Already they had made a name greater than Muller of the _Emden_, but they had made themselves outlaws of the nations of the world, and though for a little while success and fame might attend them, yet they knew that sooner or later the agreed price of their adventure would be death. "What news of the British air-liner, Max?" called von Spitzer, as his subordinate descended by a rope ladder from one of the smaller trees, where an observation post had been fixed, and an aerial mounted, for the purposes of wireless telegraphy and telephony. "She left Delhi at mid-day yesterday, sir," replied the operator, unclamping the receivers which till now had been fixed over his ears. "Then she’s running to scheduled time?" "Yes, sir." "Was it the official departure message that you tapped?" "It must have been, Rittmeister, for it announced that a distinguished passenger had joined her at the last moment." "Indeed! What was his name? Did you discover it?" asked the flight-commander, who, to maintain his influence over the wild sons of the desert, was wearing the loose, flowing robes of an Arab sheik, richly emblazoned and adorned. "His name was the Maharajah of Bangalore," replied Max, the erstwhile Gotha pilot. "What! the miscreant! He was the man who raised thirty thousand Indian troops for the Mesopotamian campaign, and made it possible for the British to advance on Baghdad after their disaster at Kut." "That accounts for it. He is to be decorated at St. James’s Palace for some eminent services he has rendered to the British Government." "We’re in luck’s way, Max. I may spare his life, as I do not seek to take any man’s life who does not oppose me. But it’s a thousand to one he’s carrying his jewels and his household gods with him; it is the custom of these eastern potentates. I will strip him as the locust strips the vine. I will give his jewels to these brave Arabs; it will confirm my hold upon them. We may need their help upon another occasion. But, this is by the way, was there anything from the professor?" "Only this, Rittmeister; I have waited since dawn for it," and the operator handed to Spitzer a cryptic message of seven letters, which, to the receiver at least was quite unintelligible. Max had pencilled it down as follows:--"X--G--P--C--V--S--M," for it had come through the ether by wireless telegraphy and not by wireless telephone, like the first message. The reason was obvious. One message was for public intelligence and for use in the newspapers, and the other was for more secret and sinister purposes. The cryptogram had come from the professor, who, with his mechanic, had been left behind in the Schwarzwald to collect information for the brigands, and to obtain further supplies of uranis for the _Scorpion_. The Rittmeister eagerly grasped the little strip of paper on which the message was written, and retired to the small hangar where the _Scorpion_ was pegged down and stowed away, remarking:--