As nearly as I could gather from the one-sided conversations I heard and the remarks which Kennedy dropped, the Chicago post-office inspectors were still searching for a trace of the package from Atlantic City which was to reveal the identity of the man who had passed the bogus checks and sold the forged certificates of stock.  Somewhere in that great city was a photograph of the promoter and of the woman who was aiding him to escape, taken in Atlantic City and sent by mail to Chicago.  Who had received it?  Would it be found in time to be of use?  What would it reveal?  It was like hunting for a needle in a haystack, and yet the latest reports seemed to encourage Kennedy with the hope that the authorities were at last on the trail of the secret office from which the stock had been sold.  He was fuming and wishing that he could be at both ends of the line at once.

“Any word from Chicago yet?” appealed an anxious voice from the doorway.

We turned.  There were Carroll and Williams who had come for us with an automobile to go over to watch at the wharf in Brooklyn for our man.  It was Carroll who spoke.  The strain of the suspense was telling on him and I could readily imagine that he, like so many others who had never seen Kennedy in action, had not the faith in Craig’s ability which I had seen tested so many times.

“Not yet,” replied Kennedy, still busy about his apparatus on the table.  “I suppose you have heard nothing?”

“Nothing since my note of last night,” returned Williams impatiently.  “Our detectives still insist that Bolton Brown is the man to watch, and the disappearance of Adele DeMott at this time certainly looks bad for him.”

“It does, I admit,” said Carroll reluctantly.  “What’s all this stuff on the table?” he asked, indicating the magnets, rolls, and clockwork.

Kennedy did not have time to reply, for the telephone bell was tinkling insistently.

“I’ve got Chicago on the wire,” Craig informed us, placing his hand over the transmitter as he waited for long-distance to make the final connection. ’"I’ll try to repeat as much of the conversation as I can so that you can follow it.  Hello—­yes—­this is Kennedy.  Is that you, Clark?  It’s all arranged at this end.  How’s your end of the line?  Have you a good connection?  Yes?  My synchroniser is working fine here, too.  All right.  Suppose we try it.  Go ahead.”

As Kennedy gave a few final touches to the peculiar apparatus on the table, the cylindrical drum before us began slowly to revolve and the stylus or needle pressed down on the sensitised paper with which the drum was covered, apparently with varying intensity as it turned.  Round and round the cylinder revolved like a graphophone.

“This,” exclaimed Kennedy proudly, “is the ‘electric eye,’ the telelectrograph invented by Thorne Baker in England.  Clark and I have been intending to try it out for a long time.  It at last makes possible the electric transmission of photographs, using the telephone wires because they are much better for such a purpose than the telegraph wires.”