“A hundred more if you answer my questions truthfully,” I said, amiably.
“’Cré cochon!” he blurted out; “fire at will, comrade! I’ll sell you the whole cursed semaphore for a hundred more! What can I do for you, captain?”
“Who is in that hut?”
“A lady—she comes often—she gives ten francs each time. Zut!—what is ten francs when a gentleman gives a hundred! She pays me for my complaisance—bon! Place aux dames! You pay me better—bon! I’m yours, gentlemen. War is war, but money pulls the trigger!”
The miserable creature cocked his forage-cap with a toothless smirk and twisted his scant mustache.
“Who is this lady who pays you ten francs?” I asked.
“I do not know her name—but,” he added, with an offensive leer, “she’s worth looking over by gentlemen like you. Do you want to see her? She’s in there click-clicking away on the key with her pretty little fingers—bon sang! A morsel for a king, gentlemen.”
“Wait here,” I said, disgusted, and walked toward the stone station. The treacherous cur came running after me. “There’s a side door,” he whispered; “step in there behind the partition and take a look at her. She’ll be done directly: she never stays more than fifteen minutes. Then you can use the telegraph at your pleasure, captain.”
The side door was partly open; I stepped in noiselessly and found myself in a small, dusky closet, partitioned from the telegraph office. Immediately the rapid clicking of the Morse instrument came to my ears, and mechanically I read the message by the sound as it rattled on under the fingers of an expert:
“—Must have already found out that the signals were not authorized by the government. Before the Fer-de-Lance returns to her station the German cruiser 342 ought to intercept her off Groix. Did you arrange for this?”