On that name the voice died away in what Victor fancied was a gasp that might have been of either fright or pain.
“Hello!” he prompted. “Are you there, Shaik Tsin? I say! Are you there? Why don’t you answer?”
He paused: no sound for seconds that dragged like so many minutes, then of a sudden a deadened noise like the slam of a door heard afar—or a pistol shot at some distance from the telephone in the study.
Further and frantic importuning of the cold and unresponsive wire presently was silenced by a new voice, little like that of Shaik Tsin.
“Hello? Who’s there? I say: that you, Prince Victor?”
Involuntarily Victor cried: “Karslake!” “What gorgeous luck! I’ve been wanting a word with you all evening.”
“What has happened? Why did Shaik Tsin—?”
“Oh, most unfortunate about him—frightfully sorry, but it really couldn’t be helped, if he hadn’t fought back we wouldn’t have had to shoot him. You see, the old devil murdered Sturm to-night, for some reason I daresay you understand better than I: we found a paper on the beggar, written in Chinese, apparently an order for his assassination signed by you. Half a mo’: I’ll read it to you ...”
But if Karslake translated Victor’s message, as edited by the hand of Nogam, it was to a wire as deaf as it was dumb.