I drew him aside, whispering, “Shaynor seemed
going off into some sort of fit when I spoke to you
just now. I thought, even at the risk of being
rude, it wouldn’t do to take you off your instruments
just as the call was coming through. Don’t
you see?”
“Granted—granted as soon as asked,”
he said unbending. “I did think it
a shade odd at the time. So that was why he knocked
the chair down?”
“I hope I haven’t missed anything,”
I said. “I’m afraid I can’t
say that, but you’re just in time for the end
of a rather curious performance. You can come
in, too, Mr. Shaynor. Listen, while I read it
off.”
The Morse instrument was ticking furiously. Mr.
Cashell interpreted: “‘K.K.V.
Can make nothing of your signals.’”
A pause. “’M.M.V. M.M.V.
Signals unintelligible. Purpose anchor Sandown
Bay. Examine instruments to-morrow.’
Do you know what that means? It’s a couple
of men-o’-war working Marconi signals off the
Isle of Wight. They are trying to talk to each
other. Neither can read the other’s messages,
but all their messages are being taken in by our receiver
here. They’ve been going on for ever so
long. I wish you could have heard it.”
“How wonderful!” I said. “Do
you mean we’re overhearing Portsmouth ships
trying to talk to each other—that we’re
eavesdropping across half South England?”
“Just that. Their transmitters are all
right, but their receivers are out of order, so they
only get a dot here and a dash there. Nothing
clear.”
“Why is that?”
“God knows—and Science will know
to-morrow. Perhaps the induction is faulty; perhaps
the receivers aren’t tuned to receive just the
number of vibrations per second that the transmitter
sends. Only a word here and there. Just
enough to tantalise.”
Again the Morse sprang to life.
“That’s one of ’em complaining now.
Listen: ’Disheartening—most
disheartening.’ It’s quite pathetic.
Have you ever seen a spiritualistic seance? It
reminds me of that sometimes—odds and ends
of messages coming out of nowhere—a word
here and there—no good at all.”
“But mediums are all impostors,” said
Mr. Shaynor, in the doorway, lighting an asthma-cigarette.
“They only do it for the money they can make.
I’ve seen ’em.”
“Here’s Poole, at last—clear
as a bell. L.L.L. Now we sha’n’t
be long.” Mr. Cashell rattled the keys
merrily. “Anything you’d like to tell
’em?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said.
“I’ll go home and get to bed. I’m
feeling a little tired.”
SONG OF THE OLD GUARD
“And thou shalt make a candlestick of pure gold
of beaten work shall the candlestick be made:
his shaft and its branches, his bowls, his knops,
and his flowers, shall be the same.
“And there shall be a knop under two branches
of the same, and a knop under two branches of the
same, and a knop under two branches of the same, according
to the six branches that proceed out of the candlestick.
Their knops and their branches shall be the same.”—Exodus.
