Isis is somewhere ahead, but I've spoken to all these, and the message
comes from none of them."

"Then it may come from Messina."

"It doesn't come from Messina," replied the man at the table,
beginning to write rapidly.

Platts stepped forward and bent over the message which the other was
writing.

"Here it is!" he cried, excitedly; "we're getting it."

Stepping in turn to the table, I leaned over between the two and read
these words as the operator wrote them down:

Dr. Petrie--my shadow . . .

I drew a quick breath and gripped Platts' shoulder harshly. His
assistant began fingering the instrument with irritation.

"Lost it again!" he muttered.

"This message," I began . . .

But again the pencil was traveling over the paper:

--lies upon you all . . . end of message.

The operator stood up and unclasped the receivers from his ears.