Mary watched him anxiously. She too seemed all by herself—a strange, wide-eyed figure, standing apart with the great auto cloak about her, silently watching and not daring to ask a question.
“Who did you say was hurt?” Tom asked at length, without turning.
“A burglar and James—our chauffeur, you know—they were both shot.”
“Have you got him?” asked Roy excitedly.
“Nope.”
He adjusted the tuning coil again and waited patiently.
“Too late, Tom.”
No answer. Then suddenly Tom’s hand flew to the sending key, and as the letters of the Morse Code clicked away into the night a slight smile crept over his face. There was no member of the troop who could use the Morse alphabet with such rapidity as Tom, and he often thought (but seldom spoke) of that first message he and Roy had flashed together from the little tower on Blakeley’s Hill.
“Up?” asked Roy.
“Sure he’s up; wait till I get his O. K.”