"Come quickly," whispered a voice over his shoulder, and swinging about with a convulsive start, Mitchell recognized Charles Miller. With common impulse he and Foster sprang up, but he was the first to reach Miller's side, and the candlelight shone on burnished steel. "Put up the handcuffs, Mitchell," directed Miller contemptuously. "The time has not yet come to use them." "I am not so sure of that," retorted Mitchell. "You are ..." "We can argue the point later." Miller made for the door. "Both of you come with me; but for God's sake, make no noise." His manner impressed them, and after one second's hesitation, the detective replaced the handcuffs, and in their stead produced a revolver. "Go ahead," he said. "But remember, Miller, if you attempt to escape you will be arrested." Without replying Miller led the way through the silent house, his torch and occasional whispered direction guiding them to the sub-cellar. Inside the chamber under the parking of the house, Henry worked with tireless energy, taking down the coded messages as they flashed from the skilled fingers of the Government operators in the great War, State, and Navy Department but a stone's throw away. Suddenly, above the click of the sounder his abnormal sense of hearing caught a faint noise on the other side of the closed panel. One movement of his hand and the chamber was in darkness and the telegraph instrument stilled. Backing into a corner, Henry waited, his eyes still blinded by the change from light to darkness; but he heard the opening of the panel, and the soft swish of a woman's skirts. "Julie!" His lips formed the word, but no sound issued from him as he launched himself forward. For a few seconds he closed with his adversary. Backward and forward they rocked; then a shot rang out and with a sob a figure sank limply across the pine table. "This way!" shouted Miller, and guided by his voice Mitchell and Foster dashed after him. They stopped just inside the chamber. Miller's torch cast its beams across the pine table and its silent burden. A gasping cry broke from Foster: "Mrs. Whitney!" CHAPTER XXIV RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE "Dead!" The detective bent over Mrs. Whitney. "Shot through the heart." He turned to his silent companions. "Who fired that revolver?" and his own covered Miller menacingly. Miller, spying the electric lamp, switched it on before answering. Still silent, he pointed to the telegrapher's outfit which confronted them and to the tell-tale wires leading to the outer world. "The shot was fired," he said, "by the man who tunneled out to the conduit in which are the cables running to the White House and War, State, and Navy Building, and tapped them." "Where is he?" Mitchell cast a bewildered look about the small chamber. "I felt someone brush by me on the stairs in the darkness," volunteered Foster, recovering somewhat from his stupefaction. "I fear he has got safely away."