"You must calm yourself, monsieur," said T. B., speaking in French; "begin at the beginning, for as yet my friend and myself are entirely in the dark. What is N.H.C., and what does it mean?"
It was some time before the man could be brought to a condition of coherence. The editor pushed him gently to the settee that ran the length of the bay window of his office.
"Wait," said the journalist, and unlocking a drawer, he produced a silver flask.
The man raised the brandy to his lips with a hand that shook violently, and drank eagerly.
"C'est bien," he muttered, and looked from one to the other.
"I tell you this story because I am afraid to go to the police--they are watching the police office----"
"In the first place, who are you?" demanded T. B.
"As to who and what I am," said the stranger, nodding his head to emphasise his words, "it would be better that I should remain silent."
"I do not see the necessity," said the detective calmly. "So far as I can judge from what information I have, you are a French soldier--an engineer. You are a wireless telegraph operator, and your post of duty is on the Eiffel Tower."
The man stared at the speaker, and his jaw dropped.
"Hyatt was also a wireless operator; probably in the employ of the Marconi Company in the west of England. Between you, you surprised the secret of a mysterious agency which employs wireless installations to communicate with its agents. What benefits you yourself may have derived from your discovery I cannot say. It is certain that Hyatt, operating through Moss, made a small fortune; it is equally certain that, detecting a leakage, the 'Nine Men' have sent a clever agent to discover the cause----"
But the man from the Eiffel Tower had fainted.
"I shall rely on you to keep the matter an absolute secret until we are ready," said T. B., and the editor nodded. "The whole scheme came to me in a flash. The Eiffel Tower! Who lives on the Eiffel Tower? Wireless telegraph operators. Our friend is recovering."
He looked down at the pallid man lying limply in an armchair.
"I am anxious to know what brings him to London. Fright, I suppose. It was the death of Moss that brought Hyatt, the killing of Hyatt that produced Monsieur Escoltier."