THE SEARCH RENEWED.
Harvey Hamilton was in the middle of an odd dream, in which a big
Irishman was swinging a tremendous hammer and bringing it down on
the top of his head with every stroke. The sentiment of wonder is
always absent in the visions which come to us in sleep, no matter
how incongruous they may be, but the youth came very near feeling
surprised at the thickness of a skull that could withstand so
terrific attacks.
By and by the slumber lifted and Harvey’s senses came back. He was
wide awake and conscious that some one was tapping gently outside.
He sprang out of bed and turned the key. As if automatically, the
door swung inward and revealed Detective Pendar in the dim gaslight.
He stepped within and secured the lock behind him.
“Sh!” he whispered; “I don’t think either of those men is in his
room, but we cannot be too careful.”
The night was so sultry that Harvey did not dress, but sat down on
the edge of the bed, his caller doing the same, near enough to be
touched with the outstretched hand. The time had come for the
officer to tell more than was his rule in circumstances of a
critical nature.
“How did you succeed?” asked the younger.
“It’s a fizzle so far,” was the reply; “I have inspected that cabin
in the woods, where you and I thought the little girl was held a
prisoner, but she is not there now and never has been there.”
And then he told his story to the astonished and disappointed
listener.
“Understand, no blame attaches to you,” the detective hastened to
add; “your mistake was natural and I could have made it as readily
as you.”
This was not strictly true. The picture which Bunk Johnson viewed
from the biplane would have been analyzed to the point of disclosing
the truth, had Pendar been the one who saw it.
“Then I suppose, you will give up the hunt?”
“By no means, but it must end one way or another before we are
twenty-four hours older.”
This assertion opened the way for the startling revelation that if
Grace Hastings was not recovered before the ensuing midnight, the
ransom would be paid by the officer, who had it waiting in the safe
of the hotel below stairs.
“Although you mistook the place where the gang are holding her,”
added the man, “you came near it. Did either you or your colored
friend notice any other house in the woods when you were sailing
over them?”
“I gave my attention to the management of the aeroplane after
observing the cabin, and could easily have passed several dwellings
without seeing them. Bunk spoke of no other, though it is possible
he saw one.”
“I have information which cannot be questioned that the spot we are
looking for is not far from the home of Uncle Tommy Waters the
weather prophet. Had my investigation been made by daylight, I
should have pushed it farther, but I was helpless at night. You will
have to make another search as soon as it is daylight.”
“I am eager to do what I can, but you must tell me how.”
“Is your negro capable of running your aeroplane?”
“He can when the conditions are favorable, as they promise to be
to-morrow; I shouldn’t be willing to trust him otherwise.”
“Good! let him handle the levers then, while you occupy the aluminum
chair and give your efforts to spying out the land.”
“Shall we follow the same course as before?”
“Substantially so; he will keep the speed just high enough to
sustain you at an altitude of say five hundred feet. You understand
that the closer you are to the ground, the narrower is your field of
vision, so you will keep far enough aloft to gain an extended
survey, and yet not so high that you will lose distinctness of view.
I notice that you carry a field glass.”
“Yes; it is of German make and the best in the world; our government
sells them only to its army and navy officers; mine belongs to one
who is a relative, and who has loaned the instrument to me for life,
I making a suitable money acknowledgment therefor.”
This pleasant little fictional arrangement explains how it is that
some of these fine instruments are in the hands of civilians.
“You are not likely to need the glasses on this trip.”
“Hardly; the heights from which I am to make the search are so
moderate that my eyes will require no help.”
“Then will you loan them to me?”
“With pleasure.”
The detective explained the use to which he expected to put the
binoculars.
“I shall take a position that will give me an extended survey over
the woods without drawing notice to myself, and after you are fairly
started on your aerial voyage, I do not intend to lose sight of
you.”
“If I discover the place you have in mind, how shall I let you know
it?”
“By signal.”
“_They_ will be likely to see it.”
“Not likely but certain; therefore the message must be of a nature
that will not rouse suspicion on their part.”
Harvey could not forbear asking an explanation at this point.
“You said that if your visit to the cabin had been made by daylight,
you would have gone farther. Why not do so in the morning?”
“I should if time permitted. You understand that without your aid I
should have to make a hunt through the woods. This would not only
consume time but would surely be discovered by some of the gang on
the lookout. That is why I have refrained and waited for an
opportunity to present itself. When you locate the exact spot—and I
am sure you will do so—I can go straight to it.”
“Will you not be watched?”
“Quite likely, but I can push on in spite of that. Let us get back
to the important point of how you are to let me know of your
success. The simplest thing is—I’m blessed if I know,” said the
detective, after slight hesitation, with a laugh; “help me out.”
That which at first seemed an insignificant matter threatened to
become insurmountable. Pendar’s first suggestion was that when
Harvey made his discovery he should swing his cap over his head, but
such a signal would be instantly noticed by the kidnappers, who
would accept it as a menace.
“Suppose I tell Bunk to swoop downward as if about to make a
landing.”
“That would be fully as bad, for the scoundrels would think it was
meant to gain a clearer view of them.”
“If we sail upward?”
“That’s it! They can give no meaning to such a manœuver. When you
are sure of what you see, direct your servant to go upward at the
sharpest angle possible. I shall be the only one who will know what
the movement means.”
“It seems to me,” added the youth thoughtfully, “that those two
Italians who are stopping at the hotel must begin to suspect you.”
“Not as yet; I count myself fortunate that I have thrown them off
the scent completely. There is no doubt of that, though it looks as
if there will be a waking up before to-morrow night.”
“You have played your part with skill, Mr. Pendar.”
“I’ll not deny that I feel some pride over my work thus far; but,
all the same, I have as yet accomplished nothing, and it is by no
means certain that I shall do anything more than pay a set of
criminals fifty thousand dollars to give back the child they have
stolen.”
At this point Harvey recalled the other matters that had slipped his
mind during his previous talk with the detective.
“You know, Mr. Pendar, that since Bunk and I started on our little
sail through the upper regions, we have several times run across a
curious character called Professor Milo Morgan.”
“I know him well; he is a crank of the first order.”
“He was friendly at first and did me a great favor when I was in
danger of being mobbed, but it is hard to forgive one of his acts.”
“What was that?”
“Wrecking my aeroplane, by chopping and battering it to pieces when
it was housed under the sheds of this hotel.”
The detective rose from the side of the bed and stood upright in the
gloom in front of his young friend.
“What in the name of the seven wonders put _that_ fancy into your
head?”
“Why,” replied Harvey hesitatingly, not expecting such an implied
contradiction; “it couldn’t have been any one else.”
“Well, it _was_ some one else; Professor Morgan had no more to do
with destroying your biplane than King George V.”
The amazed Harvey stared in astonishment.
“Bunk saw him sneaking out of the back of the shed early in the
morning, when he went to look at the machine.”
“Did the Professor have an axe or hatchet in his hand?”
“I believe not.”
“Having told you what he did _not_ do, can you now form an idea of
what he _did_ do?”
“I suppose he went off in that marvelous monoplane of his.”
“But previous to that?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea.”
“He went to the telegraph office as soon as it was open, and sent
your father a long message, giving the particulars of your
misfortune. Your father, like the good fellow he is, immediately
ordered a new machine, which reached you this morning.”
“I am amazed and gratified,” replied Harvey; “the first chance I
have I shall apologize to Professor Morgan.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“He will know that you have been idiot enough to suspect him.”
“But, Mr. Pendar, do you know who did destroy my machine?”
“Don’t you?”
“I have no suspicion.”
“Well, I shall leave you to solve one of the simplest problems that
was ever submitted to a ten-year old child. I was so certain you
knew the truth at once, that I didn’t think it worth while to make
any reference to it when we next spoke together.”