"How funny!" was her first thought, and then she suddenly called to mind John's signalling instructions; that was the "call-up" in Morse. Somebody, it seemed, was going to practise his signalling now, at nearly twelve at night. Joey crept out of bed, and crouched on the window-sill so as to miss nothing.
There was disappointingly little to see; the people, whoever they were, were not nearly such keen signallers as John was. Something came from the side of the house—from her window Joey couldn't locate it exactly—three long flashes and two short ones. Then, a minute later, from the distance—one of the letters she had used with John—short, long, long, long, and then a short-long.
And that was all.
Joey sat crouched on the window-sill for quite a long time, but nothing more happened. Then, just as she was thinking of getting back to bed, someone came round the corner of the house far below. It was the Professor. She saw him unmistakably in the light of an electric torch, which he must have pressed for an instant, perhaps to show him the path. He slept, as Joey knew, in a room on the ground floor of the lodge; he had chosen it because he so often worked late at the Lab and did not want to disturb the lodge-keeper and his wife.
She wondered whether it was he who had been signalling; somehow you would not expect an ill-tempered chemistry professor to want to practise signalling, especially about twelve o'clock at night.
Of course, German spies used to signal in wartime, but then the Professor wasn't German: his name was French, and the look of him was more French than German, and he spoke with a French accent, and, most important proof of all, he had laughed and been quite genial about the play, instead of giving himself away as Hamlet's uncle had done. Besides, English people had settled they wouldn't have Huns creeping in among them again, and though Colonel Sturt had seemed to think they might be doing it, Cousin Greta had not agreed with him.
Joey set to work to see if she could remember the signalling; if the Professor were really keen on it, and went on being in the pleasant temper he had shown to-night, perhaps she might ask him some questions.
Dash, dash, dash, dot, dot. She went through the alphabet; there were no letters like that; then it must be a numeral. John had taught those as well. The long numerals were the ones he had insisted on, because he thought it made things so slow to have to signal f—i—before you sent a numeral.
Dot, dot, dot, dash, dash—Joey had it: it was three. And immediately after it—a pause between—dot, dash, dash, dash, dash—31. Thirty-one. That had been all. The other signal had been an answer, and that was a good deal more puzzling. For surely dot, dash, dash, dash, stood for J and dot-dash for A, and yet Ja had no sense. Joey supposed she must have forgotten the alphabet, and went to sleep at last, trying to remember.
The play influenced her dreams more strongly than the signalling. It acted itself again through her sleep, only it refused to act itself straightforwardly. Everything and everyone seemed to stick and repeat, including Noreen—so ready of tongue. Her German, which Joey, who had never learnt any, had so admired last night, had quite deserted her; the only word she seemed able to make use of was Ja. No "Tod und Teufels." No "Ach Himmels." She said, "Ja! ja!" and that was all, and then the dressing-bell sounded, and Clara the housemaid came in with a clatter of cans, and it was morning.