Platts shook his head.
"That's the mystery," he declared. "Look!"—he pointed to the table; "according to the Marconi chart, there's a Messageries boat due west between us and Marseilles, and the homeward-bound P. & O. which we passed this morning must be getting on that way also, by now. The Isis is somewhere ahead, but I've spoken all these, and the message comes from none of them."
"Then it may come from Messina."
"It doesn't come from Messina," replied the man at the table, beginning to write rapidly.
Platts stepped forward and bent over the message which the other was writing.
"Here it is!" he cried excitedly; "we're getting it."
Stepping in turn to the table, I leant over between the two and read these words as the operator wrote them down: Dr. Petrie—my shadow....
I drew a quick breath and gripped Platt's shoulder harshly. His assistant began fingering the instrument with irritation.
"Lost it again!" he muttered.
"This message...." I began.