied, with decision. "Assault of this reporter, and his detention in the cellar, rank as an act in contravention of the criminal code, the penalties for which, as you are no doubt aware, are very severe."

"We don't want any more scenes like last night, do we, Uncle Henry?" Pat put in, ingenuously.

"Um! Um!" said Henry, reflectively.

Mentally he must have seen a picture of what might be if he did not patch things up with the reporter, who was in a position to bring a civil action and mulct him in very substantial damages. "I—I suppose I did treat him rather roughly," he admitted finally, now that the ground had been cut from under his feet. "What would you suggest, Livingston?" he asked, meekly, again turning to me.

Struck by a sudden, happy thought, I replied: "I would suggest offering the reporter the exclusive rights for the story of your amazing discovery, on condition that he is not to publish it until you've given him permission, or set a release date. Try that, and see how it works."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Olinski.

"Very good," said Henry.

At that moment, Orkins came into the room, and informed Henry that McGinity was in the hall, and would be obliged if Henry would see him for a few minutes. Henry accordingly hastened into the hall, and, as we learned afterwards, greeted the reporter with an open hand and a cordial smile.

On returning from his interview with the reporter, I was surprised to see him kiss Pat affectionately on the cheek. "I want to thank you, my dear," he said, "for saving me from a world of trouble."

Pat blushed and smiled, and kissed him back, then turned away to hide her tears.

"Family pride is a powerful instinct," I remarked, "and we still bear an honored name, thanks to Pat."

Henry had good reason to be thankful to Pat, who had saved him from what might have been an extremely serious contretemps. We all had, for that matter. Pat had a head on her lovely shoulders. True to her romantic disposition, she waved adieu to McGinity from a mullioned window, high up in the castle, where she must have appeared to him in the likeness of a fairy princess, as he rode off, in company with Olinski, to the railroad station.

Henry appeared in a placid and cheerful mood during the rest of the morning. He had managed things pretty well so far. Knowing the value of publicity, I considered McGinity and the tabloid he represented, with its tremendous circulation, the best medium Henry would be able to find for the exploitation of his discovery. I knew he hated making terms with the reporter, his keen dislike and distrust of newspapermen seemed inherent, but McGinity had somehow to be caught and tamed, and unless it were done quickly, McGinity might be catching him. And that would never do.

Towards noon, Henry sent for me, and I joined him in the library, where I found him rummaging amongst the books and papers on his desk. He looked worried. There was something heavy bearing on his mind. As it turned out, there were several things that harassed him.

"What now?" I asked, a note of impatience in my voice.

"Livingston," he began, with a sudden compression of his lips, and motioning me to sit down, "will you answer a question that has been occurring to me all morning? During the time that this reporter, McGinity, and Pat were together, last night, did he show—well, any sentimental interest in her? I want to know—particularly."

"No, I'm sure he did not," I replied promptly. "I recall hearing him use such expressions as 'your delightful companionship,' 'this incredulous you,' and 'beautiful princess!'"

"What!" Henry exclaimed, with an awkward attempt to suppress an unbelieving smile; "do I understand you to say you attach no sentimental significance to such expressions?"

"Why, certainly," I answered. "I attributed his romantic talking to the after-effects of the knockout blow. At times, he appeared to be dazed."

Henry regarded me gravely for a moment, then he said: "Livingston, you are without a doubt the perfect ass!" He brought his fist down with a thud on his desk to emphasize more completely his opinion of me.

"Whatever do you mean?" I demanded.

"Listen to me," said Henry, leaning over the desk towards me. "What happened last night between Pat and this reporter is going to bring an alarming new situation in our household. Pat has become romantically interested in this young scallywag, and I feel sure he's fallen in love with her."

"You wouldn't say that unless you'd some grounds for it," I observed. "Have you?"

"Nothing that I can personally vouch for," was the reply; "it's only something that I suspect after putting two and two together. Now, after hearing you repeat those silly, sentimental expressions that fell from the reporter's lips, while Pat was treating him to supper, and speculating on what he may have said to her during the quarter of an hour you were secreted in the elevator, I feel I have grounds for my suspicions."

He leaned still further across the desk as he continued. "Now, this McGinity fellow was in his right mind and senses, take my word for it, when he called our Pat 'incredulous you,' 'beautiful princess,' and so on, and also in a perfectly normal state of mind, this morning, when he turned down my offer to square and hush up last night's unfortunate affair. I guess Olinski was right. I must have been 'cock-eyed.' Anyway, the amount I offered him was $50,000. It was a good bargain, a damned good bargain. What's surprising you?"

"Do you mean to say McGinity turned down such a large offer of money, which had nothing to do with holding out on the story, nothing in the nature of a bribe, simply a stated sum in lieu of damages, say for assault and detention?"

"I do," Henry replied. "The young nincompoop fixed his own price, and declared he would be well satisfied if he got it."

"And what was that?"

"All he wanted, he said—now, listen carefully to what I'm telling you—all he wanted was the exclusive rights to the Mars story, the release terms of which he promised faithfully to obey. As for last night's occurrences—assault and detention, as you term them—he simply said: 'Let's forget that.'"

"Is that a fact?" I asked, amazed.

Henry nodded, and continued. "Do you get it? He's in love with our Pat, or he wouldn't have turned my offer down. Think of it—$50,000. Enough to start him in the newspaper publishing business on his own hook."

"Supposing it's true, that a romantic attachment has sprung up between them, what shall you do?"

"I shall be ruthless," Henry replied, in a stern voice. "Ruthless," he repeated, and then gazed round the room, rather guiltily, as though Orkins might be there to hear him.

"By the way," I said. "What's happened to Orkins? I haven't seen him round the premises since Olinski and McGinity left, shortly after breakfast?"

"Ah!" said Henry. "That reminds me of another strange occurrence. Orkins has gone—gone for good."

"Well, that's a queer thing, isn't it?"

"Decidedly queer," Henry concurred. "He came to me quite unexpectedly this morning and resigned; said he was leaving at once. No explanation, simply that he was going and wanted his back pay. I remonstrated about his not giving the usual two weeks' notice, but he was adamant, so I paid him off and let him go."

"Leaving you no address?"

"No address at all. What do you make of it?"

"It certainly looks queer," I replied. "But I've been rather suspicious of Orkins from the very start."

"Why?" asked Henry.

"It's always been my opinion," I replied, "that he was mixed up in some secret, something that we know nothing about. He was too crafty and reticent to suit me."

"The mere fact that he was crafty and reticent doesn't prove anything," said Henry.

"Well, then," I said, rather testily, "if Orkins didn't sell you out on the comet business, who the devil did?"

"I've no idea," said Henry.

"I think it is pretty certain that he also tipped off the Daily Recorder about your latest discovery, and got well paid for it."

"Even so," said Henry, "these suppositions on your part can have no possible connection with his leaving so abruptly."

"I've got a notion about that too," I said. "Supposing that he did sell you out, in both instances, and was assured that his tips would be treated confidentially, then he must have got scared when McGinity turned up."

"Scared about what?" asked Henry.

"Well, after what happened to the Daily Recorder reporter last night, and Orkins must have known about it—you'd be astonished how quickly news travels among the servants—my idea is that he was afraid McGinity, in reprisal, would betray his duplicity. So he got away as quickly as possible to save his face. But it was a foolish thing to do."

"Foolish?"

"Yes; for newspapers never, under any consideration, betray their source of news information. I doubt if McGinity himself knew where the tips came from. He was simply assigned by his City Editor to get the stories, and Orkins did not figure in them at all as far as he was concerned."

"At any rate," said Henry, "I'm rather sorry to lose Orkins. While he had odd ways, I always felt he could be depended upon. He was the perfect English butler if ever there was one."

"Oh, but he's not English at all," I said. "I learned from one of the other servants, not so long ago, that he's a Slav by birth, and acquired his perfect English name, speech and manners during a long period of buttling in London. By the way, on whose recommendation did you employ him?"

"Can't say," Henry replied, as he lighted a cigar. "Ah!" he added, after a thoughtful pause. "I have it! I employed him on Dr. LaRauche's recommendation, from whom he brought the most exceptional references. It's not likely, though, that Dr. LaRauche would have any ulterior reason in wanting me to give his former servant a place."

"After all," I suggested, "there's no getting away from the fact that Rene LaRauche hates you worse than poison."

"You're wrong, Livingston," said Henry, with emphasis. "Dr. LaRauche is only suspicious of my scientific achievements. He regards me as a rank amateur. A top-notch scientist himself, of international reputation, it is only natural that he should be jealous of any intrusion upon that which he feels is his own field. But hatred? Oh, no!"

"If we're going in for mere theorizing," I said, "here's one to cogitate over. Supposing Orkins, the sly, crafty devil, was a plant in this house; put here by LaRauche to spy on your scientific research work? Then what?"

"Well, give me the truth," Henry answered. "Truth's not so easy to come at in these matters, and I doubt if we shall get any substantial contribution to your theory. Certainly not by remaining quietly here, with our hands folded. Come to think of it, LaRauche borrowed a valuable book of mine more than two years ago, Lowell's 'Mars as the Abode of Life,' which I should like very much to have him return. Now, supposing you drop in on him. Haven't the least idea what you'll get besides the borrowed book, and I doubt if you get that. Anyhow," he added significantly, "you may find out something—one way or another."

The curiosity instinct, which was my second nature, rose, strong and eager, when I heard this announcement. "All right," I said, with a suddenly roused alertness; "I'll call on LaRauche this afternoon."

IX

It was late in the afternoon when I reached the LaRauche house, a big, old-fashioned place, which stood within large enclosed grounds of its own, in a heavily wooded section, on a lonely and unfrequented road, about three miles south of Sands Cliff village.

Outwardly the residence was shabby, neglected, much in the want of fresh paint. The grounds in front were grown up with weeds. At the rear was a level stretch of meadow, backed by woods, which LaRauche used as a flying field. He owned and operated a small plane, in which he carried on experiments in wireless and meteorological observations. Ample private means enabled him to gratify his tastes to the full in the various fields of scientific research and exploration.

Astronomy held a particular attraction for him; he was a geologist and botanist as well. What with one thing and another, his life had been one long mad quest into the mysteries of the universe, and some of them he had solved. An astounding genius, if ever there was one, who was destined, I firmly believed, to spend his last days in a padded cell.

In appearance, he was a ramrod of a man, with hawk-like features surmounted by a mass of untidy, bushy white hair. Endowed with vast energy, he carried his sixty odd years with an air of perpetual youth and freshness. The man in the street who read of his scientific explorations into the unknown—recently he had been entertaining the reading-public with accounts of his plans and preparations to ride in a rocket to the moon—had no conception of the zeal that animated him as a scientific investigator, nor knowledge of the jealous fury that would seize him whenever he was outshone by the superior success of a fellow scientist.

Hot-headed, violently controversial, always quarrelsome, he had a malignant way of convulsing the various learned scientific bodies, to which he belonged, with stinging impeachments of his rivals. He had a turn for the sensational, which is rare in a man of his genius.

The breach between LaRauche and Henry dated back two years. It grew out of the first showing by LaRauche of several reels of motion pictures at the Exploration Club, depicting the life and customs of a hitherto unknown race of dwarfs, or midgets, he claimed to have discovered, living in a most primitive state in the jungles of Central Africa.

Henry and I attended the première, and Henry, in his rather dumb way, with no intention of wounding the feelings of LaRauche, or injuring his reputation, voiced his opinion to one of his intimates that the pictures were fictitious. His chance remark reached the ears of a member of the board of governors of the club, who made an official report of it to that body. Secret investigation by the board disclosed that LaRauche had, indeed, resorted to faking. The official inquiry revealed that he had recruited a small company of Negro midgets from Harlem, dressed them in skins of wild beasts and put them through various African jungle stunts in a wild and wooded section of New Jersey. The midget tribe he so cleverly portrayed subsisted mainly on insects, frogs and toads, and their eating live toads was one of the most realistic and clever fakes I have ever seen.

As a result, LaRauche was expelled from membership for conduct prejudicial to the club. The fact that the club's action was made public turned the current of public feeling against him for a time. It should have covered him with shame and confusion—a very foolish trick for a scientist of his standing to perpetrate in the declining years of his career—but he assumed an utterly contemptuous attitude, and readily admitted once he was cornered that the pictures were intended as a fake, to fool his rivals in the African exploration field.

Naturally, he blamed Henry for his crushing defeat. There was no mistaking his ill will thereafter towards my brother, and he endeavored in many ways to injure Henry's reputation as a scientist. He wrote him letters, couched in violent terms; called him an "amateur meddler" in science; he wanted war to the knife. But it takes two to make a quarrel, and Henry, in his easy way, declined to enter the controversy.

Another crushing blow to LaRauche was Henry's discovery of the comet, which increased his rancor and violent antipathy towards my brother. So it was with no little trepidation that I approached his house.

Parking my car at the side of the road, I paused a few moments at the entrance gate to take a rapid, estimating view of the estate, apparently the only human habitation anywhere about. The grounds were fenced by a dilapidated hedge, and rows of maples and poplars.

Suddenly, through the screen of trees, I noticed an old brick house, set in a hollow, at the base of a hill that sloped gently down from LaRauche's place. It was set far back from the road, in a clump of trees, and possessed a considerable range of stables and outhouses, the possible use of which immediately roused my curiosity, as there were no indications that farming was being carried on. It struck me as odd that they should be there. There was a reason for the several outbuildings I saw on LaRauche's grounds; a hangar, a small frame building, set between two tall antennae towers of steel, apparently used for broadcasting, and a glass-domed brick structure, where, no doubt, he carried on his astronomical observations.

All this was running through my mind, as I walked up the gravel-path towards the LaRauche house, when I heard a rustle in the hedge. Glancing in this direction, I was amazed to see a grizzly bear emerge from the hedge and make towards me. A cold sweat broke out on me. I was terrified. I quickened my step, so did the bear, a ferocious-looking beast. I broke into a run. The bear followed, close on my heels, in its peculiar loping fashion.

Before I reached the house, a loud, gruff voice, emanating from the other side of the hedge, stopped the bear's pursuit. I saw a middle-aged man on the far side of the hedge. From that fleeting glimpse I had of his general build and swarthy complexion, I judged him to be an Italian. I was greatly relieved when the bear disappeared through a hole in the hedge and joined his master on the other side.

But this was not the only unusual and surprising event of that afternoon. In answer to my ring, the door opened and revealed the tall, dignified figure of Orkins. I immediately deduced from his presence there that LaRauche had some hold on him which made him Orkins' master. I was also convinced that my theory that he had been planted in our household by LaRauche to spy on Henry's work, was a very probable one.

I suppose I let my suspicions show themselves in my face, for Orkins questioned me before I could speak. I was still a little breathless from running.

"You are no doubt surprised, Mr. Royce, to find me here?" he said.

"Yes—I suppose so," I replied, evasively.

"Dr. LaRauche was kind enough to re-engage me after my leaving your brother, Henry, so suddenly this morning," he went on. "How did your brother take it?"

"I prefer not to say anything—about that," I answered. "In fact, I'm not going to!"

"Yes, yes. I quite understand your attitude, Mr. Royce," he said. "Just as you like."

"My business is with Dr. LaRauche," I said. "Is he at home?"

"Dr. LaRauche is very busy," Orkins answered, coldly. "He is not receiving callers today."

"I think he will give me a few minutes' interview on rather urgent business," I said. "Just give him my card, if you please."

Orkins took my card gingerly, backing away from the doorway as he glanced at it. He still seemed taken aback, afraid, as though he felt my business with LaRauche concerned him. I stepped through the doorway into a small outer hall. "Just so—just so," muttered Orkins. "It's highly probable that Dr. LaRauche will see you," he added. "Please wait here," motioning for me to enter the main hall.

After he had vanished up the stairs, I looked from the hall into the library, a room filled with books from floor to ceiling. I was staring at this vast array of books with interest when a wisp of a woman appeared at the head of the stairs. It was Mrs. LaRauche.

"Ah! Mr. Livingston Royce," she said as she came down the stairs. "You want to see my husband? Well, he's very busy. Why, he hasn't allowed himself a real night's sleep for several weeks."

Mrs. LaRauche was very much younger than her husband; a slim, smallish woman of rather sallow complexion, with sandy hair, pale-blue, restless eyes, and rather untidily dressed.

We shook hands cordially. She had always treated Henry and me with the most punctilious respect. I had not seen her for about two years, and I formed the opinion at once that her husband's break with Henry had not changed her friendly feelings towards us.

I noticed a great change in her. She seemed to have lost her old-time vivacity. She appeared tired and worn, and had aged considerably. I felt anxious and perturbed about her. Something, I was quite sure, had happened. And, of course, it had to do with her husband.

There was an atmosphere of mystery about her and the house, and it was further deepened when Mrs. LaRauche led me from the hall into the library. She gave me the impression at once of one who lives in constant fear. There was a sign of caution and watchfulness in her eyes, expressed in nervous, terrified glances over her shoulder.

"I'm sure you won't mind my asking if your business with my husband is so very important?" she began in a low, tremulous voice. "You see—" She stopped and turned at what seemed to be the sound of footfalls on the stairs. There was a look of terror in her eyes.

"It isn't," I interrupted. "I've merely called, at my brother's request, to ask Dr. LaRauche for the return of Professor Lowell's book on Mars which he borrowed more than two years ago."

She looked greatly relieved. "I'm so glad," she breathed. "Rene goes into a perfect rage if he's interrupted. He's been very upset all morning, but still continues at his work. What he's working on, I haven't the slightest idea."

"Probably working on that rocket to the moon idea," I suggested, smiling.

"Completely mysterious to me," she rejoined.

"You've heard, of course, of my brother's latest discovery?" I ventured.

"No," she replied. "I've heard nothing. My mind has been occupied all morning wondering what's brought Orkins back to us. I've always disliked and distrusted him intensely."

Not feeling free to explain the circumstances, or cloud, under which Orkins had left our household, I glanced out the window. "Your house is in a very lonely location," I observed. "I hope you do not go out much alone. You seem to have some queer animals roaming about. I was chased by a grizzly bear as I walked through your grounds."

Mrs. LaRauche shuddered. "Oh, that terrible beast!" she muttered. "I never go out at night by myself on account of that bear. He's not vicious at all, really a pet, but it's frightening to run into him. Often I hear him, in the dead of night, clawing at our doors, whimpering and growling, and trying to get in."

"Who owns the animal?" I inquired.

"He belongs to our disreputable neighbor, Antonio Ranzetti," she replied, "an Italian animal trainer, who rented and took possession, much against our wishes, of that old brick house in the hollow. Rene would have bought the place, had we known, rather than suffer the annoyance of living next to a menagerie."

"Is it as bad as all that?"

She nodded. "He has a large collection of wild animals in the house and outbuildings, which he is training for the circus," she explained, "and he's just about as secretive in his work as Rene in his scientific researches. He's one of the most expert animal trainers in the world, I believe."

Then she suddenly remembered the book I was after. "I'm sure my husband did not keep your brother's book intentionally," she said. "He's very forgetful of what he calls trivialities." She walked over to a disordered desk, and with a sharp exclamation, picked up the book from among a row of volumes on top of it. "There you are!" she said.

My back was turned towards the door into the hall as I took the book, and expressed my thanks for its return. I was just on the point of departure, seeing I had no further excuse to remain on the premises, when I saw her start, and turn pale. Turning round quickly, I faced Dr. LaRauche, as he entered the library. In looks, he was about the angriest looking man I had ever encountered.

"Ah, Dr. LaRauche!" I said, without turning a hair.

He made no reply, just stood there, glaring, and inspecting me from top to toe. Finally, he spoke. "I know what's brought you here, Livingston Royce," he said. "I expected it."

Coming out of her cowering fright, and finding her voice, Mrs. LaRauche broke in falteringly. "Mr. Royce came after the Lowell book on Mars you borrowed from his brother, Henry, more than—"

A contemptuous exclamation cut her short. "Something more than the borrowed book brought him here," LaRauche said.

"What, for instance?" I asked him, point-blank.

"There's no doubt in my mind that your cunning brother sent you here to spy on me, on my work in its possible relation to his own, and to find out why I reengaged Orkins. But you haven't learned very much, have you?"

"To tell you the truth, I haven't," I replied, nonchalantly. "I'm not the sort of person gifted to see through a brick wall."

"Well, as you haven't found out anything," LaRauche thundered, "the next best thing to do is to go home, and report to your meddlesome brother that you haven't." As he concluded, he waved a hand towards the door.

With a polite bow, I withdrew, and left the house. I had not gone many yards down the gravel-path, when a woman's cry tore the air, a smothered cry of terrorized anguish. The sound died away without repetition. I passed on, convinced that some evil had befallen Mrs. LaRauche. There was more mystery in this house than I had at first imagined.

No success having materialized from the real motive of my visit, which LaRauche, with uncanny intuition, had so rightly surmised, I returned to the castle, and told Henry all that had occurred. He laughed heartily when I narrated my encounter with the grizzly bear. As for the secret work LaRauche was at present engaged on, and Orkins' possible connection with it, I was bound to admit that I had made little headway in obtaining any accurate information.

What seemed to Henry much the most important fact of the little evidence I had gained, was Mrs. LaRauche's statement that her husband was so engrossed in his work that he hadn't been sleeping properly at night for several weeks, and that he was keeping it a secret even from her.

"This is damned queer business," Henry said at last. "Let's suppose that Orkins, using the knowledge he gained of my recent discovery, is mixed up in this work on which LaRauche is spending so many exciting days and sleepless nights."

"Now, just what information Orkins obtained, as your butler, would be valuable to LaRauche?" I asked.

"If you're asking me for an answer, Livingston," said Henry, "all I've got to say is, I haven't got one. I can't think of any important reason why LaRauche should barge this way into my private affairs. Beats me altogether."

"Well, you can be certain of one thing," I said, "that he had an object—"

"Yes, but what object?" Henry demanded. "What? He couldn't possibly profit by anything Orkins gained by snooping round. LaRauche knows more about science than I shall ever dream of knowing."

"Well, there is this to be thought of," I remarked, after thinking a bit: "Perhaps, in relation to your latest achievement, he's going to come forward with something he hopes will throw your accomplishment in the shade, like a rocket to the moon, and we both know that's been a bee in his bonnet for some years. Or he's going to try to prove that your discovery is not genuine, and will denounce you as a fakir, as you exposed him, unwittingly, in those faked motion pictures of the African midgets, he claimed to have discovered."

"Either way there may be something in what you suggest," Henry answered. "Both are possible. But I think—"

"But why think," I interposed; "why trouble yourself, or ourselves, any longer about LaRauche's affairs, now that things have turned out as they have? Why should you fear his opposition? The last connecting link has been broken, now that you've got your precious book on Mars back. Let him do his damnedest! Good riddance. I don't care; you don't, I'm sure."

Henry saw the value of my proposition at once; and so matters were settled as far as LaRauche and Orkins were concerned. We never spoke of them again. They passed out of our consciousness as though they never existed.

Other things became of greater concern. So many things, strange things, happened, I didn't know whatever to expect next. It was as if the world was being turned upside down. I never knew such times, nor expected to know such.

X

McGinity had lunch with us, on Henry's invitation, on the day following my visit to Dr. LaRauche's house. In the preparation of his story in advance, it was necessary that he should obtain from Henry all the scientific technicalities relating to the discovery. It was his task to make copious notes while Henry talked.

Seated at his desk in the library, Henry talked on and on for several hours; he never seemed to tire. While I sat by an open window, the weather being exceptionally hot, reading and smoking by fits and turns, and occasionally listening in to what Henry was saying. Whenever I turned to gaze at him, it was with frank bewilderment.

Ever since he had announced his discovery, my mind had been led by diverse paths, hither and thither, seeking, not an outlet, but rather a snug corner wherein to rest in the conviction that his and Olinski's claims of having established radio communication with Mars were true. Somehow I just couldn't grasp the idea of an intelligent exchange of ideas with another race of people so far away from us; it was too stupendous. As a matter of fact, I was still a little cynical and suspicious. And yet I knew if anyone had discussed the possibilities of the radio, as we know it today, in the time of General George Washington, as Henry was now agitating wireless communication with Mars, the people of the Colonial era would have thought such a person stark mad.

As McGinity's pencil flew across his note-book like a busy shuttle in a loom, transcribing Henry's utterances, I kept saying to myself: "How can this reporter accept facts that to him must seem perfectly crazy?" Then, suddenly, it came to me that to a reporter all things are either news or nothing. No matter if Henry was inventing something unreal, which, of course, he wasn't, he was giving the reporter news of the greatest magnitude; news backed by the potentialities of Henry's vast wealth and the reputation he had already achieved as a scientist.

Watching them closely, I marveled at that inherent physical virtue in each of them, by which they were enabled to shake off any thought, or mention, of the very recent and unfortunate incident in our midst. McGinity must have found the library infinitely more comfortable than solitary confinement in our cellar. It was also very evident to me that he was going up in Henry's estimation by leaps and bounds.

In repose, McGinity had a shy, reserved look about him that suggested the student. He had proved a perfect guest at lunch. It puzzled me that he should seem so much at home, so much part of our company and our setting. Once the first shock was over, Jane had found him a person of immediate interest and excitement. When she discovered that he loved to poke round art galleries, and liked canary birds and goldfish, as she did, she invited him to lunch with us soon again.

The absurd antagonism of Henry and Jane against reporters now seemed a thing of the past. But not everything of the past, on McGinity's part, was forgotten. There was no mistaking that he missed Pat, who was absent from lunch because Henry had devised a means of preventing a second meeting between them. He had packed her off, with Prince Matani, to a luncheon party at the Sands Cliff Club, after which they were to attend a polo match.

There is, after all, no use trying to go contrariwise to fate. Pat, it seems, was fated to come home alone from the match, after a tilt with the Prince—they quarrelled constantly—and Henry had a bad moment when she breezed into the library a few minutes after he had finished dictating to McGinity.

She was all exclamations and astonishment and delight on seeing the reporter. "Dear old Uncle!" she said, as she hugged and kissed Henry. "Why, on earth, didn't you tell me we were going to have a visitor?"

Henry didn't answer. He sat silent, even when Pat went up to McGinity, and said: "What a piece of luck!" Then: "Lets go out on the terrace, where it's cool."

Thereupon Henry found his tongue. "But it's quite comfortable in the library," he said. "Why not talk to Mr. McGinity here?"

"But I want him to see the Sound and the boats from the terrace," Pat replied. "It's such a beautiful scene."

It wasn't beautiful at all, as she knew, at this time. A mist had come up, and cloaked everything in indistinctness. It wasn't even cool on the terrace; the slight, west breeze that had been stirring, had changed to the south. Nevertheless, she marched him off to the terrace.

Presently, they walked round the terrace extension at the end of the castle, and stood conversing near the open window by which I sat. Fortunately, they did not see me, and I made no move to indicate my near presence. I felt free to listen to their conversation as a matter of protection for Pat. Like my sister, Jane, I watched her out of eyes and listened with ears that saw and heard a great deal more than they pretended.

Pat spoke very fast, so as to leave the reporter little time to interrupt her. "Afraid you wouldn't see me again, you say? Well, I was afraid you'd never want to see me again, after what happened the other night."

"I—I'm glad it happened, now, aren't you?" McGinity ventured.

"Oh, ever so glad," replied Pat. "I'll never forget that night, not as long as I live. Fancy meeting a person for the first time in one's cellar. And, oh! I'm so glad I came home ahead of Prince Matani. We had a terrible spat at the polo game—over you. He detests reporters. Hasn't the slightest sense of humor, and I see fun in everything. And, oh, yes!" she raced on; "there's something I want to ask you. Will you be at Uncle Henry's demonstration in the city, next Tuesday night? Oh, of course, you will! And, please, I'd love to see how a newspaper is made. It must be very thrilling. You want to show me, don't you?"

"I should like to very much," said McGinity. "But I can't understand, with all the interests you have in life, what it is you want of me. I can't understand yet why you take so much interest in me, or trouble yourself with me at all."

She gazed at him, half laughing. "Are you really so stupid as all that?" Then she quickly added: "Perhaps I don't want anything. What then?" And, before he could reply, she flew at him: "At least I want you to stop calling me 'Miss'."

"What am I to call you?"

"Pat."

"Very well—Pat," he smiled, "let me talk to you a little about myself, of what I want of you." But he got no further; he became curiously bereft of speech.

"Well—Bob?" Pat said, after a period of silence.

"It's no good," he said at last. "Since I met you the other night, I've been thinking of what I'd like to say to you—and, now, it's best that I forget it."

He turned half away from her as he continued to speak. "I'd better go now."

Pat looked at him in astonishment. "Oh, please, Bob! Get it off your mind, whatever it is," she begged.

"The truth is," he began, "what embarrasses me most—"

"There you go!" she interrupted. "I know exactly what you're going to say, and to me it's such a silly thing."

"Will you explain just what you mean?"

"I mean, well, that I'm not a snob. I've never boasted about my position, about having everything I want. The most exciting thing in the world to me is meeting new people—nice people—and expecting one doesn't know what. I don't expect you to hand me any credentials; that would be odious. Of course, to you, I must appear disgustingly idle and useless. But it just happens that I like you very much, and—and I would like to be your friend."

McGinity grinned. "I think I can arrange that all right," he said.

"I'm very glad you can," she said. "And, please, get the other thing off your mind, whatever it is, and don't let it come back again, at any rate, not so—so overwhelmingly." She laughed out loud as she stretched forth her hand.

It was pretty hard to believe my eyes in the unexpected scene which swiftly followed. Prince Matani must have been in very bad humor to do what he did. I gathered that he had been standing in concealment, round the corner of the castle, for several minutes, listening in to the conversation, and nursing his jealousy and suspicion.

McGinity had just taken Pat's hand in his own when I saw the Prince's slim figure come round the corner suddenly, and upon them. Without uttering a word, he struck at the reporter. Of all expressions in the English language, I think "come-back" is one of the most significant. The Prince had no sooner planted a glancing blow on McGinity's jaw, still slightly discolored from Niki's knockout punch, when the reporter, with a quick come-back, swung a mighty right that sent the Prince backwards, reeling. It excited me almost to laughter to think that the reporter felt the same impulse towards the Prince as I.

Pat could be as cool as a cucumber when it was necessary. Turning to the Prince, she said, her face painfully drawn: "Why did you do this?"

The Prince made no reply. He gave her a sullen look and walked away.

McGinity met the situation good-naturedly. "If this keeps up," he remarked, working his jaw, "I'll have to wear a baseball catcher's mask whenever I come here, or ask for special police protection."

"It's extraordinary," said Pat, laughing in spite of herself, "that you should get two smacks in the face in succession. You must think we're a crazy lot. Anyway, that was a beautiful crack you gave His Highness, and he deserved it."

That practically ended the conversation. As they walked off, I turned in my chair to see the Prince in whispered conversation with Henry, obviously airing his grievances in connection with Pat and McGinity. I was rather surprised, but delighted, to hear Henry say to him: "This is your funeral, Your Highness. Your eye looks terrible. Better go upstairs, and have Niki put a cold compress on it."

The Prince had no sooner left the room to carry out Henry's suggestion when Pat and McGinity strolled in. I was uneasy for a moment, but Henry gave no indication that he knew what had just happened on the terrace. In matter-of-factness, he gave McGinity some final instructions, and dismissed him. Then the reporter left, and there was silence. Henry looked very grave.

"What's on your mind, Uncle Henry?" Pat asked, as she subsided into a chair.

Henry blew his nose, a trick he had when his feelings were disturbed. "I'm not angry, my dear," he began, and then paused to blow his nose again. "It isn't that I mind so much this extraordinary encounter between His Highness and Mr. McGinity—the reporter had every right to strike out in self-defense—but you cannot go on in this way. I know—"

"Oh, so the Prince told you, did he?" she interposed. Then she added: "What do you know?"

"That you are in love with this young reporter."

Pat gasped. "Oh, you ought not to have said that, Uncle! You've spoiled it all now. It was such a beautiful thing—our friendship."

"It has been said, and very truthfully so," Henry observed, "that mere friendship is impossible between a man and a woman. Now, Mr. McGinity is a very smart and capable young person," he went on, "and I have nothing to say against your being friendly with him, but I do object to your flaunting him, on such short acquaintance, made under such unusual circumstances, in the face of His Highness as a possible rival."

"What do you mean?" Pat asked, as she rose out of her chair, and moved slowly towards Henry.

"I mean it is intolerably annoying to me that you should allow a nondescript person to come between you and this distinguished representative of the Georgian principality."

"Mr. McGinity is not nondescript," Pat retorted, "and—and I have no intention of marrying Prince Matani." There was a look of fear growing in her eyes. "Why, I don't love him, Uncle, well enough to marry him. I'd rather marry a counter-jumper in a Broadway haberdashery store. Oh, I couldn't—couldn't!"

"You know, and I know," said Henry, firmly, "that you've given the Prince every encouragement. My principle heretofore has been to leave you alone. But, now, it has become a different matter. Your growing interest in Mr. McGinity makes it necessary for me to show my authority."

"You mean that I can't see as much of Mr. McGinity as I have a mind to?"

"Just so long as it is within the bounds of discretion," Henry answered. "But I repeat, you shall not allow this reporter to come between you and the young nobleman you're destined to marry. I'll admit that I've encouraged the Prince's attentions towards you. In fact, I think it's about time that I announced your betrothal to him. Now, as we've both given him encouragement, we can't break faith with him as easily as all that—now, can we?"

"Very well, Uncle." Pat's voice sounded tired and bored. After giving me an appealing, helpless look, she went briskly out of the room.

That night, Thursday, to be exact, Henry woke me out of the deepest slumber. He had stayed up late, at his telescope, and had come to tell me of a meteoric shower, the most amazing he had ever witnessed, he said. I dressed quickly, and accompanied him to the observatory. There I saw the most astounding spectacle. Swarms of fire-balls, they looked like, sweeping across the heavens. Many were hissing to the earth. It was like a celestial bombardment of the world.

The meteoric showers, transiently brilliant, continued the next night, and the next. Astronomers all over the country were mystified; Henry equally so. No one could seem to account for them; they were out of season; the whole thing was freakish.

The last shower of meteors of any note occurred in November, 1833, when swarms of shooting stars fell in North America. They fell then, I found in our encyclopedia, like flakes of snow, to the number, as was estimated, of 240,000 in the space of nine hours, varying in size from a moving point to globes of the moon's diameter.

The earth in its orbit is constantly encountering meteors, which are accepted by scientists as the debris of comets, Henry explained, but this encounter was—well, inexplicable and bewildering. Remnants of the metallic bodies were falling in all sections of the United States, Canada, and Mexico. Some were dropping in populous centers, bringing death and disaster; some at sea, and in the Great Lakes, sinking ships. Seemingly there was no let-up to this weird and dangerous phenomenon of the heavens.

On the following Sunday night, while the presses of the Daily Recorder were grinding out, by the hundreds of thousands, McGinity's exclusive, front-page story on Henry's and Olinski's scientific feat, which meant the linking of the earth and Mars by radio, a discovery almost beyond human conception, a great ball of blinding, bluish fire, giving off a trail of sparks, hissed down out of the heavens, and fell in Times Square.

A messenger of death from space, this red-hot metallic wanderer of the skies, crashed into the small triangle, formed by the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, between Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth Streets. It tore through the surface into the subway, just missing a passing train, and was imbedded in a mass of tangled steel rails and cement ten feet under the level of the underground railway.

Smaller fragments in its wake rattled down like hail on streets and housetops within a radius of a mile. Hardly a window-pane within this area that was not shattered to bits by the explosion, which lighted the entire city in a bluish glare. All taxicabs parked, or moving, in the square were overturned and wrecked; pedestrians were thrown to the ground, stunned, many lying unconscious. Sixteen persons were killed outright.

The gilt minute hand of a huge, electrically-illuminated clock overlooking the scene of disaster, was torn off by the explosion; the hour hand was untouched. When the mechanism of the clock was put out of business, the hour hand was pointing exactly at two. Had the meteor fallen a few hours earlier, the loss of life no doubt would have been appalling.

The scene of terror and confusion that followed the fall of the meteor, according to eye-witnesses, was indescribable. Many persons on Broadway, women of the street, mendicants, fell down on their knees, and prayed, believing that the end of the world had come. One man went raving mad. He ran through the streets, shouting: "The stars of heaven are falling unto the earth! Hide yourselves in the mountains! Hide from the wrath of the Lamb!"

The whole city was aroused. Thousands came pouring in from the outlying districts by subway, and in motor cars, to visit the scene of disaster. The police were helpless. Many women and children were trampled to death in the crush of the thousands who fought and pressed their way into Times Square. Efforts were made to bring the crowd to its senses, to distract the people's attention from the scene of the catastrophe; sirens sounded, the deep, booming note of bells came from the church towers, but to no avail.

When dawn broke at last, it was estimated that one million persons were massed in and about Times Square. All the diverging cross-town streets were choked with people and traffic. While above the silent hush of the terrified masses, milling about in the sepulchral gray light of dawn, rose the strident voices of news-boys:

"Wuxtra! Wuxtra! Planet Mars speaks to the earth! All about radio communication between earth and Mars! Wuxtra! Wuxtra!"

Thus, upon a sky-minded people, made conscious for the first time, it seemed, of the strange and powerful forces that lurk in the upper regions, by the awe and terror caused by the falling stars, descended the news of Henry's triumphant accomplishment.

A new world of people had been discovered. The inhabitants of Mars were no longer a mythical race. Radio, girdling the earth as quick as thought, had drawn all nations closer together; now, bridging the abyss of outer space, it had drawn into its friendly relationship a new human race. To a nation-wide, or world-circling, hook-up of the radio, Mars could now be included. Mars was now our neighbor, as convenient to reach by wireless as London, Rome or Peiping; made more accessible really than either the Arctic or Antarctic zones.

Our telephone at the castle began to trill about eleven-thirty o'clock, shortly after McGinity's story had been run off the presses and the paper was on the street. The central operator reported "no answer" to hundreds of calls, made by curious-minded people, until a little after two in the morning, when she reported "Busy." Henry, it seems, had seen the meteor fall in New York through his telescope. Immediately he had phoned to Olinski, who was in the city, and Olinski had hurried to Times Square to investigate. The next day, when he came down to the country, to assist Henry in his preparations for the public demonstration, he was able to give us first-hand information of the occurrence.

As early as eight o'clock that morning, reporters swarmed about our lodge-gate. Having no head, or inclination, for handling the press representatives en masse, Henry phoned to McGinity to come down and help him out. McGinity came in a hurry, and took control of the situation in a masterly way. The other reporters, including many foreign correspondents, all seemed to like him.

Pat remained aloof from all the hurly-burly and excitement. Once she got a good look at McGinity from the head of the staircase, as he stood talking to a group of reporters in the entrance hall; but she took care that he did not see her. The situation in which she now found herself was like something read in childhood, a romantic fairy-story; and Henry, to her, was the ogre. What saved her in the whole miserable affair was her superb common-sense. Henry didn't have to explain things to her any further; she instantly realized that, still under his authority, she must obey him, and marry Prince Matani.

Late in the afternoon she came downstairs, on the pretense of getting a book, to have a better look at him, so she told me afterwards, just to make sure he was no different from the time when she first had got him by heart. All the reporters had gone, and McGinity was sitting at the big desk in the library, engaged in writing his follow-up story of Henry's discovery. He was alone, Henry having gone to the observatory.

She looked at him through the open door, from the far side of the dining room. He had his face to her, and his head was bent over his work. Presently he looked up and saw her, but that was all. There was a worried expression on his face; he seemed afraid to smile. What a fool she was to expect anything to happen in the way she made it up in her own mind! So she turned away, and started to leave the room.

When he called after her, she stopped and looked back. He had risen, and had come to the library doorway. "Don't run away like that, please," he implored.

"You seem to be awfully busy," said Pat. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just coming in to get a book."

"What book?"

Pat was puzzled for a moment. "Oh, just a mystery book—anything," she said, finally.

"Did you read my story in this morning's Recorder?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes; it was fine. Uncle Henry said it was magnificent. Just enough play of the imagination to give it color, and told with such simplicity that everyone could understand."

"Thanks," he said. "I'm glad you liked it. At first, I was afraid the falling of that meteor in Times Square would kill it. But it didn't. It has made the New York public more open-minded for what your Uncle Henry is going to spring on them tomorrow night, at Radio Center. You'll be there, of course. Shall I see you?"

"If I'm free," Pat replied.

"Meaning that you're not free," he remarked. He passed into a thoughtful mood but quickly snapped out of it. "Yes; I—I understand perfectly. Your Uncle Henry told me about the Prince and yourself this afternoon—about your coming engagement—and I'm afraid I'm not able to take it in yet. I don't see why you ever bothered about me at all." He stopped short, and began staring at the floor in deep contemplation.

"I don't know myself why I ever did—why I ever bothered about you," she returned, in a low, tremulous voice. "I had a feeling—well, I had a sort of feeling—" She, too, stopped short.

When McGinity glanced up, she was walking away. Then he heard Henry's voice, and went quickly back to his work.

XI

The reign of terror caused by the falling meteors gripped New York for five days. On Tuesday night, when Henry and Olinski were scheduled to give a public demonstration of interstellar signaling and the exchange of radio messages between the earth and Mars, in Radio Center, remnants of the hot heavenly bodies were still hissing down in unexpected places, with many fatalities.

Thousands of timorous families in the metropolitan area were living in their basements. The principal thoroughfares, Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Park Avenue, were strangely deserted at night. The newspapers were still screaming at the scientists and scholars for their failure to offer any explanation of the remarkable phenomenon, at the same time making an intensive play on Henry's discovery.

One enterprising paper, having exhausted all resources in its efforts to explain the mystery of the huge swarms of meteors, dug up from an unknown source the story of a mad scientist, long since dead, who had predicted a similar heavenly occurrence, which was to precede some sort of cataclysm of the solar system. This gave them the opportunity to intensify the importance of Henry's feat as a possible connecting link in the solution of the meteoric mystery.

It was, therefore, with a full-fledged case of the jitters that many thousands assembled in the vicinity of Radio Center on that Tuesday night. The people had worked themselves into a state of hysteria, and were in a receptive mood for anything unusual that might happen. Police emergency squads were on hand to hold the crowd in check, while police on motorcycles kept the streets clear for the fire brigades which were being called out hourly, to fight the conflagrations caused by the falling meteors.

While the demonstration was to be held in the auditorium of the National Radio Corporation Building, in Radio Center Annex, it was not officially sponsored by the president of the concern, Alden Scoville, who was sceptical and suspicious; but he was very nice and polite about it. He made it plain that the corporation was merely donating the use of its premises and equipment for the public experiment, in compliment to the valuable work of its assistant research engineer, Serge Olinski. There was to be a world-girdling hook-up, so that the deciphered code signals from Mars, and the replies transmitted from the earth, could be heard in every land. Everything was perfectly arranged, with loud speakers for the masses congregated outside the building.

Accompanied by Jane and Pat, I motored in from the country for the great event. Henry had gone into town early in the afternoon, to see after last minute details. We were to meet him in the NRC Building, where Prince Matani was to join us.

An odd thing occurred just prior to our leaving the castle. Jane was seated in the car, and I was waiting in the hall for Pat. When she did not appear promptly, I sent Niki, now acting in the double role of butler-valet, to find out the cause of her delay. Pat refusing to see him, I hurried upstairs myself to investigate.

Much to my indignation, she refused to attend the demonstration. As an excuse, she said it had just dawned on her mind that Henry's discovery was incredulous, and it would be dreadfully humiliating to her if he failed to establish interstellar communication.

"It's such a crazy thing, anyway," she said. "No one ever has succeeded in doing it, and I think Uncle Henry is just plumb crazy. It's idiotic; it simply can't be done. There's a queer streak in him. Look how he treated poor Mr. McGinity."

At the mention of the reporter's name, her nerves gave way, and tears began to flow. Then I realized that her explanation about the incredulity of Henry's feat had nothing to support it but her own word. Her tears were the direct proof that she was refusing to go because she had to sit formally with Jane and me, and Prince Matani, when she much preferred to be mixed up in the excitement with McGinity.

I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I took her firmly by the arm, and conducted her downstairs; and after she had made a mysterious telephone call, we were soon on our way to the city. Then something else disconcerting happened at the entrance to the auditorium. McGinity met us there, as though by accident. It looked to me as if he had been tipped off by telephone in advance of our—or Pat's—arrival. Pat seemed so excited and thrilled, I fancied I could hear her heart going at the rate of a million beats a minute.

We occupied seats in the front row, where the Prince, with a terrible black eye, joined us, about five minutes after we had arrived. I noticed him glaring in the direction of McGinity, who sat at the head of the press table, with about fifty other reporters. Occasionally McGinity would glance up from his work, and exchange smiles with Pat, when the Prince wasn't looking. So the only delight she got out of seeing him there had to be a secret one. No more than a furtive glance, or smile, whenever it could be managed with discretion.

Jane's nerves were jumpy. Careful inventory of the invited guests, who taxed the capacity of the auditorium, and the crowd I had glimpsed outside the building as we came in, convinced me that everyone was sitting, or standing, on needles and pins. My nose and ears have a habit of twitching whenever I am under a tense, nervous strain, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that persons back of me, in the audience, were watching my ears wiggling. My nose kept twitching and jumping like a Mexican bean.

I tried to distract my thoughts and ease my anxiety by studying the mechanical equipment on the stage. I couldn't have explained what they were if some one had pointed a shot-gun in my face. Radio has always been a great mystery to me. I can never seem to get it into my brain that radio waves can travel 186,000 miles a second. As for bridging the sidereal abyss, as Henry calls it, between the earth and Mars, I was stumped.

When Henry and Olinski finally stepped on to the stage, and my wiggling ears rang with the tumult of thunderous applause, my first horrifying thought was that my brother had gone mad, and that Olinski had gone crazy with him. Pat's words of warning came back to me: "It's idiotic! It simply can't be done!" The voice of wisdom often comes from unexpected sources.

Henry looked scared, but he showed no nervous hesitancy in his introductory remarks, after being formally presented to the audience by Mr. Scoville, who acted as host. It was just nine-thirty when he took his place before the microphone. The signaling and messages from Mars were due to arrive at ten; they had never failed to come through at that hour, during all the preliminary experiments, extending over a period of three weeks.

"My dear friends," he began, in his modest, shrinking way, "I feel privileged to be here tonight, to tell and show you something of interest in connection with the research studies on static, recently made by my co-worker, Mr. Serge Olinski, and myself.

"For some time, mysterious radio waves, which appeared to come from some definite source in space, have been puzzling men of science engaged in radio research work. We know that infra-red radiation and short radio waves make it theoretically possible to communicate with other planets. They can penetrate the upper atmosphere, and may be directed toward any planet with accuracy and power, as well as penetrating the planets without scattering. The receiving apparatus for infra-red rays consists principally of a sensitive cell, so sensitive that the light of a match struck on the moon and translated into an electric current, can be registered on the earth."

Henry paused, to wet his lips with a sip from a glass of water. The audience showing rapt attention, he continued.

"To detect these radio waves from outer space, Mr. Olinski and I contrived between us to construct a delicate receiving instrument. We found they were distinctly electro-magnetic waves, that could be picked up by any standard radio set. Then, one night, less than a month ago, while testing it out, there was registered on this same instrument, a series of distinct dots and dashes, somewhat similar to our Continental Morse code.

"These signals were received regularly every night thereafter, round ten o'clock, fading out in about half an hour. This convinced us both that some intelligible communication force was at work in outer space. One evening, Mr. Olinski startled me by exclaiming: 'I have it! It's someone on the planet Mars, trying to attract attention on the earth. It's their station signal they're trying to get through to us.' As it turned out, Mr. Olinski was quite right.

"Now the purpose of our demonstration tonight is to show you, in the simplest manner possible, how we have been conducting interstellar communication by means of short waves. We do not claim to have solved the riddle of Mars. We have received code messages from some definite source in space, which we believe to be Mars, and we have successfully deciphered these messages, and through the same medium we have exchanged ideas with this definite source in space. Before we begin our experiment, however, Mr. Scoville, president of the National Radio Corporation, who is still a little sceptical, has prepared a list of questions, which he wishes to put to me."

At that, Mr. Scoville stepped forward, and joined Henry in front of the microphone.

"As I understand it, Mr. Royce," he began, "you believe Mars to be inhabited, and that civilization there is just as advanced as our own?"

"For many years, I was doubtful," Henry replied. "But, now, I'm absolutely certain of it."

"As the earth is only a very small part of our illimitable universe," Mr. Scoville went on, "why should the Martians—" He checked himself as Henry interrupted with an upraised finger.

"It is execrably bad taste to interrupt a speaker," Henry interjected, in an apologetic tone, "but I wish to correct you on one point. The planet we call Mars is not known to its inhabitants by that name, therefore, it is erroneous to call them Martians."

Mr. Scoville smiled, and said: "I'm afraid you'll have to be more explicit than that, Mr. Royce. Where did you get that information?"

"I can be entirely explicit," Henry answered. "In transmitting our first radio message to the planet, we said: 'Stand by, Mars! Earth is calling!' To our great surprise, we received this reply: 'Noble friends, you err in calling our planet, Mars. This is the Red Sphere. Your planet, which you call the Earth, is known to us as the Blue Sphere.'"

"And why should they call the earth the Blue Sphere?" Mr. Scoville inquired.

"Because the earth, to the Martian astronomers, appears in a bluish haze," Henry explained, "just as Mars looks reddish to us."

"But why should the Martians—I beg your pardon—why should the inhabitants of the Red Sphere, take such an interest in our insignificant globe?"

"Doubtless, because the conviction has persisted there, among scientists, that our planet is inhabited," said Henry, "just as the conviction has persisted here that Mars harbors life."

"Supposing this is true, how can you explain their knowledge of a radio code, which somewhat resembles our International Morse code?"

After a moment's hesitation, Henry replied: "It's my opinion that they gained this knowledge from the International Morse messages directed on their planet by a powerful beam of light, from the lofty summit of the Jungfrau, in Switzerland, less than a year ago. This was undertaken by a group of American scientists, in the hope of attracting attention on Mars."

"Were these code messages, to a strange people, in a remote planet, decipherable in English?"

"Oh, yes," Henry readily replied; "and there's no doubt in my mind that superior intellects on Mars worked them out into English."

"It doesn't seem possible," Mr. Scoville remarked. "Life, conditions, everything on Mars must be so totally different from things as they exist here."

Henry smiled, and said: "I firmly believe that all things in the beginning were created alike. The countless stars, suns and moons, and all the great planets, are largely composed of the same material that entered into the composition of this world. These meteorites that are falling about us contain the same metals, among them, iron and tin, which we mine from the earth. There is also a striking similarity between things of the material universe and the invisible, or spiritual, world. In Heaven, so we are told in the Bible, there are cities, streets, mansions, trees, gates and fountains. All of which makes it certain that human beings, like ourselves, not the grotesque monsters, as so often pictured, inhabit other planets."

"I'm inclined to agree with you in that," said Mr. Scoville, fingering his chin thoughtfully; "but I can't get it into my head about these Martians having a knowledge of the English language."

"You must take this fact into consideration, my dear Mr. Scoville," said Henry, "that for some years our radio short waves have been bombarding the planets, including Mars, with speeches and songs in English."

"If that is so, then the Martians may be learning to speak English with our nasal, American accent—what?" Mr. Scoville interposed, laughing. And the audience seemed to enjoy this witticism.

"Hardly," said Henry, trying his best to look grave, as the laughter subsided. "I have no reason to believe that, but I do believe the Martians have devised a means to pick up our language from the radio waves, and are adapting it for the purpose of communicating intelligently with us, just as we study, and often use, in various ways, other languages besides our own."

"Are their code messages decipherable in good English?" Mr. Scoville asked.

"Their spelling is very crude, but the liberal transcription, surprisingly enough, reads rather classical."

"By the bye, what station signals do you use?"

"I'll show you," said Henry. He motioned to Olinski, who rose, and moved quickly to a large blackboard, which had been placed in the center of the stage. With chalk, Olinski wrote in big capital letters: "ABUBCUC."

"Now, that is our—the earth's—radio station signal," Henry explained. "Simply—'ABC.'"

Olinski erased the lettering, and then wrote: "ZUZZUZYUYX."

"Now, there, we have the radio station signal for Mars," Henry said. "ZZYX."

"Looks crazy to me," observed Mr. Scoville, after Henry had explained the signals for the benefit of his invisible audience.

"Perfectly simple, after we got on to the Martian's way of doubling up on the consonants," said Henry. "It's something like pig-Latin. Very similar to a code I used myself as a boy, at school, when I wished to communicate something of a secret nature to a schoolmate. If you will allow me, please, I will try and illustrate just what I mean."

He walked to the blackboard, and wrote in a large hand: "Lulookuk outut! Tuteacuchuherur isus cucomuminungug!"

"Whatever does that mean?" asked Mr. Scoville, in some bewilderment.

"It means," replied Henry, returning to his place in front of the microphone: "'Look out! Teacher is coming!'"

The audience rocked with laughter. Henry's poise was still serene, and remained so until another sound reached his ears, rising above the diminishing laughter. He glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock—to the minute. Quickly he advanced to the edge of the stage, and raised his hand, commanding silence. The audience was instantly stilled.

Then Henry spoke. "Everybody quiet, now! Mars is on the air!"

XII

The silence in the auditorium was broken by the clicking of a telegraph instrument, which acted as a monitor on the receiving desk. The mechanical equipment on the stage was similar to that found in the radio department of any large New York newspaper office, with two typewriter desks, one fitted for the receiving and transcribing of code messages, the other equipped for their transmission.

The Martian signals were coming in by direct wire control, from the receiving station Henry had erected for his interstellar experiments, at great expense, at Orient Point, Long Island, about seventy miles from the city. The replies from the earth, that were to follow, would go by wire control from the stage to his transmitting station, situated at Longhampton. His two private stations were twenty-five miles apart, a distance necessary to prevent interference.

The moment Mars was reported on the air by the engineers at the Long Island receiving station, Henry's mind, likewise Olinski's, suddenly developed, as it were, enormous dynamic activity, and the audience seemed to become so remote to them as to be non-existent.

Henry strode back quickly to the microphone, and said: "Stand by all stations! Stand by, Mars! We can hear Mars calling! Lost their way? Hello, Mars! Earth—New York—calling!"

Olinski was an expert wireless operator and typist. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he transcribed the Martian code characters that were being impressed by the ink recorder on narrow tape, resembling ticker tape. Operated by a pull-motor, this tape ran in a brass-groove attached to the front of the typewriter, under the operator's eyes.

On the completion of each sentence, Olinski would call: "All right!" and Henry would rip off a short length of paper containing the sentence, and begin the second transcription, into understandable English—the Martian classical style. He wrote them in chalk, on the blackboard, while Olinski's laboratory assistant read them off into the microphone.