Feverishly she twisted the knobs, and sent in call after call to the post; but her only response was an ear-splitting crackling and snapping. There was too much electricity in the air; the “static” was baffling her.
Still, useless though she knew the attempt to be, she kept on sending the call, until at last she was interrupted by the sound of a mutter behind her, and, turning, saw, in the lightning flashes, Grail halfway up on one elbow.
“That chemist is crazy”—his words came jerkily—“that wasn’t what he said it was; that was a picric-acid compound, and the Russians are adepts with picric. Why didn’t I think of that before?”
The girl sprang toward him. “Ormsby! Ormsby!” she cried, slipping her arm under him and supporting his head on her shoulder. “Tell me you are not badly hurt!”
But he paid no heed. His befogged brain had room only for the calculations upon which he was engaged.
“I understand the trick about the typewriting, too, now,” he went on. “In case the explosive failed to work, they had another come-back. By imitating the defects of Schilder’s typewriter, and using his letterhead, they could always, as a last resource, throw suspicion on him. I’ll bet, though, the woman was responsible for that touch, Cato; she is just the sort to——”
He halted suddenly, realizing, as his wits cleared, that it was not Cato’s strong arm supporting him, nor Cato’s gruff voice so beseechingly imploring him.
He raised his head bewilderedly to see, and a kindly flash of lightning showed him her face.
“Meredith!” he exclaimed. “Are you a prisoner, too?”
“No, no!” she cried. “I am here to help you, if I can. But tell me first that you are not hurt?”