an! I shot him! He's dead! Dead!"

"And we are still alive," said Peter quietly.

He sat down at the instrument table, fixed silvery disks to his ears,
twanged the detector wire and made a few quick alterations in
connections. Fortunately his inspection of the equipment earlier in
the day had given him a grasp of its arrangement. In an instant he had
the tuner adjusted, was listening, with those keen ears of his focussed
for the ethereal voices which might be abroad at this untimely hour.
Distant splashes of heat lightning occurred faintly, like the quivering
of sensitive metal.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, to make sure that Anthony was
following instructions, he rearranged levers and lowered the heavy
switch which drew upon the storage batteries underneath the table.

He tapped the large brass key experimentally. A hissing blue spark
lighted up the walls and his features in a ghostly glow. Tightening
the vibrator at the terminus of the rubber-covered coil, he spelled out
an inquiry in the International Code. Any station within hearing would
answer that call.

He wondered if the Shanghai station was closed up for the night, or if
by any chance his assistant on the _King of Asia_ would be on the job.

Peter waited for several anxious moments, with no sound in the
telephones other than the faint spattering of the lightning down the
coast. Then his inquiry was given a response, startlingly harsh and
close.

The station might have been across the street, the signals were beating
in his ears so loudly. The operator was having some difficulty
adjusting his spark; it was rough, ragged, like the drumming of
hailstones on a metal roof.

A series of test letters followed, exasperatingly slow.
"V--V--V--V---- What station is that? This is the _Madrusa_."

Peter hesitated, although interference was unlikely. He felt
tremendously relieved. The _Madrusa's_ rough spark meant more to him
than help close by. He knew the _Madrusa_ well; a gray, swift gunboat,
lying close to the water, whose purpose was to sweep the lower
Whang-poo and Yangtze clear of pirates. She could spit streams of
bullets for hours without let-up. And the knowledge of her closeness
to this death-trap keyed him up, not entirely because she was manned by
British sailors who would rather fight than eat. His hand reached out
for the key.

"Who is on watch? This is Peter Moore. That you, Johnny Driggs?"

If the man at the _Madrus