“Ready, Lyngstrand?” queried Jensen in the sharp tone of a man concentrating himself for action. His comrade nodded.
Jensen rapped sharply upon the table the wireless operator’s signal of reception. In immediate answer the raps from the invisible source renewed themselves, continued evidently in a message. Lyngstrand jotted down the letters as Jensen spelled them out.
“‘s-t-e-a-m-s-h-i-p’—it’s English!” he interjected. “Got it?——” The raps had continued, noted by his brain and coalesced by it into definite words. “‘Gloucester City’——”
“What——?” ejaculated Lyngstrand, in incredulous amazement, as he rapidly wrote the words.
Jensen continued, his attention fixed upon the unceasing raps.
“—torpedoed 50-55 north 9-14 west—sinking fast—come quickly—done in——”
He glanced up to see Horst springing at them like a maddened animal.
“Stop that!” cried the captain. “It’s a trick!—it’s a trick!” In another second he had snatched paper and pencil from Lyngstrand’s hand.
A formidable series of violent crashes, emanating from walls, roof, and table, was the instant response to his action. He shrank back, appalled, crouching with eyes that searched the surrounding walls in agonized apprehension. “It’s a trick!—it’s a diabolical trick!” he muttered. “It must be!”