"His magneto gang. We'd steal the magnetos offen automobiles that was goin' to France. He'd give us five dollars for every one we stole—then let us have 'em to sell."
"Another little system of harming ambulances, eh?" said Grant slowly. "What about the axles?"
"We burned 'em with an acetylene torch—so they'd break down when they hit the battlefields—"
"So they'd break down, when they were filled with wounded!" The words came from Grant's lips in scathing denunciation. "And you confess to it—you mongrel!" His hands clenched—it was all he could do to keep them from the throat of the craven being before him. "Now you tell your story and tell it quick!"
Ten minutes later Harrison Grant turned to the guard of the interned ship, meanwhile eyeing the detectors, the batteries and sending apparatus of the wireless in the room.
"This wireless in working order?" he asked sharply.
"Yes."
Harrison Grant stepped toward it quickly. A moment more and he was sending forth the code-call of the Criminology Club. For the spy, while not able to tell the names of the directorate of those who engineered the heinous business of disabling ambulances, at least had given information that was more than valuable—the fact that a "burning party" had been scheduled for that night—and naming the location and the freight yards.
Again and again Harrison Grant sent out the call—at last to receive an answer. Then his message snapped over the airlanes to the city beyond:
"Criminology Club:
"Meet me Stevens Point quick. Come armed.
"Harrison Grant."