O’Brien adjusted the receiver. The message ticked faintly.
“Something wrong with their machine or ours,” said O’Brien anxiously.
Finally he got the words. “Who are you?” O’Brien sat staring. Then “John” he answered.
For a second it occurred to him to send out a call for help but he knew that Smith would only too gladly see his co-partners drop into the ocean and drown. So O’Brien sent the single name, and waited. There was no response.
“Why?” called O’Brien.
Still there was no reply. Then, “Something wrong with your wireless, John,” came to him. “Can’t make out anything you send. Take this if you can. Cliffs about two hours ahead. I am going to—” there was a buzzing and a flutter and dead silence.
O’Brien listened and called in vain. Something had gone wrong with the wireless. Once more baffled, O’Brien sent out call after call. There was no response. Once more Smith had escaped for O’Brien could not help thinking that the words he had been about to send would have made everything clear.
As O’Brien threw down the receiver with an exclamation of bitter disappointment the fog again drifted about them like a pall, and O’Brien, silent and bitter, took the wheel, and with his eyes on the indicator kept the balloon headed toward its invisible foe ahead. They were nearing the cliffs.
CHAPTER XII
“There are the cliffs!” said Mr. Ridgeway, pointing through the fog as it broke for a moment. “Sail high, Lawrence, as you approach the coast. As soon as you are over the cliffs, set your course to the southeast and keep straight on. We will reach our destination this afternoon, and tomorrow we will go on to our second stop, to return the papers.” He gave a sigh.