their conversations, you know. Really. And as it happens . . . always on Tuesdays and Fridays at half-past ten in the evening. What did you say?”
Prokop had said nothing, but only rubbed his forehead.
“Well, on Tuesdays and Fridays. They call it disturbed conversations. Something begins to crackle in the telegraphists’ ears, and there we are; it’s enough to send the fellows off their heads. Sad, eh?” Mr. Carson removed his spectacles and began to clean them with extreme care. “To begin with . . . to begin with they thought it was magnetic storms or something of the sort. But when they found that its office hours were always Tuesday and Friday . . . to cut the story short, Marconi S.F. Transradio, and various Ministries of Posts and Marine, Commerce, the Interior and I don’t know what, have agreed to pay twenty thousand pounds sterling to the smart fellow who can find out the cause of it.” Mr. Carson replaced his spectacles and smiled broadly. “They think that there is some illegal station in existence which amuses itself by interfering with conversations on Tuesdays and Fridays. Rubbish! A secret station which uses up twenty kilowatts for a joke! Fi!” And Mr. Carson spat contemptuously.
“On Tuesdays and Fridays,” said Prokop, “that is, regularly . . .”
“Extraordinary, eh?” leered Mr. Carson. “I’ve got it written down: on Tuesday on such and such a date at ten thirty-five and so many seconds a disturbance at all stations from Reval onwards, and so on. And a certain amount of your Krakatit
