Hurrying nimbly down the ladder, Rawlins stooped, picked up the bit of paper which had caught his eyes and a mystified, puzzled look spread over his face. Slowly and with an odd expression he climbed the ladder.
“Hanged if that don’t beat all!” he declared, as he gained the top and extended the paper towards Mr. Pauling. “It’s a letter, and I’ll be swizzled if it isn’t addressed to you!”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Pauling as he took the envelope. “By Jove! This is amazing!”
Ripping open the envelope Mr. Pauling drew forth a single sheet of paper. One glance sufficed to read all that was upon it, for there was but a single line.
“Good luck in your search. Sorry not home to receive you. Remember Mercedes.”
There was no signature, but none was needed. The words were typewritten and the machine which had printed them was the one which had typed the inflammatory, revolutionary Bolshevist propaganda which had flooded the States.
Once more the arch criminal had slipped through their fingers. But it had been a close shave.
CHAPTER XIII—THE TRAMP
“Looks as if the game’s up,” commented Rawlins, when he too had read the brief message. “Guess they held the last trump. Well, I suppose we might as well be getting back to our folks—they’ll begin to think we’re lost as well as the boys.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Pauling. “There’s nothing more we can do until we get some hint or clue to where they’ve flown. But we’ll have to destroy this lair before we leave. It seems a terrible waste and a shame to do it, but I don’t intend having them come back after we go. We can bring some explosives from the submarine and blow the place up.”