"You see, Judge, the three indicators are marked respectively with the colors of these cards. As I pa.s.s these cards in front of the tube, the corresponding indicator will record its pa.s.sage. Watch!"

He pa.s.sed the cards in front of the tube slowly, first in one order then another. He changed their order; he increased their speed. The result was the same. The respective indicators each time, rapidly or slowly recorded the pa.s.sage of the corresponding color correctly.

Justice Higginbotham beamed with admiration.

"I told you you were modest, Professor. It would have taken me weeks or months to do that. I've been working on rather an ambitious project with these tubes, you may laugh when I tell you; I was well on the way with it when," once more his features clouded, "this h.e.l.lish thing interrupted me."

Professor Brierly, glad to take the other's mind from the dreadful tragedy stalking him and his companions, asked:

"What is the ambitious program you had mapped out that you believe will make me laugh?"

"It is true, is it not, Professor, that the impulse transmitted by a photo electric cell can be translated into incalculable energy; can be made to do things that normally require a great deal of power?"

"You have about stated the case, Judge. We know very little about it yet, about its possibilities, but they seem endless and practically indefinite.

"The impulse generated can be made to pick up a thread, or pull a trigger, operate a trip hammer, blow up a mine or move a battleship or an ocean liner, given a strong enough lever. And that means simply a proper transformation of power or energy.

"The theory is comparatively simple. Wherever or whenever a beam of light can be received, interrupted, modified, amplified, or controlled in any way, a light-sensitive cell can be employed to generate the impulse, which, properly applied, can do almost anything.

"Does that seem too involved?" asked Professor Brierly.

"No, I think not. It was acting on that theory that I experimented with--well, come along and I will show you."

He led the way outside, where he pointed to the overhanging rock.

"Professor, as that rock is situated now, what would happen if it came down? You see how delicately it seems to be balanced."

"If it came down," stated Professor Brierly, "it would crush your main building to match-wood."

"Yes, I guess it would. Well, here is what I planned. I erected a lever behind it operated by a trigger-like arrangement. I installed a photo-electric cell with wires running to the trigger.

I was going to sh.o.r.e up this side of the decline running from the rock, so that when the trigger released it, it would be deflected and roll into the lake.

"But at that point, this deplorable affair with our group happened. All I needed to do was to sh.o.r.e up this side of it. I was going to make quite an occasion of it. I planned to invite a number of friends and show them that with a simple beam of light I could move that gigantic rock."

"Hmm," commented Professor Brierly. "In view of the fact that you have not yet made provision to deflect the rock it seems rather dangerous to leave things in this state. If the rock came down it would hit the roof of the porch and kill whoever happened to be there. You say you have installed the photo-electric cell? What is to prevent--".

"Oh, I have guarded against that, Professor. I placed the tube up there," he pointed to what looked like a bird's nest near one of the gables. You see, as that is situated, no light can ever get at it; the foliage of that tree keeps the sun away and its always rather dark there. In addition, there is that little shutter that I placed in front of it.

"I also disconnected the wires leading from the tube to the trigger." He beamed with the pride of the child, or the amateur, who has done something clever. "What do you think of it, Professor?"

"You managed very well, indeed. With this knowledge, I should feel rather uncomfortable sitting on the porch if I did not know you had taken all the precautions you mentioned. Playing with this hobby must give you considerable satisfaction, Judge."

"Yes, I get a great deal of joy out of it. But come, I am being selfish keeping you away from my other guests. They--"

He did not finish the sentence. He was once more reminded of the terrible pall of threatening gloom hanging over him and his comrades. The men sat in the large living-room chatting for a while. But it was forced. None of them could pretend that he was completely at ease.

Chapter VII

Jimmy decided to put a detailed account of the latest developments of the story on the wire in Lentone. He therefore asked Matthews to take him down in the sea sled. He could make better time that way than driving his own car over the plowed and unplowed fields that lay between the camp and the road.

But he did not telegraph his story. He found the small telegraph office besieged with a crowd of men and women, all clamoring for a wire. Jimmy grinned at the spectacle. It did not take the veteran newspaper man more than a glance to know it for what it was.

Three hours had elapsed between the time he telephoned his flash and the moment when he stepped into the small telegraph office in Newport. In those three hours, all the big and some of the little papers of the country had frantically wired their nearest correspondents to get busy.

From the North in Canada, from the South, East and West men and women began converging on the little town of Lentone, Vermont. A day later these local correspondents would be replaced by star reporters, special writers, feature writers, syndicate writers, novelists, and sob sisters.

Jimmy knew that within twenty-four hours every big newspaper in the country and every important press service would be represented.

Still grinning, he backed out of the telegraph office and hunted for the nearest public telephone. He found a repet.i.tion here of the condition he had met in the telegraph office. He had to walk six blocks before he came to a booth at which one or more persons were not awaiting their turn.

Forgotten now was any thought of enjoying himself in rest and recreation on his vacation. The newspaper man remains a newspaper man for a long time, only because he loves the game. And "game" is what the newspaper man who belongs, calls it. Those who do not belong get out of it sooner or later. On a big story he does not think of food, drink or hours. In the absorption of a big story he can and does continue without rest an unbelievable number of hours, subject himself to relentless physical strain. In doing so he enjoys it, as he does nothing else. He exemplifies perfectly the statement by the philosopher that there is no greater joy on earth than the one found in work. Hardly anyone, in any other occupation puts in the hours, the work, the loyalty for so little financial reward as does the newspaper man.

Jimmy's connection with his office was quickly made. Hite's few sentences were short, sharp, barking ones. Hite was keyed up to the highest pitch. By this time a call had gone out and he had enough men to handle all phases of the story. Hite gave some brief orders, made some caustic comment and switched the wire to Roy Heath's desk.

Even this individual's speech was not now the lazy drawl it habitually was. The tremendous scope of the story, the tense feverish activity on the part of Hite at the desk near him infected even Roy Heath.

Jimmy knew without being there that since the moment he had hung up the receiver on his first call, Hite and the rest of the staff had been in a frenzy of activity. Jimmy could picture it as though he were there, Hite barking orders to men and office boys at his elbow and at men and women perhaps hundreds and thousands of miles away. Jimmy could picture the stream of men and women and boys parading before his desk for orders. Jimmy could picture him perhaps talking into three telephones almost simultaneously; to the composing room, to a member of the staff somewhere in the Metropolitan area and to a correspondent many miles away.

Far and wide over the entire country, lapping over into foreign countries ranged the newspaper net that was thrown out for information. This information, arriving at the office, would be weeded out. The wheat would be separated from the chaff; the usable stuff would be licked into shape and Roy Heath and two other rewrite men would transform it into living, dramatic, racing, pulsating recital.

With only a faint trace of his lazy drawl, Roy said:

"All right, Jimmy, shoot it fast. Story waitin' for a new lead."

Jimmy poured into his ears the newest developments of the story; Professor Brierly's search and his conclusions. Jimmy concluded with:

"About the New York end now, Roy. About Schurman and Wrigley--"

"We're coverin' that, Jimmy. Schurman committed suicide, I guess, and about Wrigley, nothin' to that. He was drowned. He--"

At this point Jimmy interrupted. With a fair imitation of Professor Brierly's crisp, staccato, clear cut accents, with the perfectly astonishing memory for which James Hale was known, he said:

"Oh, yes? Not much question about Wrigley, the man who was found in the water at Bradley Beach, is there? All we know about him is that he was found dead in the water. Do you know that he was drowned? Of course you don't.

"And Schurman, the man who was reported to have committed suicide by hanging. All you know about that is that he was found hanging in his study, dead. Do you know that he died by hanging? Do you know that he was not dead before he was hung? If that is the case, if he was dead before he was hung, then, obviously he could not have hung himself. Perfectly astonishing to me, Mr. Heath, that a man who has followed your profession as long as you have should be so gullible. For that matter, do you know these men are really dead. We scientists--"

With surprising patience, Roy had listened to this burlesque. That was because Roy was one of the greatest rewrite men in the profession. Roy's quick mind had instantly grasped the thing that was behind this burlesque. At this point he interrupted.

"I get you, Professor. Too bad you can't be here yourself. But I promise that in a couple hours we'll know more about Schurman's and Wrigley's death. Swell tip, Jimmy. We'll go right after it.

That all?"

"Yep," said Jimmy, going back to character. "That's all, Roy, s'long. Oh, wait a minute, Roy. Schurman is at your end. Got any dope on that?"

"No, Jimmy, all we got is a flash. We're gettin' the details now.

He had engaged a plane to fly up to Higginbotham's camp, plannin'

to be there first thing in the mornin'. When he didn't come up to the airport, the pilot began telephonin'. Finally, about eight o'clock or so in the morning, an old woman who takes care of Schurman's apartment, came and found him hangin'. That's about all we got, Jimmy."