The answer came at once.
“o-n-l-y t-h-r-o-u-g-h m-e” There was a slight pause, then the raps recommenced again, “l-a-d-y h-e-r-e h-a-s a m-e-s-s-a-g-e f-o-r p-e-t-e-r” the raps hesitated “p-e-t-e-r f-u-n-n-y n-a-m-e c-a-n-t c-a-t-c-h i-t——”
Lyngstrand’s face went deathly white.
“Yes,” he gasped, just only able to speak, “—Peter—yes—go on!” He looked at the table as though expecting to see the hand that was rapping out the message. Tap-tap-tap, it came.
“p-e-t-e-r l-i-n-g-s-t-r-a-n-d”
“Yes—here!” he gasped. “Go on!—who is it?”
“m-a-r-y t-i-l-l-o-t-s-o-n”
He reeled against the table, clutched at it.
“My God!” he murmured to himself, his eyes closing, his teeth grinding upon one another in an agony of emotion. Then, with a supreme effort of self-control, he asked, loudly: “The message? Give it me!”