g of yours and gaze upon
the fleet of obsolete ships anchored in Hampton Roads! In passing,
Professor, I venture to guess that the secret of how I am able to talk
with you gentlemen, here in your Secret Room, is no secret at all to
you. Now look!"

The Secret Agents gasped again, in consternation.

From the white lips of mouselike Maniel came mumbled words, even as his
hands worked with lightning speed.

"His machine is simply a variation of my own. And, gentlemen,
compatriots, with it he could as easily project himself, bodily, here
into the room with us!"

* * * * *

Something like a suppressed scream from one of the men present. A cold
hand of ice about the heart of Prester Kleig. But the words of Professor
Maniel were limned on the retina of his brain in letters of fire.
Suppose Moyen _were_ to project himself into the Secret Room....

But he would not. He was no fool, and even these Secret Agents, most of
whom were old and no longer strong, would have torn him limb from limb.
But those words of Maniel set whirling once more, and in a new
direction, the thoughts of Prester Kleig.

"Mr. President, gentlemen...." It was the voice of Professor Maniel.

All eyes turned again to the screen upon which the professor worked his
miracles, which today were commonplaces, which yesterday had been
undreamed of. Every Secret Agent recognized the outlines of Hampton
Roads, with Norfolk and its towering buildings in the background, and
the obsolete warships riding silently at anchor in the roadstead.

For three years they had been there, while a procrastinating Cabinet,
Congress and Senate had debated their permanent disposal. They
represented millions of dollars in money, and were utterly worthless.
Prester Kleig, looking at them now, could see them putting out to sea,
loaded with brave-visaged men, volunteering to go to sure destruction to
feed the rapacity of Moyen's hordes. Men going out to sea in tubs,
singing....

But these ships were silent. No plumes of smoke from their funnels. Like
floating mausoleums, filled with dead hopes, shells of past and departed
glories.

The beating of waves against their sides could plainly be heard. The
anchor chains squeaked rustily in the hawse-holes. Wind sighed through
regal, towering superstructures, and no man walked the decks of any one
of them.

* * * * *

With bated breath the Secret Agents watched.

Why h