“What will we do with them?” a man asked, in German.
“To the hospital in that town—Mount Clemens,” the man in authority replied, in the same language. “They’re badly hurt. I doubt if he lives to get there.”
“So much the better,” growled the man. “Do you go with us?”
“I remain.... You found them on the shore ten miles from here. Don’t be definite. To-night we’ll get the wreck of this machine across and out of the way.”
“What was he doing here, Herr?”
“Nothing for you to worry about.... The chances are he’ll never regain consciousness. If he does he won’t be able to remember anything.... Make haste, for he’s more valuable alive than dead.”
The motor-boat swung into the channel and sped away. Once in open water, it showed an astonishing gift of speed as it made for the mouth of the Clinton River.
Not as they wound their way up the narrow river, not as they touched the wharf, did Potter or Hildegarde betray a sign of returning consciousness. The man in charge leaped ashore. He had chosen his landing with judgment, for the spot was deserted. For ten minutes he disappeared, returning with two men from a near-by office.
“We found them on the shore ten miles up,” said the man who habitually spoke in German, but whose English was acceptable. “They fell with an aeroplane.”
“Who are they?”