“Then we can do no more, save to still prosecute inquiries, and watch the progress of events.”
During the next two days young Falconer was very busy making some tests with Poldhu. From the “Devil’s Oven,” far away on the rocky Cornish coast, they at first sent him replies on “spark” in response, but after twenty hours of hard work, during which they constantly disturbed the ether by sending long and numerous series of “V’s”—namely, three dots and a dash—the letter of the alphabet used in wireless for testing purposes, his transmission was at last declared by Poldhu to be “good,” but not anything really great—in fact “R.7.,” as Poldhu put it.
There was still a fault somewhere, and amid that tangle of wires, the mass of up-to-date apparatus, and the great vacuum glass globes—huge balls of light when transmission was in progress—he stood dismayed and puzzled. A fault in wireless transmission is often most difficult to trace, and it was so in this case. The two engineers at Aranjuez had failed to discover it, and for that reason young Falconer had been sent over as an expert to find and remedy it. It was the more baffling because after re-wiring it the first time, he was able to communicate with Poldhu about Dr. Garcia and Mapleton. Then a slight fault had necessitated an alteration, and now it was again wrong.
As he stood there that morning gazing into the big valve-panel, undecided as to what test next to apply, one of the operators, a young Spaniard, handed him a message form, saying that it had just come in from Poldhu. It was in the International Code; therefore Falconer went to the adjoining room, and taking down the big book which gives a “figure” and “letter” code in all the principal commercial languages, including Japanese, he soon succeeded in de-coding the message.
When he did so he sat back aghast. The truth was now apparent.
His inquiries in London regarding the Mapletons were slowly throwing a light upon a most dramatic situation.
That day he felt justified in leaving his work early, and in the evening he travelled to the far north of Spain to San Sebastian, that gay seaside resort which is the favourite summer resort of the Madrileños. He arrived there in the early morning, having spent the night in the so-called “express.” He took his coffee at the old-fashioned Hôtel Ezcurra, in the Paseo de la Zurriola, and then he went round to the Prefecture of Police.
To the rather lazy underling whom he found there he made an explanation, and at ten o’clock he was shown into the bureau of the chief of police himself, an elderly, alert little man, who listened to the young Englishman very attentively. As he proceeded with his story, and as he related what had been sent by wireless from England, the official’s interest grew.
For two hours Geoffrey Falconer remained there, examining documents, and questioning four Spanish detectives by the aid of the official interpreter.
“And now, Señor Falconer,” said the chief of police at last, “the best line of action for you is to return and keep a secret and strict watch. You know all I have told you, and what are my suspicions. It is fortunate, very fortunate, that your young lady friend has detected what is in progress. On my part I will send by to-night’s mail a report to the police of Madrid, who will be on the alert for any developments. They will place our great pathologist, Professor Barrera, at your disposal, should any analysis be required. We are at the moment quite powerless to act, but we look to you for such information as shall save the lady’s life.”