Merritt was sitting back in a corner. For the sake of coolness, there was only one lamp in the place, a shaded one above the operator’s table. A pile of boxes stood close to Merritt and he slipped in behind them. He had reasons of his own for not wanting to be seen just then.
“No more batteries,” began the operator truculently as the stranger came in. But the other laughed.
“It’s not batteries this time,” he said with a slightly foreign accent. “It’s a telegram I want to send.”
“Oh, that’s different. There’s one ahead of you, though.”
“All right; there is no hurry. I’ll write mine out now.”
The man sat down and rapidly wrote on a sending blank. He handed it in. The operator looked at it a minute and then handed it back.
“Sorry; I can’t take it.”
“Why not? I can pay you.”
The man drew out a roll of bills.
“That’s not it. Your message is in cipher and we are not allowed to take such telegrams in the zone.”