"McCarthy: My patience is at an end. Your last warning will be sent you at nine thirty this morning. If you do not sail on the Celtic at noon I shall strike. You are of a stubborn and a stiff-necked generation, but I am your lord and master, and my wrath shall be visited on you. Begone, or you shall die the death." "That bluffed him out," said Darrow, "and I don't blame him. Now, Simmons," said he, turning to the operator, who had sat in utter silence, "how about it? Are you with us, or against us?" "How do you mean?" demanded Simmons. "This," said Darrow sharply. "The time has passed for concealment. Every message through the ether must now reach the public. We must send messages back. The case is out of private hands; it has become important to the people. Will you agree on your honor faithfully to transmit?" He leaned forward, his indolent frame startlingly tense. "Are you afraid of McCarthy?" "He's been good to me--it's a family matter," muttered the operator. "Well--" Darrow arose, crossed to the operator, and whispered to him for a moment. "You see the seriousness--you are an intelligent man." The operator turned pale. "I hadn't thought of that," he muttered. "I hadn't thought of that. Of course I'm with you." "I thought you would be," drawled Percy Darrow slowly. "If you hadn't decided to be, I'd have had another man put in your place. Hadn't thought of that, either, had you?" "No, sir," replied Simmons. "Well, I prefer you. It's no job for a quitter, and I believe you'll stick." "I'll stick," repeated Simmons. "Well, to work," said Darrow, lighting the cigarette he had been playing with. "Send this out, and see if you can reach Monsieur X. "'_M_,'" he dictated slowly. "'Do you get this?' Repeat that until you get a reply." Without comment the operator turned to his key. The long ripping crashes of the wireless sender followed the movements of his fingers. "I get his '_I_--_I_,'" he said, after a moment. "It's almighty faint." "Good!" said Darrow. "Give him this: "'McCarthy has disappeared. Can no longer reach him with your messages.'" "He merely answers '_I_--_I_,'" observed the operator. "By the way," asked Darrow, "what is your shift, anyhow? Weren't you on at night when this thing began?" "I'm still on at night; but Mr. McCarthy sent me a message, and asked me to stay on all this morning as a personal favor to him." "I see. Then you're still on at night?" "Yes, sir." "Well, tell Monsieur X that fact, put yourself at his disposal, and tell him he'd better get all his messages to you rather than to the other operators here." "All right." "There's your story," said Darrow to Hallowell; "it's in those messages. The scientific aspect will probably be done by somebody for the evening papers. You better concentrate on Monsieur X's connection with McCarthy." "Say, my friend," said Hallowell earnestly, "do you think I'm a reporter for the _Scientific American_ or a newspaper?"