"Who is he?" Henry shouted again; really a more foolish question than the first one. "Anybody you know?"
"A stranger," was the chauffeur's reply.
Ten minutes later, the two husky chauffeurs came slowly across the terrace, supporting between them a bedraggled, hatless young man, who seemed to have some difficulty in walking. The stranger's fortunate rescue—from what cruel fate, of course, we did not know at the time—was a signal for Pat to let out a cry of mingled thankfulness and relief. "Oh, goody! He's alive!" she exclaimed. Then, pressing her face closer to the rain-washed window, she added: "I—I wonder who he is?"
One glance was sufficient to show Henry who he was. But I'm sure I gave a far louder exclamation of astonishment than my brother.
"God bless my life and soul!" I exclaimed. "It's Bob McGinity, the Daily Recorder reporter!"
Just as suddenly as the recognition had come, the reporter shook himself free of the two chauffeurs, and rushed up to Henry.
"Mr. Royce!" he said, excitedly. "Will—will you please confirm the report that—er—that you and Serge Olinski have established radio connection with Mars?"
Henry for a moment remained perfectly still and mute. His face looked as dark as the thunder-clouds that were sweeping over the castle. I saw the whole thing now, clearly enough. The reporter's predicament had been self-imposed; a ruse to gain personal contact with Henry which had been denied him by telephone. Anxiously, and puzzled, I watched closely the two of them.
"Can't I have a word with you—inside?" the reporter pleaded desperately. The rain ran in little rivers down his face; his dark, disheveled, kinky hair fringed his brow like the little, curled, rat-tail bangs that were fashionable when my grandmother was a girl. "I'm sorry, sir, if I've put you to so much inconvenience," he went on, "but in a case like this—momentous discovery—well, I've got—"
He got no further. "Not another word!" Henry interrupted sternly, raising his hand as though to command silence. Turning to the chauffeurs, he ordered, in a low, harsh voice: "Take him round to the garage, and dry him out. Then turn him loose—and—be damned with him!"