make no reference to Mars; my interest in that is almost nil. That is a
newspaper romance, and I am really getting very tired of being
misunderstood. I would be very glad if, in the course of the evening,
someone would jestingly refer to this and absolve me from holding such
untenable ideas. I thank you. I shall be there."

"Gee-whiz, Gus, I wonder if the time will ever come when we'll get
invitations like that, eh? And say, he doesn't take any stock in that
message-from-Mars foolishness."

"Well, I guess it's silly, all right," Gus agreed.

"Why, sure. They can't even tell if Mars has any life on it, and if it
has, it is mighty unlikely that any kind of creatures have developed
brains enough to understand radio. Shucks! No real scientist will waste
his time on any guesswork like that. We want to know more through the
telescope first."

"But maybe the telescope can't tell us--then what? We want to get at it
anyway we can, don't we?"

"Oh, I suppose, in any sensible, possible, likely way, but not on such a
supposition. It would be like shooting at the moon: _if_ a high-powered
gun could get its projectile beyond our attraction of gravitation and
_if_ it were aimed right, why, then the shot might hit the mark. Too
blamed many 'ifs.' And some of the greatest astronomers say Mars isn't
inhab--what's this?"

A very distant, not easily understood voice came to them. There seemed
to be some interference which not even their well-made loose coupler
could filter out. Apparently there could be nothing very entertaining
about this, except the desire to get the better of a difficult task.

"-- Atlantic. Latitude 39 -- -- -- chased her, but -- lost --. The fog
was -- -- --. On board, when start -- -- transferred, we think. Headed
west. Got a radio from the Government tug Nev -- --. Think it must have
been the same. Putting in toward Point Gifford, they said --. Think they
have landed by now. Better opportunity to demand ransom from the --.
Italian all right; sure of that. -- The banker will -- -- -- -- --. So
you be -- -- -- --."

The voice died away; a few clickings came and then silence. Bill turned
to Gus. In matters of jumping at conclusions, he had long learned to
depend most on his chum's undoubted talents, just as Gus, in most things
mental, played second fiddle to Bill.

"Say, Gus, could it be--?" Bill whispered.

"Sure is! Nothing else. Ransom, banker, Italian."

Gus felt no uncertainty. "They're after them,