CHAPTER XVII THREE-THIRTY A.M.

Joseph Almer and Captain Woodhouse sat in the darkened and heavily blinded office-reception room of the Hotel Splendide. All the hotel had long since been put to bed, and the silence in the rambling house was audible. The hands of the Dutch clock on the wall were pointing to the hour of three-thirty.

Strain was on both the men. They spoke in monosyllables, and only occasionally. Almer's hand went out from time to time to lift a squat bottle of brandy from the table between them and pour a tiny glass brimful; he quaffed with a sucking noise. Woodhouse did not drink.

"It is three-thirty," the latter fretted, with an eye on the mottled clock dial.

"He will come," Almer assured. A long pause.

"This man Jaimihr—he is thoroughly dependable?" The man in uniform put the question with petulant bruskness.

"It is his passion—what we are to do to-night—something he has lived for—his religion. Nothing except judgment day could—— Hah!"

The sharp chirp of a telephone bell, a dagger of sound in the silence, broke Almer's speech. He bounded to his feet; but not so quickly as Woodhouse, who was across the room in a single stride and had the receiver to his ear.

"Well, well! Yes, this is the one you name." Woodhouse turned to Almer, and his lips framed the word Jaimihr. "Yes, yes; all is well—and waiting. Bishop? He is beyond interference—coming down the Rock—I did the work silently. What's that?" Woodhouse's face was tensed in strain; his right hand went to a breast pocket and brought out a pencil. With it he began making memoranda on the face of a calendar by his side.

"Seven turns—ah, yes—four to the left—correct." His writing hand was moving swiftly. "Press, one to the right. Good! I have it, and am off at once. Good-by!"

Woodhouse finished a line of script on the calendar face, hung up the receiver. He carefully tore the written notes from the calendar and put them into his pocket.

"Jaimihr says he has work to do at Government House and can not come down." Woodhouse turned to Almer and explained in rapid sentences. "But he's given me the combination—to Room D—over the wire, and now I'm off!"

Almer was all excitement now. He hovered lovingly about Woodhouse, patting him on the shoulder, giving him his helmet, mothering him with little cooing noises.

"Speed quickly, Nineteen Thirty-two! Up the Rock to the signal tower, Nineteen Thirty-two, to do the deed that will boom around the world. The switches—one pull, my brother, and the fatherland is saved to triumph over her enemies, victorious!"

"Right, Almer!" Woodhouse was moving toward the door. "In eight minutes history will be made. The minute you hear the blast, start for Spain. I will try to escape, but I doubt——"

A knock came at the barred front door—one knock, followed by three. Both men were transfixed. Almer, first to recover his calmness, motioned Woodhouse through the door to the dining-room. When his companion had disappeared, he stepped to the door and cautiously asked: "Who knocks?"

An answer came that caused him to shoot back the bolts and thrust out his head. A message was hurriedly whispered into his ear. The Splendide's proprietor withdrew his head and slipped the bolt home again. His face was a thundercloud as he summoned Woodhouse; his breath came in wheezy gasps.

"My Arab boy comes to the door just now to tell me of Louisa's fate; she has been arrested," he said.

"Come, Almer! I am going to the signal tower—there is still time for us to strike."

Out on to Waterport Street leaped Woodhouse, and the door closed behind him.