Then my dread was well-founded—Textiles were to be deliberately rocketed. “Who's been doing it?” I asked.
“He found out only this afternoon. It's been kept unusually dark. It—”
“Who? Who?” I demanded.
“Intrepid,” he answered.
Intrepid—that is, Langdon—Mowbray Langdon!
“The whole thing—was planned carefully,” continued Ball, “and is coming off according to schedule. Fearless overheard a final message Intrepid's brother brought from him to-day.”
So it was no mischance—it was an assassination. Mowbray Langdon had stabbed me in the back and fled.
“Did you hear what I said?” asked Ball. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Oh,” came in a relieved tone from the other end of the wire. “You were so long in answering that I thought I'd been cut off. Any instructions?”