The men grumbled again in answer. A curse from the spy and they settled down to work—to put the finishing touches on a wireless controller and on a torpedo, large enough and powerful enough to tear even a battleship to fragments!
THE PLOT AGAINST THE FLEET
"What's happening on the dictograph?"
Harrison Grant asked the question as he entered the room adjacent to the Hohenzollern Club and looked anxiously toward Dick Stewart the operative who sat with the receiver to his ear. Stewart shook his head.
"Same old thing. Arguments. Conversation. Jokes. Drinks. Toasts to the Kaiser. That's all I can catch. It's just the same as it's been ever since the night of the Naval Ball. You don't suppose that they could have gotten a tip that we're in here, do you?"
Harrison Grant shook his head.
"Hardly," was his answer. "We would have known something about it. They'd rip that dictograph out so quickly they'd drag you through the hole after it. No—they're simply doing their talking in other places, that is all."
The investigator looked at his watch.