“Just that. Their transmitters are all right, but their receivers are out of order, so they only get a dot here and a dash there. Nothing clear.”
“Why is that?”
“God knows—and Science will know to-morrow. Perhaps the induction is faulty; perhaps the receivers aren’t tuned to receive just the number of vibrations per second that the transmitter sends. Only a word here and there. Just enough to tantalise.”
Again the Morse sprang to life.
“That’s one of ’em complaining now. Listen: ‘Disheartening—most disheartening.’ It’s quite pathetic. Have you ever seen a spiritualistic seance? It reminds me of that sometimes—odds and ends of messages coming out of nowhere—a word here and there—no good at all.”
“But mediums are all impostors,” said Mr. Shaynor, in the doorway, lighting an asthma-cigarette. “They only do it for the money they can make. I’ve seen ’em.”
“Here’s Poole, at last—clear as a bell. L.L.L. Now we sha’n’t be long.” Mr. Cashell rattled the keys merrily. “Anything you’d like to tell ’em?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ll go home and get to bed. I’m feeling a little tired.”