The young fellow seated himself at once at his table, and, touching a Morse-key, a long blue spark was emitted and crackled across the big coil.
“Call up Nauen,” Rigaux said, his holland dust-coat not yet removed. “Give them this message: That the Baron de Neuville has consented, upon representations I have made, to negotiate the whole of the indemnity of eight millions levied upon the city of Brussels. Let me know of the acknowledgment of the receipt of the message by R.X.”
“Certainly, m’sieur,” was the operator’s reply in good French, and he began to tap out the preliminary “Da-de-Da-de-Da,” the call-signal, followed by the code-letters indicating that he wished to speak with Nauen.
Then he switched over, and adjusting his headphones to his ears, listened attentively.
Again he repeated the call, with dexterous rapidity, when, a few seconds later, he heard the answering ticks of the Telefunken near Potsdam, after which he reduced to code the significant message which Rigaux had given him for transmission, and tapped it out.
Chapter Ten.
The Hôtel de L’Épée.
The quaint, old-world little town of Dinant, with its crooked cobbled streets—the resort of painters and dreamers—lay in a narrow ravine on both sides of the winding Meuse, connected by a long iron bridge. High limestone cliffs towered above the town, crowned by a good-sized but out-of-date citadel—a fort which dominated the whole country. Across the river lay the railway station, and some modern hotels, while the modern town was built upon the pleasant wooded slopes behind.