odour filled the closed room, strangely like the smell of summer air after a thunder-storm. The rapt and wistful eyes of the woman watched him as he worked, touched into wonder before the inscrutable, humbled into momentary amazement by the unfathomable mystery of Hertzian waves.
"Thank God!" he cried, "it's Guariqui!"
"Guariqui!" echoed the woman.
He silenced her sharply, for he had his ear at his phone again, and was once more working nervously over his tuning-box.
"We've lost them," he murmured dejectedly.
"Are you sure?" she whispered, out of the silence that followed.
"We've lost them both!" he almost groaned. The whir of the fan and the breathing of the two listeners was the only sound in the cabin. The quietness again seemed like an up-piling breaker that refused to fall and retreat. The woman stirred uneasily.
"Wait!" cried McKinnon, with suddenly inclined head. His face, now seamed with runnels of sweat, was drawn and the jaw muscles were set and knotted. He jerked a nervous hand to ward the droning fan, peevishly, as though its presence were a personal affront to him.
"Shut off that fan," he commanded.
The woman rose without a word and shut it
