“It’s getting late,” he observed, glancing at his watch. “I think we might leave the field to Riley to cover, Walter, while we retire to our rooms. Good night, Mr. Hastings. You’ll tell Mr. Burke to wake us, no matter what time he comes in?” he added, turning to Riley.
The Secret Service man agreed, and together Kennedy and I went back to our suite a second time. I was glad enough to go, too, for I wanted to see what the instrument was which he had installed in the garage.
As we entered, I could not help thinking of Winifred’s action and why she had cut Shelby off so shortly. Was it a case of intuition, or was it merely what often passes for intuition—the capacity for making hasty and incorrect judgments on slender grounds?
What, too, was Mito? Was it he who had committed the murder of Marshall Maddox? Had he stolen the telautomaton plans? I wondered whether, after all, he might not be in the service of some foreign government, perhaps even be a spy.
With scarcely a word, Kennedy had taken his position at the table on which he had placed the peculiar miniature transmitter, holding it to his ear and listening intently.
“Is any one talking there?” I asked, supposing that it was some special form of the detectaphone which he was using.
“I don’t expect that there’ll be any talking,” he replied. “In fact, there may be only one person, for all I know, and he certainly won’t talk to himself.”
A knock at our door cut short further inquiry. I opened it cautiously and was greeted by the cheery voice of Burke, who had come in on the last train.
“I think I’ve earned a rest to-night,” he remarked, dropping down into the easiest chair he could find. “I’m tired, but at least I have some satisfaction for the day’s work.”
“What have you found?” asked Kennedy, eagerly, remembering that Burke had devoted himself first of all to tracing what had become of the deadly wireless destroyer itself.