“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
aboard an ocean liner. Tuesday last—and this was the following Monday. If the fellow had caught the Mauretania he would already have reached New York. But she was jammed with people from the Olympic. No, he would have had to take some other and slower boat. But why suppose he was on a liner? Probably he was hiding in some quiet English village. Micky stopped checking up. Something made him feel dizzy. The air in the wireless house seemed strangely stuffy. There it was again:
“Earl - of - Roakby - reported - dead - from - pistol - shot - wound - at - Parsley - Croft - seat - of - Marquis - of - Varricks.”
There was a queer roaring in his ears, and he could not hear the man at Poldhu, try as he would. There must be something doing atmospherically. Then a drop of sweat fell from his forehead upon the pad.
“What’s the matter with me!” he wondered, as the cabin turned black for a moment. “There ’s nothing the matter with me!” he repeated, but his knees were shaking. With an effort he shut off his detector and fumbled for the door leading to the open air. For an in-64
