She pointed to the masthead of the Cunarder, where, through the twilight, she could "spell" the spark, signal by signal and letter by letter, as the current broke from the head of the installation wires to the hollow metal mast, from which ran the taut-strung wires connecting, in turn, with the operating office just aft and above the engine-rooms.
"Listen," she said, for in the lull of the wind they could hear the short, crisp spit of the spark as it spelt out its mysterious messages.
Durkin caught her arm, and listened, intently, watching the little appearing and disappearing green spark, spelling off the words with narrowing eyes.
"They're talking with the station up on the mainland. Do you hear what it is? Can't you make it out?"
It was, of course, the Continental, and not the Morse, code, and it was not quite the same as stooping over and listening to the crisp, incisive pulsations of a "sounder." But Frank heard and saw and pieced together enough of the message to clutch, in turn, at Durkin's arm, and wait with quickened breath for the answering spark-play.
"No—such—persons—on—board—send—fuller—description."
There was a silence of a minute or two, and then the mysterious Hertzian voice lisped out once more.
"Description—not—forwarded—by—Embassy—man—and—wife—are wanted— for robbery—at—Monte—Carlo—also—at—Genoa—name—Durgin—or— Durkin."
The listening man and woman looked at each other, and still waited.
"Oh, this is luck!" said the listener, fervently, as he drew a deep breath. "This is luck!"