He returned to his stateroom almost panic-stricken. He sat down on the suitcase and held his head between his hands while he tried to think. He was a slippery creature and his fellow countrymen had often admired his "slimness" in former crises; but it was difficult to discover a cranny big enough for a cockroach here, unless he made a clean breast of it to the captain. In that case he would be incriminated with all the belligerents and most of the neutrals. There would be no place in the world where he could hide his head, except perhaps Mexico. He would probably be penniless as well. At this point in his cogitations there was a knock on the door, which startled him like a pistol shot. He opened it a cautious inch or two--for his papers were all over his berth--and a steward handed him a telegram. "This was waiting for you at the purser's office, sir," he said. "The mail has only just been sorted. If you wish to reply by wireless you can do so up to midnight." The man was smiling as if he knew the contents. There had been some jesting, in fact, about this telegram at the office. A gleam of hope shot through Mr. Neilsen's chaotic brain as he opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Perhaps it contained reassuring news. His face fell. It simply repeated the former sickening message about Uncle Hyacinth. But the steward had reminded him of one last resource. "Yes," he said, trying hard to be calm; "I shall want to send a reply." "Here is a form, sir. You'll find the regulations printed on the back." Mr. Neilsen closed the door and sank, gasping, on to the suitcase to examine the form. The regulations stated that no message would be accepted in code. This did not worry him at first, as he thought he could concoct an apparently straightforward and harmless message with the elaborate vocabulary of his Number Six. But the code had not been intended for agonizing moments like these. It abounded in commercial phrases, medical terms and domestic greetings; and though there were a number of alternative words and synonyms it was not so easy as he had expected to make a coherent message which should be apparently a reply to the telegram he had received. After half an hour of seeking for the _mot juste_ which would have melted the heart of a Flaubert, he arrived at the purser's office with wild eyes and handed in the yellow form. "I wish to send this by Marconi wireless," he said. The purser tapped each word with his pencil as he read it over: _Splendid. Most--amusing. Use--heaps--butter. Congratulate--Uncle Hyacinth._ _Love._ _Erik._ "I beg your pardon, sir," said the purser, "but we can only accept messages _en clair_." "It is as clear as I can make it," said Mr. Neilsen; and he was telling the truth. "It is the answer to the telegram which was handed to me on board." "It looks a little unusual, sir."