“I wish you’d send this message right away to Washington,” he said, handing in a blank he had already written.

The clerk checked it over: 

  U. S. War department, Washington, D. C.

   Wire me immediately photograph and personal history
   of Martin arrested two years ago as head of Anti-
   American League.—­Arnold.

As the message was ticked off, Arnold attached his receiving telaphotograph instrument to another wire.

It was a matter scarcely of seconds before a message was flashed back to Arnold from Washington: 

Martin escaped from Fort Leavenworth six months
ago.  Thought to be in Europe.  Photograph follows.

Edwards.

“Very well,” nodded Arnold with satisfaction.  “I think I know what is going on here now.  Let us wait for the photograph.”

He went over to the new selenium telaphotograph and began adjusting it.

Far away, in Washington, in a room in the War Department where Arnold had already installed his system for the secret government service, a clerk was also working over the sending part of the apparatus.

No sooner had the clerk finished his preparations and placed a photograph in the transmitter than the buzzing of the receiver which Arnold had installed announced to him that the marvellous transmission of a picture over a wire, one of the very newest triumphs of science, was in progress.  In the little telegraph office of the St. Germain, the clerks and operators crowded about Arnold, watching breathlessly.

“By Jove, it works!” cried one, no longer sceptical.

Slowly a print was being evolved before their eyes as if by a spirit hand.  Arnold watched the synchronizer apparatus carefully as, point after point, the picture developed.  He bent over closely, his attention devoted to every part of the complicated apparatus.

At last the transmission of the photograph was completed and the machine came to rest.  Arnold almost tore the print from the receiver and held it up to examine it.

A smile of intense satisfaction crossed his face.

“At last!” he muttered.

There was a photograph of the man who had been identified with the arch conspirators of two years before, Martin.  Only, now he had changed his name and appeared in a new role.

It was Marcus Del Mar!

. . . . . . .

Already, in the library of his bungalow, Del Mar had summoned one of his trusted men and was talking to him, when Henry, the valet, reentered after his trip to see us.

“They’re coming as soon as they can,” he reported.

Del Mar smiled a cynical smile.  “Good,” he exclaimed triumphantly, then, looking about at the electric fixtures, added to the man, “Let us see where to install the thing.”

He walked over to the door and put his hand on the knob, then pointed back at the fixtures.