on the look-out. And to that other man there also came a thought as to the wonders of electricity and the strange ends which it might be made to serve.
"That's their pass-word," Kestner was saying, "Che maestro avete? They always ask that question first."
Wilsnach was not a man of imagination. In his calling he contended, such things were a drawback. But as he stood watching that other man with the tiny receiver at his ear, the subordinate from the Paris Office was oddly impressed by the silent drama of the situation. He was conscious of a latent theatricality in Kestner's position as he sat there so quietly breaking through the reserve behind which their enemies had entrenched themselves. There, by means of a few delicate instruments and a couple of slender threads of copper, he was able to sit, like a god on Olympus, unseen and unheard, yet all the while listening to the petty talk and plans of the unsuspecting mortals below him.
Then all thought on the matter suddenly ended, for Kestner had leaned forward with a nervous jerk of the body.
"That's Morello!" he gasped, with his unseeing eyes fixed on the blank wall before him. There was silence for a while. Then Kestner spoke again.
"He's just said the Pannonia is due in Palermo harbour sometime to-morrow, and will sail again at midnight." He turned quickly to Wilsnach. "Where does that steamer come from?"
"She's a Cunarder, sailing from Trieste and Fiume. This is a port of call on her westbound trip."
