"Who is on watch? This is Peter Moore. That you, Johnny Driggs?"
If the man at the Madrusa's key did happen to be Jonathan Driggs, he could afford to breathe more easily. Driggs was another man who had found in China the irresistible attraction, and who for some years had sat behind the radio machines of many ships that plied these yellow waters.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" roared the Madrusa's spark. "Where are you? What are you doing up at this time of night playing with a baby coil?"
For the next three minutes the spitting blue spark flared and jumped as Peter spelled out his plight. He sketched their predicament by abbreviated code, and he impressed upon his friend the necessity for utter secrecy, hoping that the night had no other ears.
"Damn it!" replied the quick fingers of the gunboat's operator. "Damn it! But I can't get shore leave! Impossible—you can guess why! Our gunnery officer, Lieutenant Milton Raynard, is jumping to go! He'll fetch you five or six sailors. He knows the lay of the land, and I've sketched him a map of the locality from your description. Cinch! They'll be off at once, soon as they can get the engine started in the launch. Don't give up the ship, old boy! Don't——"
Peter dropped the receiver, walked over to the divan and endeavored to awaken the girls, slapping their hands, shaking them. They did not appear to be drugged. Evidently they had underestimated the power of the smooth, yellow arracka. Faint color glowed in their cheeks, and under the treatment Peggy slowly opened one very sleepy brown eye.
It drooped again. She muttered something that was not intelligible. It had something to do with a princess, and even that word was indistinct.
Anthony lifted a cautioning hand. "Some one's outside," he whispered. Slowly, as they watched it, the knob described a single revolution. Anthony lifted his revolver. "Who is there?"
"Let me in!" It was Romola Borria.
"Open the door," said Peter quietly, stepping aside.