Peter, lowering the aerial switch, sent out an inquiring call for the Manila station. The air was still as death. A dreary hush filled the black receivers, and then, through this gloomy silence trickled a far-away silver voice, the brisk, clear signals of Manila.
He swiveled half around, and the girl nervously extended the pad of radio blanks.
The message was directed to Emiguel Borria, the Peak, Hong Kong, and it contained the information that she would reach the Hong Kong anchorage on the following Tuesday morning. The last sentence; "Do not meet me."
Peter inclined his eyebrows slightly, but not impertinently, counted the words and flashed them to the operator at Manila.
This one shot back the following greeting:
"Who are you? Only one man on the whole Pacific has a fist like that."
Peter changed the manner of his sending, resorting to a long and painful "drawl."
"I am a little Chinese waif," Peter spelled out slowly, and smiled, adding: "Good hunting to you, Smith!" He signed off.
The silvery spark of Smith was quick in reply.
"If you are Peter Moore, the Marconi people are scouring the earth trying to find you. Are you Peter Moore?"