These--I got one and looked--had made the most of very scanty material. Nothing like the whole truth had leaked out, but there was, nevertheless, a sensation of the first magnitude. I was recognized and pointed to; a naval captain even spoke, and tried to pump me!--though he soon found that there was nothing doing--and when Captain Pring came into the lounge some idiot started to cheer, and there was what the papers describe as a "scene." Pring and I supped alone in a private room and had a long confidential talk, in the course of which I learnt many things. I am not going to give any details of that talk at present. It was momentous--it is enough to say that now--and has its proper place further on in the story. The worthy Captain went at twelve, and I retired to bed. Thumbwood slept in a dressing-room opening out of my bedroom. By his couch was a telephone, which I arranged was to be connected with the A.P. Station all night long. If any signal came Thumbwood was to take it, and, if important, wake me at once. ... I am going to conclude this first portion of the narrative in as few lines as possible. Even to-day I shirk the writing of them. I was awakened suddenly to find my room blazing with light; I afterwards found that the exact time was 2.30 a.m. Thumbwood was standing by the bed. "Sir John," he said hoarsely, "there's a signal!" One glance at the lad's face was enough, and I set my teeth--hard. "Bad news?" "Terrible news, Sir John!" "Go on." "_Atlantis_ attacked two hundred miles west of Cork. Captain Swainson and four other men shot dead. Patrol Boat No. 1 disabled. Commander Lashmar and most of the crew killed. Signal got through by two survivors of crew, who managed to repair wireless." Twice I swallowed with a dry mouth. Thumbwood knew what I wanted to ask. "The young lady, Sir John, and her maid ..." "Dead, too?" "No, Sir John. They were taken from among all the other passengers and put aboard the pirate ship, which then flew away with them." CHAPTER IV THE NEWSPAPERS IN FULL CRY You are to imagine, if you please, the private room of the Chief Commissioner of Air Police at Whitehall. A soft Turkey carpet of dull brick-reds and blues covers the parquet floor. The walls are hung with pictures of famous airmen of the past, inventors, fighters, pioneers of the great commercial service of air-liners which now fills the skies and has shrunk the planet--for all practical purposes--to a fifth of its former size. There are two or three huge writing-tables covered with crimson morocco; the chairs are thickly padded and luxurious. A range of tall windows looks down upon the endless stir and movement of the wide street, where the nerves of Empire meet in one central ganglion. Standing by one of these windows is a light-haired young man of thirty in a lounge suit of dark blue. He wears a rather heavy, carefully-trimmed moustache, and his face is seamed and furrowed with anxiety and grey from want of rest.