But, during the past few years, a new sensation had been added to
the life of the transatlantic traveler. The little floating
island is now attached to the world from which it was once quite
free. A bond united them, even in the very heart of the watery
wastes of the Atlantic. That bond is the wireless telegraph, by
means of which we receive news in the most mysterious manner. We
know full well that the message is not transported by the medium
of a hollow wire. No, the mystery is even more inexplicable, more
romantic, and we must have recourse to the wings of the air in
order to explain this new miracle. During the first day of the
voyage, we felt that we were being followed, escorted, preceded
even, by that distant voice, which, from time to time, whispered
to one of us a few words from the receding world. Two friends
spoke to me. Ten, twenty others sent gay or somber words of
parting to other passengers.
On the second day, at a distance of five hundred miles from the
French coast, in the midst of a violent storm, we received the
following message by means of the wireless telegraph:
"Arsene Lupin is on your vessel, first cabin, blonde hair, wound
right fore-arm, traveling alone under name of R.
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