“Indeed. I must dip into him. What did he write about?”
“A lot of things. Here’s a sample that may interest you.”
Then and there, carefully, I repeated the verse he had twice spoken and once written not ten minutes ago.
“Ah. Anybody could see he was a druggist from that line about the tinctures and syrups. It’s a fine tribute to our profession.”
“I don’t know,” said young Mr. Cashell, with icy politeness, opening the door one half-inch, “if you still happen to be interested in our trifling experiments. But, should such be the case——”
I drew him aside, whispering, “Shaynor seemed going off into some sort of fit when I spoke to you just now. I thought, even at the risk of being rude, it wouldn’t do to take you off your instruments just as the call was coming through. Don’t you see?”
“Granted—granted as soon as asked,” he said unbending. “I did think it a shade odd at the time. So that was why he knocked the chair down?”
“I hope I haven’t missed anything,” I said. “I’m afraid I can’t say that, but you’re just in time for the end of a rather curious performance. You can come in, too, Mr. Shaynor. Listen, while I read it off.”
The Morse instrument was ticking furiously. Mr. Cashell interpreted: “‘K.K.V. Can make nothing of your signals.’” A pause. “‘M.M.V. M.M.V. Signals unintelligible. Purpose anchor Sandown Bay. Examine instruments to-morrow.’ Do you know what that means? It’s a couple of men-o’-war working Marconi signals off the Isle of Wight. They are trying to talk to each other. Neither can read the other’s messages, but all their messages are being taken in by our receiver here. They’ve been going on for ever so long. I wish you could have heard it.”
“How wonderful!” I said. “Do you mean we’re overhearing Portsmouth ships trying to talk to each other—that we’re eavesdropping across half South England?”