"This business is a little too hot to hold," said the editor in a final interview with T. B., who had persuaded him to keep back his story, until he had bagged the "Nine Men." "To-night I must tell the whole of the affair." T. B. nodded. "To-night," said T. B., "you can tell what you like. I shall have played my stake for good or ill. "I have been talking with Escoltier; we have got him lodged in Scotland Yard--though you needn't mention that fact in your account--and I think we know enough now to trap the 'Nine Men.'" "Who are they and what does the 'C.' stand for in 'N.H.C.'?" "I can only guess," said T. B cautiously. "Do you know anything about wireless telegraphy?" he demanded. "Not much," admitted the editor. "Well, you know enough to realise that the further you wish to communicate the more electrical energy you require?" "That much I understand," said the journalist. "The principle is the 'rings on the pond.' You throw a stone into still water, and immediately rings grow outward. The bigger the stone, the farther-reaching the rings." "At Poldhu," continued T. B., "Hyatt was in charge of the long-distance instrument. As a matter of fact, the work he was engaged on was merely experimental, but his endeavour seemed to be centred in securing the necessary energy for communicating 900 miles. Of course, wireless telegraphy is practicable up to and beyond 3,000 miles, but few installations are capable of transmitting that distance." "So 'C.' is, you think, within 900 miles of Cornwall?" T. B. nodded. "I have a feeling that I know 'C.,'" he said. "I have another feeling that these wireless messages do not come from 'C.' at all, but from a place adjacent. However,"--he took from his pocket a flat exercise book filled with closely written columns of words and figures--"we shall see." He took a cab from Fleet Street; and, arriving at the block of Government buildings which shelters the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, he entered its gloomy doors. A messenger came forward to enquire his business, but was forestalled by a keen little man with tanned face and twinkling eyes. "Sailor" was written on every line of his mahogany face. "Hullo, my noble policeman," he greeted T. B. "Who is the victim--the First Sea Lord or the Controller of the Victualling Department?" "To be precise, Almack," said T. B., "I have come to arrest Reform, which I gather----" "No politics," smiled Captain John Almack, R.N. "What is the game?" "It is what our mutual friend Napoleon would call a negative problem in strategy," the Assistant-Commissioner replied. "I want to ask an ethereal friend, who exists somewhere in space, to come in and be killed." Captain Almack led the way up a flight of stairs. "We got a request from your Commissioner; and, of course, the Lords of the Admiralty are only too pleased to put the instrument at your disposal." "They are very charming," murmured T. B.