“Why do you—?” he stammered.  Then the wretch forced himself to be cool again.

“No, my young friend, I am sorry to say that that would not be practicable.  You see, a submarine craft is full of secrets.  Outside of our own crew none but officers of the Navy can be permitted to go below the platform deck of any of my boats.”

“Oh, well, then,” nodded the reporter, “the ‘Gazette’ can clamor for a naval board to be appointed to make the search, and at once.  That will serve the purpose as well, Mr. Rhinds—­and it will answer the most burning question that the public will want to ask.”

Then came the other reporters.  Rhinds saw them all, wore before them all the mask of wounded innocence, showed them all how easily they might allay all public suspicions.

Then, when the last reporter had departed, John Rhinds, feeling too weak to stand, sank down upon a sofa, covering his face with his hands.  Thus, for some time he lay, hardly giving signs of life.  His fright was great, indeed.

In striking this blow young Captain Jack Benson had struck far harder than he had even dreamed.

When Rhinds began to realize things once more he missed Fred Radwin—­Radwin, the seeming fugitive, who had run away from his foul leader at the first sound of a police voice.

Still, it was possible that Radwin was not far away.  Possible, also, that in this fact lay time greatest danger that had ever menaced Jack Benson.

CHAPTER XXI

JACK MEETS A HUMAN FACT, FACE TO FACE

There was no thought of dinner for John Rhinds that evening.

After the newspaper men had gone the artful schemer spent a long time in drafting two or three telegrams that he felt it necessary to send to members of his state’s Congressional delegation at Washington.

In the telegrams that were finally sent, the president of the Rhinds Submarine Company referred to himself as apparently the victim of a very clever but diabolical plot to ruin his company.  He asked the members of Congress for his state to see to it that he was given a full opportunity for justice.

“Justice?  Ugh!” muttered the old man, as he scanned one of his telegrams.  “Well—­er—­not if it means punishment!”

Hardly had he sent away these telegrams, and even as he was giving thought to sending down an order to have dinner served in his rooms, Rhinds received a telegram from the editor of a New York daily, asking for his version of the torpedo mystery.

From the wording of the telegram, it was plain that the story had gotten as far as New York, and that the editor regarded it as the big, sensational news story of the hour.

Groaning, Rhinds bent over to begin work on this new telegram that was demanded of him.  It proved to be a hard message to write.  Even while he worked over the difficult problem, a second telegram arrived, this from the editor of a Philadelphia morning paper.  Then came two from Boston.