Claribut, as an old criminal, left nothing to chance. When Roddy Homfray died there should also be found his belongings. That was what he intended.
The first fear which entered Roddy’s mind was that the dampness of the stones might have affected the sensitiveness of the set. Eagerly he commenced to string up his aerial to several old nails which he found in the wall above the height of his head. Then he put down an “earth” wire under one of the small stones in the wet floor, which he lifted for that purpose.
After preparations which lasted ten minutes or so he held the cigar-box in his hand, and putting on the head-’phones listened and turned the condenser to receive waves of nine hundred metres.
In a few moments his heart gave a bound. His set worked and the water had not injured it, for he heard the operator at the London aerodrome telephoning to an aeroplane in flight towards Paris.
Those words through the ether gave him renewed courage. His set was working!
Would that he could hear Elma’s answering voice.
The envelope had fluttered from the window, yet the only sound that reached him was the low lapping of the water and the songs of the birds.
He listened to the daily traffic in the air, the Morse and telephony, all of which he knew so well. Yet he was unable to call for help. He could only listen—listen for Elma’s words of encouragement.
But would she ever receive that message tossed at haphazard from that barred high-up window—tossed into the air or upon the water? Which he knew not.
An hour later another sharp shower fell, and as it did so the water percolated through the floor until it was quite two inches deep. It was an ugly sign.