He returned to his stateroom, where Rusty was dozing in a chair, waiting for the good-night instructions.
Jarvis sat down and studied the fragment. He sat bolt upright, at first with rage and then a growing amusement.
"Look here, Rusty. This Duke is trying to put one over on me," he declared, waking his servant.
"Huh? What's dat, Marse Warren?" and Rusty rubbed his eyes drowsily.
"Do you see what this paper is?"
"Looks like a telegram letter, boss."
"That's a wireless blank, Rusty. It has never been sent. It is the first draft. See—the words are crossed out here, and a sentence changed there. The person who wrote this message tried to save money, by cutting it down, just as we, back home, waste a dollar's worth of time, trying to shorten a telegraph message into ten words. Isn't that reasonable?"
"Yassir. But what does it mean? I don't read no sich langwidge."
Jarvis smiled.
"It's in Spanish. It's addressed to Scotland Yard, in London."