"Well?" asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his
visitor.

For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly
above his head.

"You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister," he cried. "I'm
bringing home the bacon at last."

"The signals?"

"Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore,
lamp code, Marconi--a copy, mind you, not the original. That was
too dangerous. But it's the real goods, and you can lay to
that." He slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough
familiarity from which the other winced.

"Come in," he said. "I'm all alone in the house. I was only
waiting for this. Of course a copy is better than the original.
If an original were missing they would change the whole thing.
You think it's all safe about the copy?"

The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long
limbs from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with
clear-cut features and a small goatee beard which gave him a
general resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-
smoked, sodden cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he
sat down he struck a match and relit it. "Making ready for a
move?" he remarked as he looked round him. "Say, mister," he