The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dangerous Deeds, by Frank Cobb This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Dangerous Deeds The Flight in the Dirigible Author: Frank Cobb Release Date: May 1, 2014 [EBook #45546] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANGEROUS DEEDS *** Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Lawrence went through the secret manoeuvers but there was no response and he found his anxiety growing. AVIATOR SERIES VOLUME 3 DANGEROUS DEEDS OR THE FLIGHT IN THE DIRIGIBLE BY CAPTAIN FRANK COBB THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY CHICAGO AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK Copyright, MCMXXVII, by THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY AVIATOR SERIES 1 BATTLING THE CLOUDS, Or, For a Comrade’s Honor 2 AN AVIATOR’S LUCK, Or, The Camp Knox Plot 3 DANGEROUS DEEDS, Or, The Flight in the Dirigible Made in U. S. A. DANGEROUS DEEDS CHAPTER I A heavy fog pressed down upon the city of Washington. To the boy watching it from the vantage point of the window in the top floor of the apartment in which he stood, it spread as mysterious and as sodden as a flood, enveloping streets, parks, houses, indeed all but the tops of the highest structures, the domes and roofs of public buildings and spires of churches, and here and there a dark, drowned mass of foliage. The apartment stood on a height and as the boy looked he saw a glow in the east, followed quickly by thin banners of red and orange. Then the Sun rose and turned the domes and spires swimming on the sea of mist into fairy flotillas wrought of pearl and gold. Just as a churned and angry tide swirls into some still cove and seems to melt and dissolve into transparency, the opaque- fog slowly vanished. Buildings and statues seemed to lift themselves out of it and finally, broad and placid in the desertion of dawn, the streets themselves appeared, winding here and there in the wonderful curves designed by the master-mind which make Washington one of the beauty spots of the world. Because he had looked down on most of the cities of the world, because, young as he was, he had seen thrilling shy views of towers and spires and mosques and temples lifting under many skies, the boy stood looking at the beautiful Capitol of his native land with a swelling heart. Suddenly from somewhere, everywhere, nowhere came a faint, peculiar humming. Louder and louder it grew. The boy flung open the window and, leaning far out, scanned the cloudless sky with practiced gaze. Far away in the west appeared a thing of wings and sound flying far above those other birds, the troubled buzzards, that dipped and swayed and hung so easily in the invisible tides of the air. As the boy watched, another and still another airplane appeared, close in the wake of the first, until eleven of them, all light biplanes, dashed headlong across the sky. Then, their pace slackening somewhat, they formed in twos and again strung out to compose the wide V of migrating geese. The eleventh plane detached itself from the others which now swung wide and swept around in a graceful circle, while the single one, an instruction plane, commanded the manoeuvers by means of wireless telegraphy. Twice the ten planes circled. Then the leader, turning sharply, led the others in the direction of Mount Vernon until they vanished. The single plane, lazy as the buzzards below, hung almost motionless, waiting, effortless and serene, until once more with a faint hum the planes returned, lined up and hung at attention for a moment, when the instruction plane turned and in a wild rush of speed led its charges away in the direction whence they had come. Not until distance had stilled the final hum of the last motor did the boy realize that he was clinging precariously to the hard granite facing outside the window, while leaning far out, too far out for safety even for a young aviator who felt no dread of falling. “A great bunch of students,” he reflected, withdrawing and turning to look at the room in which he stood. It was the usual “beautifully furnished bachelor apartment” of commerce. Wall paper dark, in order not to show soil, odds and ends of well- worn, not to say shabby mission furniture, a table, chairs, a desk with a soiled blotter firmly skewered down on its flat top, a crex rug. Beyond was a small bedroom, and out of that any sleuth of a de-tec-a-tive would have guessed there was a bathroom if he had taken time to listen to the mournful drip, drip of a leaky faucet. Lawrence Petit looked the bare, unpretentious, unhomelike room over with a smile. He had never been so “well fixed,” as he said, but he did not approve. Like everything else, the apartment was an incident, a stepping-stone to something better. He went to his suitcase and took out a pocket portfolio and with a look of distaste at the soiled blotter, sat down at the table, tried his fountain pen and commenced to write. And while he is busy, we will glance at the past of the young aviator. His own beginning he did not know. His first remembrance was of a sordid, poverty-stricken cabin where, with a group of other children, he played and quarrelled and starved, and where a slatternly woman gloomed or passed from one screaming rage into another until quieted by a black bottle brought her by an evil looking, leering man at whose approach all the children scattered and hid themselves. The children, when they spoke to the woman at all, called her Moll. Lawrence could not remember a time when the question of his parentage had occurred to him. At this period of his life he was little more than a healthy little animal, content to sleep and play and fight for the scanty food he was given, and, that failing, to steal from the more fortunate neighbors. In the woodshed, back of the shanty, a lean-to scarcely worse than the house itself, stood a broken-down bureau crammed with odds and ends of rags and clothing too unspeakable for use. In this one day, while Moll was digging through its confusion, she chanced on a worn, black shopping bag. She tossed it to Lawrence, known wholly at that time as Snooks. “That’s yourn,” she said. “You keep a-hold of that and don’t let those kids git it.” Then on second thought she snatched it away from the child and hung it on a rafter far out of his reach. For a little it tantalized him, then it was forgotten until a memorable morning when the welfare worker appeared with a couple of officers, a patrol wagon and an ambulance. Into the ambulance Moll was hurried, to the children’s amazement. They had failed to distinguish the ravings of fever from the outcries attending the frequent visitation of the black bottle. The dark man had disappeared. As the welfare worker rounded the reluctant children into the patrol wagon, Snooks ran back and with a long stick knocked down the handbag. “What’s that?” asked the welfare lady. “It’s mine,” said Snooks in his hoarse, unchildish voice. “Moll she give it to me and said to keep it because it’s mine.” The welfare worker scented one of the strange clues that often lie hidden for so long before they appear to clear up a mystery, but the bag, a very shabby, cheap affair, held nothing but a small photograph wrapped up in a piece of newspaper, and on another piece that had evidently been about some small change as the shape of the money still marked the scrap, was the name Lawrence, written over and over as though to try a pen point. Snooks was put in a home and once more the bag passed out of his possession into the keeping of the authorities who had him in charge. A name was needed, and Snooks was asked to find one for himself, a feat he was incapable of doing. So one of the teachers, remembering the scrap of paper, called him Lawrence and added Petit as the child was so very small. So Snooks, dirty, unkempt and blankly ignorant, became Lawrence Petit, a ward of the city of Louisville. Bathed, clipped, and neatly clad, the boy changed almost at once. He seemed possessed by an overpowering ambition. He learned rapidly,—so rapidly that he forged ahead of all his classmates. Lectures on health and strength that bored the other children held him spellbound. He became quick and wiry as a cat, with lean limbs and perfectly trained muscles. As time passed, he heard stories of homes and of mothers and fathers that filled him with sick longing, but finally he accepted his fate and as he grew older made up his mind that he must remain Lawrence Petit, with no people, no home, no age, no past; just a nameless waif in an orphanage. Two great passions consumed the boy. He was bound to fly; he was bound to succeed in life. If any of us want a thing badly enough and long enough, we always find that we are given a chance to get it. There was a young teacher in the Home who spent much time with Lawrence and made it possible for him to read everything that was written about airplanes and balloons and all sorts of aircraft. When an aircraft factory was started in Louisville to supply the growing demands for private machines, this teacher secured employment for Lawrence, and soon he was dismissed from the Home as perfectly able to care for himself. With him went the shabby bag; and now for the first time the boy took time to look at its contents. He had had no desire to do so before. He looked long at the scrap with the name Lawrence scrawled over it, and the other scrap around the photograph he read carefully, but evidently it had been torn from the advertising page of a newspaper and had to do with “Help Wanted, Female.” The picture was that of a most beautiful young woman. Perfect features and masses of glorious hair made the face seem almost unreal, but its chief charm was the look of happiness that filled it. “Who can she be?” the boy Lawrence asked himself. She did not seem over fifteen or sixteen years of age. Lawrence put the bag and its contents back in his trunk but could not forget the lovely, laughing face. He buckled down to work with a new ambition. Past he had none. He determined to make for himself a future that he could be proud of. And because he had no one, actually no one in the whole world to call his own, he adopted the picture for his “folks.” He never named her sister or mother; he just worked for her and looked at her when the way seemed hard. As time passed he developed a perfectly amazing sense of balance and direction, coupled with more common sense than falls to the lot of most, and one day he left the factory and went out to the nearest aviation field as assistant mechanician. From this he rose by bounds until he was accounted the best airman on the field. After he found that most of his time was to be spent far above the earth, he commenced to worry about the picture. What if his things should be burned up? What if the picture should be stolen? So, cutting a piece of cardboard the exact size, he went down and bought a leather pocket case in which he placed the picture, and always after that he wore it buttoned securely in his pocket. He felt better then; his “folks” were with him. Back of the picture he placed the two scraps of paper, and with this frail safeguard spread his wings and took flight courageously toward the goal he had set for himself. Five years had passed since the signing of the Armistice and many of the wounds of that unforgettable war had healed. Many things had happened, both in America and abroad. Aircraft had changed both in nature and construction. Mufflers were in widespread use, indeed were required by law, and now the wing-filled sky did not rattle and reverberate with the roar of engines unless on special class or instruction work. Traffic machines went with silent, steady directness along their uncharted courses, while dainty troops of pleasure craft flitted everywhere, their brightly painted wings and hulls glistening in the sun. To Lawrence Petit the upper air seemed his home. He remained on the earth only so long as it was positively necessary; and now, writing busily on his tablet, he felt that he was on the eve of an adventure which promised to carry him higher and farther than any which he had yet attempted. He referred to the letter before him. It was long and typewritten on handsome paper. Hamilton Ridgeway, the writer, was one of the greatest powers in the United States. It was in obedience to his summons that Lawrence had come to Washington and was now waiting impatiently for the hour of his interview with the great man. Young as he was, Lawrence had learned to respect that powerful personality who numbered the kings and princes of the earth as his friends, who handled millions as other men handle pennies, who always stood ready to finance any great national undertaking, yet who was so simple and kindly that he never failed to send back a cheery hello to the newsie who happened to know and speak his name. Hamilton Ridgeway had been told of the remarkable feats of the young aviator, and with his shrewd ability to pick men he was about to interview the boy to see of what material he was really made. It was an ordeal that would have made most boys so nervous that they would have appeared ill at ease, but Lawrence, as he noted that it was almost time to start for his appointment, calmly put up his writing, brushed his hair, glanced at his wrist watch, and seeing that he still had five minutes to spare, sat down by the window and opened the pocket case. Long and tenderly he gazed at the pictured face. “I will do the very best I know, just for you,” he said, smiling back at it. “I don’t suppose I will ever know who you are, but we belong to each other somehow, don’t we? And I am going to make good just so I can always like to look at you. Gee, you are sweet! You must be old enough to be my mother because you have looked just like you do now ever since I first saw you back there at Moll’s. Too bad she died! I always thought she could have told me something about you, you Pretty, but I reckon I will never get to know any more of you than I do now.” He shook his head sadly. “You are so pretty,” he murmured. “A fellow would do anything for a mother like you; live clean and keep straight, and work his head off besides, to make you proud of him. Tell you what I will do, Pretty. I am going to make believe that you are waiting for me somewhere, and I have got to make good before we meet. How’s that? A bargain?” he smiled back at the smiling pictured eyes and, placing the case carefully in his pocket, put on his hat and overcoat and started off to meet Mr. Ridgeway. CHAPTER II A little later, sitting in the plain but convenient office opposite the great man he had come to see, Lawrence was impressed by the power and force in the steady eyes that looked so straight into his own, and in the kind mouth and forceful broad brow saw a promise of clean dealing and deep wisdom. “I cannot get over my surprise at your youth,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “It seems a foolish procedure to give such a great enterprise into the hands of a boy like you. Are you sure,” he added, laughing, “that you have not a father or brother to whom I should be talking?” “No, sir; I am the one you sent for,” replied Lawrence. “I have been fooling with airplanes and balloons ever since I graduated from kites.” “How old are you?” asked Mr. Ridgeway. “I don’t know, sir,” said Lawrence, a flush mounting to his brow. “I am a waif. I do not know my own name, or my age. I was taken from one of the worst parts of the city to the Home where I was partly brought up. I have no hope of ever finding anyone belonging to me.” “Have you no clues?” asked Mr. Ridgeway. “I fear not, sir,” he replied. “At least they are too slight to be considered. I speak of this because I think you ought to know that whatever becomes of me, there is no one to rejoice and no one to grieve.” “I am sorry,” said Mr. Ridgeway simply. “Yet for my purpose, that simplifies everything. You will embark on a desperate enterprise if you attempt what I have in mind for you to do. And I cannot tell you, indeed I cannot guess the outcome. It depends largely on your own daring, caution and ability. Your youth is your best safeguard because no one would ever believe you to be embarked on anything like this.” “I am willing to take the risks,” said Lawrence simply. “Then you may try it,” decided the great man. “I believe there were two other men coming to see me this morning on this same errand. Step into my private office until I see them. Perhaps one or both will do to work in as mechanicians.” Still in the dark as to what Mr. Ridgeway wanted him to undertake, Lawrence was about to go into the other room when a clerk rapped on the outer door and entered without waiting for a summons. His face was pale, and his eyes rolled wildly. “M- m-m-ister Ridgeway, sir,” he stuttered, “those two gentlemen who were waiting outside for you, they are both asleep.” “Both what?” asked Mr. Ridgeway sharply. “Both asleep, and we can’t wake either of them.” “Drugged!” exclaimed Mr. Ridgeway, glancing at Lawrence. “Come on, you may as well see this thing out before you decide to cast your fortune in such dangerous places.” He rushed to the door, followed by Lawrence and the agitated clerk. On a broad settee in the waiting-room two men were sprawled. Mr. Ridgeway took one keen glance at their pallid faces and half closed lids, between which their pupils, contracted to pin points, glared strangely. “Drugged!” he said again. Then stepping to the telephone, he called the office of the great building and asked sharply, “Office, is the house doctor there? Ask him to come to Mr. Ridgeway’s office, nineteenth floor, immediately.” He returned to the settee, where the men still sprawled. “Lay them flat on the floor,” he ordered. Scarcely had this been done when the doctor, a small, keen young man, entered with a little bag in his hand. His sharp eyes swept the group and he nodded to Mr. Ridgeway as he hastened to the two men on the floor and dropped on one knee beside them. “Drugged,” he said, glancing up. “I thought so,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “They couldn’t get enough whiskey in as dry a land as this is now to affect them like this. Besides, their pupils; do you see them?” “Contracted to nothing,” said Doctor Lansing. He prepared a hypodermic needle and made an injection in each left forearm. “If there is no response of the heart action after fifteen minutes,” he said, “I will know that they are suffering from one of the three newly discovered anesthetics which are so deadly in the hands of a criminal.” “Don’t you think we had better get them to the hospital at once?” asked Mr. Ridgeway. “Not until the fifteen minutes pass,” said the doctor. “If the needle takes effect, they will be all right in an hour or two; at least they could be taken home, but if it is the other, we will have a long tussle with them.” “Well, this settles one thing,” said Mr. Ridgeway decidedly. “We have had every office building in this and every other large city supplied with house physicians for the last three years, but another law must be made requiring every building over a certain size to equip a hospital room for first-aid.” “It would be a great thing,” said Doctor Lansing, his keen eyes on his two patients, “both for the patients and the doctors. I have had to send many a sufferer home or to the hospital when some slight surgical or electrical care would have finished the matter within a short time, and with a great deal less suffering.” He took out his stethoscope, listened to each heart, and rose. “Well, Mr. Ridgeway, these men are suffering from administration, by themselves or others, of one of the new poisons. Do you know who they are?” “Yes,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “I can tell you about them, but first get them to the hospital.” He called for an ambulance, and as soon as he had seen the unconscious victims of an unknown villain’s dastard hand carried away, he turned and beckoned Lawrence to follow him into his private office. Sinking down in his chair, he passed a hand through the thick masses of grey hair and sighed. “There you have it, Lawrence,” he said. “I don’t believe I understand,” replied Lawrence. “Sit down then,” said Mr. Ridgeway, “and I will explain.” “In the first place,” he commenced, “young as you are, you must have felt the dangerous mood the whole world is in. Of course the adjustment after a world war necessarily takes several generations. But to us who happen to be on hand during that adjustment comes the task of hurrying the thing along as much as we possibly can. For this comes the need for absolutely safe transportation of papers, messages and money. Often, too, there is the need for the transportation of millions of dollars’ worth of jewels—jewels enough to ransom whole principalities, let alone a king or two. “We have worked this thing out with the greatest difficulty, trying one method after another, sending our papers in disguised packages, with trusted messengers, and using the most intricate codes. But all the time there are leaks. For instance, a short time ago a message to the King of Morania, sent under a triplicate code, that is, a code that must be translated three times, was intercepted and only the fact that it was a false message sent to try out a new system kept us from the brink of a fresh war. “These things are only known to the inner circles, you understand. It would not do to frighten and agitate the public with intimate affairs of state. But we absolutely must find a means of transportation that is as free from danger, free from spies and thieves, as it is possible to invent. “As a last resort, we are going to make use of the dirigible. This of course is where you come in. “In my private business I have used planes, hydroplanes and one or two dirigibles and as they are well known to be used exclusively for passenger and freight service, they have never been interfered with in any way. I am not known to be working with the government, and my one hope was that we could take the new dirigible that has just been completed for me and make use of it for the transportation of these priceless documents that mean so much to the peace of the world. “What has happened this morning troubles me more than I can tell you. Someone suspects us, or else those two men are the victims of a private enemy.” The telephone bell jingled. Mr. Ridgeway lifted the receiver and adjusted the delicate needle point on the desk pad by means of which all telephone conversations were recorded, a new invention which Lawrence had heard of but had not seen. Mr. Ridgeway listened with a frown darkening his brow. “I will be right out,” he said finally, and replaced the receiver. “Well, the new dirigible was wrecked in the night,” he said. “That looks like business! Come on; we will go out and look the ground over. That is, if you care to cast your lot with such a dangerous game.” “Of course,” said Lawrence simply. “I shall enjoy it.” “Good!” said Mr. Ridgeway. “We will draw up the necessary papers this afternoon. I want you on your past record as an airman, and your youth is a good safeguard to you. Also you are not afraid. Your duties will be whatever the moment calls for. You may have to drive the car, you may be simply a passenger, a messenger, or a boy idling around the hangars. I want you to be ears and eyes and hands and brain for me. Rather a large order? Well, you will be paid well for it.” He paused and then named a sum that made Lawrence catch his breath, so large was it. “All our transactions are confidential,” he said. Entering a small but perfect roadster, Mr. Ridgeway drove rapidly out of the city to the aviation field, where he found a group of excited men around the new dirigible. Well guarded as the place evidently was, someone had entered in the night and completely destroyed the delicate machinery. The propellers too were unscrewed, and the blades hacked. Lawrence was shocked, and the men around were furious. It rather reflected on their care when such an outrage could occur inside of an area where watchmen were supposed to patrol incessantly. Mr. Ridgeway, however, showed no signs of anger. He ordered an investigation and told the head mechanician to see what could be done with the wreck. Then, pleasant as ever, he drove back to the city. “I am certainly glad that happened,” he said as they left the field behind. “Glad?” said Lawrence in astonishment. “Glad? Why, it seems terrible to me!” “Not at all,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “The point is this. Now we know that we are suspected. We know that this spying is a serious matter. The knowledge arms us. As for the dirigible—” he paused, and to Lawrence’s amazement laughed a merry, whole-souled laugh as though the loss of a machine worth many thousands of dollars was a matter of no consequence at all. “Being my right hand man, Lawrence, I will tell you a secret,” he said after a moment. “That dirigible was not as new as it looked. It was an assembled machine, made up of about a dozen old ones that had been picked up here and there. I took good care, however, that all the papers held long accounts of the wonderful new machine that was being built for Hamilton Ridgeway, and as I own a lot of the papers, I assure you the accounts were glowing. Well, whoever tackled that bunch of junk in the night was unable to use more than a small glow from a pocket flash, so, as all the brass work was carefully polished and every part looked spick and span, there was no way for even a tried machinist to tell that the dirigible was not just what had been so widely advertised and photographed: Hamilton Ridgeway’s new dirigible for passenger service and light commercial enterprises.” He laughed again. Then as though from force of habit he looked over his shoulder. “I declare, the only place I like to talk confidences is in a ten acre lot,” he said, “but there is no place for anyone to hang on behind here.” He leaned toward Lawrence. “The new machine, safe and sound last night at least, is back on the sand hills in New Jersey, south of Barnegat. Two fishing launches are there in the inlet, but under the tarpaulins are small but effective machine guns. The fishermen fooling around in them are not as peaceful as they look. They are secret service men. In a hut back on the rise of ground to the west three other fishermen are smoking and lounging. They too have badges under their smocks. So we fooled ’em this time anyway,” laughed the great man. Lawrence was silent. He felt the thrill of the old knight when he went galloping forth in quest of a dragon. This monster, threatening his country, was as dangerous and mysterious a dragon as any of the two- or ten-headed monsters that sent the fighting men of a long past age scouring over the downs and moors of merry old England. Being younger, he was not so much inclined to laugh as Mr. Ridgeway. He wondered where the leak was that made it so easy for the dragon to approach. Parking the car, they went to luncheon and then returned to Mr. Ridgeway’s office, where they found a thick-set man pacing the floor of the waiting-room and showing a good many signs of impatience. As they entered he walked quickly over to Mr. Ridgeway and said in a quick tone, “I tried to beat you in from the field, Mr. Ridgeway, but of course we busted a tire and had to stop, and then your man told me he thought you had gone to lunch, so I just stuck around.” He looked curiously at Lawrence, and Mr. Ridgeway said, “Come into my office, O’Brien. You may tell me anything you have to say before this young man. He is in my employ now.” “Sort of a young kid for our work, isn’t he, Mr. Ridgeway?” asked O’Brien, smiling a wide, mirthful Irish smile at Lawrence. “Pretty young,” admitted Mr. Ridgeway, “but I don’t think it will hurt him.” “It is something he is sure to get over, give him time,” said the Irishman whimsically. Then as the heavy door closed, “Well, Mr. Ridgeway, I am the bearer of news. The watchman that has the beat from two until four was sick last night and I took his place, swearing him to silence about the change. He went to bed in my room, and I went out on the beat. At about three I sneaked close to the hangar and thought I could hear something making a sort of scratchin’ noise inside. I had a auger hole all fixed a good while ago, and I peeked.” CHAPTER III “Well, what did you see?” demanded Mr. Ridgeway as the man paused. But he did not answer. He had been leaning on the edge of the massive table that Mr. Ridgeway used as a desk, and his fingers were feeling under the edge of the mahogany top. Suddenly he sank to his knees, and peered under the edge. Then he beckoned Mr. Ridgeway and Lawrence. Totally at a loss to imagine what O’Brien was doing, they too sank to their knees and looked under the table. After a glance Mr. Ridgeway sprang to his feet and stared at O’Brien, who delivered a huge wink in the direction of the table. Then he started in as though he had only stopped talking long enough to clear his throat. “Well, I peeked,” he said, “and there was a feller mauling that dirigible around and hacking at the propellers. I knew him at a glance; he was a dude I had discharged last week; wasn’t no good so I let him go, an’ he wanted to get even, so he done it by destroyin’ that machine. Of course I didn’t see his face, but I know the looks of his back,” added O’Brien, again winking at the table. Mr. Ridgeway played up gallantly. “I am glad you, found out who it was, O’Brien. Will you swear out a warrant? I am sorry about the dirigible, but I can get along without it for awhile. I am going out to the Golf Club now. Can I give either of you a lift?” It seemed to Lawrence as though the two men were acting a part. He wondered if by any chance O’Brien had discovered one of the wonderful listening machines under the edge of the table. If that was so, their enemy must be close to them. He kept still, and let the others talk. “No, sir; I am going right over to the police station and tell ’em what I know,” said O’Brien. “I will have to go down to the Union Station and see about having my trunk sent up,” said Lawrence. O’Brien nodded, as though pleased with the boy’s quickness of perception. The three walked out, Mr. Ridgeway slamming the door sharply after him. Then instead of turning to the elevator, he started toward the back of the corridor, and reaching a small door inserted a key and opened it on a narrow, winding stairway walled into the building. It was nothing more than a perpendicular tunnel, with a narrow staircase winding through it. Leading O’Brien and Lawrence into this dimly lighted burrow, Mr. Ridgeway, with a sharp glance down the corridor, closed the door, locked it, and motioned O’Brien, who was ahead, to ascend the stairs. He went swiftly, the others close at his heels. Up and up he went, in obedience to a whispered word from Mr. Ridgeway, until a ground glass skylight marked the end of the stairway. “Open!” whispered Mr. Ridgeway, and with a heave of his broad shoulder O’Brien pushed the skylight up and the three emerged on the pebbled roof of the building. Replacing the skylight, O’Brien looked at his superior for further orders. “Well,” said Mr. Ridgeway, “I told you this morning, Lawrence, that I never liked to talk unless I was in the middle of a ten-acre lot. So they are listening, are they, O’Brien? Well, we are safe here, I should think. For this time, anyway. Let us get away from these chimneys.” They walked out into the center of the great space that indicated the size of the building, and O’Brien, picking up a pebble and tossing it as he spoke, said: “Well, sir, it looks as though there was more in the wind than we have been bargaining for. At all events, they have shown us their hand. It is not a coincidence that so many things have happened to hamper us, and the destruction in the shops and around the hangars that has appeared merely slovenly, sinful waste, has been the work of these same dirty miscreants. You are spotted, sir, sure as sure! Known to be working with the government, and instrumental in passing messages and what not along to wherever they ought to go. What are you going to do about it? If you will excuse me for saying it, sir, I think you ought to duck.” “Duck? Duck where?” asked Mr. Ridgeway. “Anywhere you like, say South America, or Alaska, or there’s good shooting up at Hudson Bay or was when I was in the Mounted Police of Canada.” “Why should I duck?” demanded Mr. Ridgeway. “Why, sir, they have you spotted, and you are too valuable a man to this country to take any chances. Suppose they send you West?” “Kill me, you mean?” asked Mr. Ridgeway. “Well, O’Brien, thank you, but of course you know that I will stay and take my chance. If they have me spotted as you say, why, they will spend a good deal of time watching me, and that will leave the field clear for you and Lawrence. I will have to depend on you for a good deal. For one thing, I think we had better stage a small scrap, when we go downstairs, and I will discharge Lawrence, and will order you somewhere out of range. Then we will not meet without the greatest precautions. Where are you living, O’Brien?” “I have a room and bath over in the southeast part of the city,” answered O’Brien. “And you, Lawrence?” “Up on the heights, sir. I like to be high.” “I wish you were closer together,” mused Mr. Ridgeway. “There are twin beds in my bedroom,” said Lawrence. “I wish you would come over there if you feel like it, Mr. O’Brien.” “I accept without further parley,” said O’Brien. “Have you a telephone?” “Yes,” said Lawrence. “A regular swell, this lad,” said O’Brien, smiling. “Well, give Mr. Ridgeway our address, and let’s go down and get fired.” They descended, reconnoitered the corridor carefully, and retraced their steps. Mr. Ridgeway entered his office alone and pressed the button on his desk. A boy appeared. “I am expecting the young fellow who was with me this morning,” he said. “When he comes send him in.” When Lawrence entered, he said severely, “I have looked your credentials over, young man, and I find that in one or two regards they are not exactly what I desire. If there is anything I can do for you, I will be glad to do it, but I think our talk this morning will have to go for nothing!” He scuffled a few papers on his desk, and Lawrence, in as disappointed a tone as he could muster, said, “I am very sorry, sir. If you do not care for my services, I think I had better go back to Louisville. I have a standing offer of a job in the Aircraft Company’s shops there.” As he spoke he noiselessly stepped forward and handed Mr. Ridgeway a paper with his telephone number on it. “I insist on giving you a check for your railroad fare,” said Mr. Ridgeway, and took up a pen. What he wrote however was not the few magic words on a blank check, but the words, “Do not come here. Go to your apartment and stay there until ten tonight. Then both of you come to my address; skirt the wall until you find a gate. It will be unlocked. Follow the path at the right until you come to a porch with a French window. This will be open. Go into the room and wait there in the dark until I come.” Lawrence nodded and handed the note back. Mr. Ridgeway touched a match to it, at the same time lighting a cigar so that the smell of burned paper would not be evident. “Thank you, sir,” said Lawrence as though he had received a check. “And good-bye.” The door closed, and he was alone. He sat staring at the edge of the table that hid the wicked little device which had handed him over into the hands of his enemies. No wonder plans had gone wrong! And now when so much hinged on the attitude of the country to the new Republic in Europe, and when the question of a mammoth loan was a matter of the most importance. As he mused, O’Brien jerked the door open and came in. Although O’Brien knew that the listener at the end of the tiny wire could not see him, he was by nature too much of an actor not to play the whole part. So he came in swaggering and approaching the table said truculently, “I come back to see you, sir, on something important.” “Speak up, my man,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “I am rather busy, and hereafter you will send in your name.” “I won’t send nothing,” said O’Brien, “unless I get a raise. I work twice as hard and long as any man at the field, and there are twenty planes to look over and keep in order, to say nothing of that dirigible that I will have to nurse back to health. I want more money.” “Impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Ridgeway. “No such thing!” growled O’Brien. “I know you! Take me or leave me!” “It’s the latter then, O’Brien. I won’t be bullied by you or any other man,” said Mr. Ridgeway with a wink. “Then that settles it,” said O’Brien. “Belave me when I say I am glad to be through with the likes of you, and if you will pay me what you owe I will get me a job where I am appreciated.” He pointed toward the door with his stubby thumb, and Mr. Ridgeway, taking the hint, said, “Wait here and I will get your money,” and left the room. As soon as the door closed O’Brien proceeded to abuse Mr. Ridgeway with all the fluency and fervor of his Irish tongue. Clearly and distinctly he addressed the air with a shower of choice phrases. He abused, he threatened, he raved, never once forgetting to hold his voice clear and steady as though addressing a stupid central on a buzzing line. According to his remarks, Mr. Ridgeway had insulted him. And he would get even. Over and over, he promised himself that he would get even. And then in the very middle of O’Brien’s finest flight of fancy, the door opened. Like turning off a top, O’Brien shut up, took what Mr. Ridgeway offered him and with a growl went out, slamming the door. “Good riddance!” growled Mr. Ridgeway in his turn, then shaking his fist at the table, he too went out, springing the lock. The rest of the afternoon he spent at the Chevy Chase golf course but it is likely that a worse game was never played over that course. The Honorable Theodore Miller, who had asked him to play, went through one fit of amazement and remorse into another. Amazement that such tops and foozles could come from a sane man, and remorse that he was obliged to waste the afternoon with such a being. Mr. Ridgeway did not notice that he was playing badly, but thumped and whacked away at the ball with a frowning look that Senator Miller took for an earnest desire to mend his stroke, but which in fact indicated utter absent-mindedness. Mr. Ridgeway knew that if he was being watched, he must put up an appearance of unconcern, and so the Golf Club. But that night soon after dinner he spoke a few words over a private wire that led to the private room of a Certain Great Person, and soon Mr. Ridgeway was with him in close consultation. He came away looking more anxious than ever. He had learned that an answer had been drawn up for the young republic which needed help, and that another country close on its borders was ready to declare war if there seemed to be anything in the way of affiliation with the United States. Besides this, there reposed in the strongest of the strong boxes at the Treasury the crown jewels of a monarch who had sent them across for safe keeping six years ago, and who now wanted them returned at once to figure at the introduction of the Crown Prince on his twenty-first birthday. The jewels and the state papers all must be delivered safely within two months. Otherwise.... Mr. Ridgeway did not like to think of the otherwise. The jewels had no business in the country at all. They had been allowed to come over piecemeal, by the ill-advised judgment of one who should have known enough to keep clear of everything to do with little principalities with their many entanglements and jealousies. However, the deed was done. Walking along Pennsylvania Avenue, Mr. Ridgeway called at The Willard to see a man who was then in Bolivia, and took a taxi to the Army and Navy Club. Then he went home, and to his own room, where he lighted all the lights and for a moment stood looking out the window before pulling down the blinds. Then hastily he slipped off his shoes and felt his way down to the library, where he seated himself in his favorite chair beside the big table and, leaning back, gave himself up to his thoughts. He knew that it would be fifteen minutes or so before he could expect his visitors. Suddenly a draft of air struck the back of his head. He knew that he had closed the door leading into the hall. He turned and half rose in his chair, but too late. Something descended with a sickening thud and without a groan he rolled over on the floor, a dead weight. When later O’Brien and Lawrence entered by the window, as they had been told, they sat down on a couple of chairs that they were able to find in the darkness and proceeded to wait. But O’Brien was like a hound. He sensed disaster. Leaning close to Lawrence, he whispered, “There is something wrong here. I can smell it. I am going to light up.” With the words, he pressed on his electric searchlight, and slowly turned the brilliant ray about the room. What he saw caused him to leap to the window, lower the blind, and then switch on the big ceiling light. Half under the table lay a tumbled figure. All the drawers were dragged out and ransacked and scattered papers which had been hastily unfolded and read were scattered everywhere. “Is he dead?” gasped Lawrence. O’Brien listened to Mr. Ridgeway’s heart. “Niver a bit! Sure he’s coming round pretty quick belike. What’s in that vase of posies? Wather? Gimme!” He turned the big vase over on the unconscious man, and while nearly drowning him, it brought him to consciousness with a gasp. He looked up. “Don’t rise, sir!” begged O’Brien. “Lay still now and collect your thoughts. Golly, that was a crack! I told you what would happen, didn’t I then? You are needing a nurse, and a steel jacket and a tin lid like the good old times of the late war if so be you are going to get tapped like this.” In a few minutes Mr. Ridgeway was able to sit up, and with a rueful look gazed around at the disordered room. With a little help he got into his chair, and sighed. O’Brien, as though he had always been an inmate of the house, went through the dining-room, and beyond in a little breakfast room found a percolator all ready for breakfast. In a jiffy he had the coffee ready, and returned to Mr. Ridgeway with a steaming cup which he insisted on him drinking. The hot liquid seemed to revive Mr. Ridgeway, and presently he sat up, asking: “Well, O’Brien and Lawrence, what part did you play in the late unpleasantness?” CHAPTER IV O’Brien burst out with an exclamation of anger, “By gosh, sir, this thing is going too far! I don’t intend to stand by and see you murdered. You have had a close shave here tonight, and something has got to be done. Where is Mrs. Ridgeway?” “She is in England visiting some relatives,” said Mr. Ridgeway with a triumphant laugh. “So you won’t get any backing from her. I sent her over there three months ago.” “Well, something has got to be done all right, all right,” said the secret service man sullenly. Mr. Ridgeway pressed his aching head. “I think this will end it,” he said. “They have found no papers, and they will let well enough alone. You know as well as I do, O’Brien, that they will know that I will be on guard after this. And I will be. I will set a lot of detectives around here, each with a badge as big as a dinner plate. And I will sit and do nothing, and you can do the work.” “All right; that is more like what I want to hear,” said O’Brien, smiling at last. “You are doing enough, Mr. Ridgeway, when you finance the affair. You have had all those airplanes built, and those dirigibles, and if you sit tight and boss, that is all we will ask for. Just you let me and Lawrence push the rest of the work.” “I will have to keep quiet for a day or two anyway,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “I feel sort of old tonight. I wish I had a son or two to look out for me. But you are all right, O’Brien. Do whatever you like.” “Then to bed you go, first of all,” said the practical Irishman, “and whilst I get some plainclothes men here for a guard, you can sit with him, Lawrence, and don’t you let a soul in the room.” “The servants are all in bed and there is no one else to come,” said Mr. Ridgeway drowsily. With a good deal of help he managed to get to the little automatic elevator, and they put him to bed. While Lawrence put cold compresses on the bruised head, O’Brien telephoned for the police and placed a guard around the house. Then he summoned Mr. Ridgeway’s doctor, who examined the wound and assured them that there was no concussion. By the time all this was done, it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. “Let’s to bed,” yawned O’Brien. “It’s coming home with you I am, Larry. I expect you’ll loan me the matter of some pajammies?” “Sure!” said Lawrence. “But I don’t know how they will fit.” “Fit, fit!” said O’Brien, hailing a passing taxi. “Fit? Sure, I could sleep this night in lead pajammies, any size whatever.” True enough, O’Brien rolled into bed and was asleep in a moment, but Lawrence tossed restlessly a long time before he could quiet himself. He was worried about Mr. Ridgeway, and he wished O’Brien would wake up and tell him just what he feared from the spies or conspirators, or whatever they were. And he wondered about Mr. Ridgeway, and was sorry that he had no sons, and wished, poor Lawrence, that he was Mr. Ridgeway’s son. How proud he would be! But he knew that he would always be Lawrence Petit, the waif, with only a pictured face for a family. O’Brien snored on gently and endlessly, and at last, lulled by the sound, Lawrence went to sleep. When he awoke, O’Brien was in the bathroom running a bath, and singing Sweet Rosy O’More in a mellow baritone. He sounded like a man who has not a care in the world. Lawrence jumped up. It was eight o’clock. They had overslept an hour. But when he asked O’Brien how he had happened to sleep so late, that songful gentleman declared that there was nothing to do but enjoy themselves and he intended to go to a movie and sit through it twice, so he could think. “Will you go along with me?” he asked. “I would rather fly,” said Lawrence. “I wish I could get hold of a plane. I would feel better if I could get off the earth for a while. I can never think so well as when I am up a few hundred feet.” “Go as high as you like,” said O’Brien. “Here, I will give you a bit of a paper, and just you go out to the field and give it to the man in charge there, and all that you will have to do after that is to pick which plane you want. You can’t use the dirigible because it is smashed up.” “I would rather have a plane to-day,” said Lawrence. “I want to get used to the country around here. I shall drive the dirigible when it is in order, but I like to take my bearings first. It is funny, I have flown all over the United States and Europe, but this is the first time I was ever in Washington.” “Well, take one of the little sky-flivvers and have a good time, but be careful about landin’. A nose-dive or a tail-spin makes good readin’ in the Sunday papers, and you get a grand write-up all about the darin’ young aviator So-and-So, but it’s little interest you feel in the article yourself.” Lawrence took a street car out as far as he could, and after a brisk walk reached the field. Everything was going smoothly. He offered his paper to the man in charge, and that individual, after grumbling a little at letting a kid go up with a perfectly good machine, let Lawrence look the twenty planes over and choose the one he fancied. Lawrence refused a passenger, and with a good start soared off the field and rose until the city of Washington lay far below him. He had not made a flight for a couple of weeks, and his heart thrilled. After a few wide circles that took in the shipping at the Navy Yard and all the outlying parts of the city, he flew over Baltimore. The return he made low, and studied the woods and landing places, to make himself sure of his ground. As he neared Washington again, he saw a plane approaching from the south. It came straight for him, and he had an idea that it was trying to communicate with him by means of the wireless. He glanced down and found that, contrary to usage, his own machine was not equipped. So he paid no attention to the stranger other than to swerve out of the way. But the plane turned and followed. Lawrence, curious to know what it was up to, slowed down and allowed it to overtake him. His trained ear told him by the sound of the engine that his own plane was the faster and more powerful but he had no intention of racing as he thought the other pilot wanted to do. So he slowed down, and as the other machine came alongside he saw that they were flashing messages with a mirror, using the Morse code, which had become one of the requirements in the public schools. “Who are you?” demanded the stranger. “Who are you?” over and over. Lawrence had no mirror and for a moment was at a loss how to reply. There was something threatening about the manner of the other plane, and Lawrence had no desire to get into a combat in the clouds over nothing. He had an idea, and as the other plane imperiously repeated the words he managed to take off the muffler, and in the roar of the engine he spelled out: “A tourist seeing the sights. Who are you?” “Where from?” demanded the mirror. “Louisv...