“Nothing,” he replied. “Do you wish to say anything to me?”
I could hear Tom’s excited voice.
“Got it?”
“Just once more, Jim,” he said.
“There is nothing more,” went out from the aerial.
“Then I thank you for telling me of this. You have spared me and spared others much by your wisdom. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” I ended, as Tom stepped from the ’phone, his face beaming.
“Quickest thing on record, that. I got my man to set the machine for the wireless waves ‘the man’ is using, and got two records, both from Tokio. That settles it, once for all.”
The storm was still at its height. The house rocked with the wind, but the wild moan of the breakers, forgotten while we talked with the man on the other side of the world, now made their presence manifest. The single light within shone on blackened beam and rough hewn settle, into dim but spotless corners, on glistening tile and dark polished floor. Our little group in modern costume, standing about the table where the instruments were placed, seemed an anachronism. We should have been garbed like Rembrandt’s models, and in place of key, relay and coherer, there should have been simply one massive oaken table.