At last the voice came again with startling clearness.
“Hulloa! Hulloa! Hulloa, Coltano! Hulloa, I.C.I.! Are you on duty, Nicola? Hulloa, Nicola! Nicola? Nicola? Or is it Tozzoni on duty? Tozzoni? Tozzoni? Tanti saluti,” the voice continued. “Listen, Nicola. Here is Enrico Rossi!”
Falconer held his breath. The speech was weird, and quite unusual.
“Rossi calling I.C.I.—calling Nicola. Listen, Nicola, caro mio! Rossi speaking. Rossi speaking. Can you hear me?” continued the distorted voice.
There was a pause. Then again over the carrier-wave of electricity ran the words:
“Listen, Coltano! Listen, Nicola—or Tozzoni! Both of you are my dear friends. Enrico speaking. I am in London—in London! With Falconer, of Chelmsford. Can you hear that?” he shouted in a shriller voice. “With Falconer, of Chelmsford! You know him—both of you. Well, I’m over here in England. But I am not coming back to Italy. My message to you is that I am not returning. I have other plans in America.”
Then there was another pause, during which Falconer listened, silent and breathless.
“Nicola, caro mio! I have other plans in America, so I shall not return to you. Tanti saluti, caro mio. Will you reply? Please reply on six thousand five hundred mètres. I will listen. Rossi, changing over!”
Falconer strained his ears to listen to the reply to that amazing message sent by his friend whom only two and a half hours before, he had left at Liverpool Street Station.
But though Madrid, Poldhu, Leafield, Cleethorpes, and Aberdeen were busy to various European stations, he could detect no reply. For quite ten minutes he listened, until, suddenly, the powerful station at Leafield, near Oxford, sent out the words in Morse code: