“I believe,” said a young captain to Major Craig, “that young Waite in Detroit knows more about aeroplanes, and more about this country’s equipment to produce them, than any other living man.”
“Unquestionably,” said the major. “He has made it his sole business to become that man.”
“Have you seen his engine?”
“No—only drawings; but he has added valuable ideas. He has studied, and I can safely say that his motor will be watched for with considerable impatience. It has qualities.”
“Most enthusiastic man I ever met,” said the captain. “It’s a fetish with him.”
“It’s a religion,” said the major, “and that is something mighty different.” Then: “He worries me sometimes. Something unpleasant has happened.”
Late in November the new engine was assembled, not completed, probably, as it would be manufactured, but perfected to a point where it deserved a trial. Potter prepared for the test and, when all was in readiness, wired Major Craig....
It so happened that on the morning following the day on which the telegram was despatched, Hildegarde von Essen went to the rooms over her father’s garage to carry certain delicacies to Philip’s wife, who was ill. She remained until she heard the car arrive in the garage below, and then, because she did not want to meet the man, be required to talk with him, whom she believed to be a murderer and a plotter, she arose hastily and stepped out upon the stairs. Philip was not alone; a stranger was with him. Involuntarily Hildegarde stopped and listened.
“This’ll be easy,” Philip was saying. “Softest job we’ve tackled—no work and no danger. Just set a charge and beat it.”
“No watchmen? You have rotten luck with watchmen?”