"We mustn't give up, Worth," he said quietly. "It's more important to find these girls than a dozen criminals. We owe it to them, to their families—to the whole country. Everybody has admiration and affection for Miss Linda Carlton, after all she has done.... You'll have to go back tomorrow—or get another man, if you feel too discouraged."
"No, I'm only too glad to help," the other assured him. "I would do anything in the world for Miss Carlton. But I don't see how it can do any good. A scouting party in boats would be much more likely to be successful."
"We'll try that, too, as soon as I can get some men together. But tomorrow you fly out over the ocean to that island where the thieves had the jewels. The girls might be stranded there. Take another pilot, and a bigger plane."
Worth looked doubtful.
"We haven't any way of locating that island, either," he said. "It was Miss Carlton who took us there before, and I have no idea where it is."
"Just do your best, Worth," urged the Captain. "Fly around all the islands near the Georgia coast, keeping a sharp look-out for the autogiro."
"Rain or shine? It looks like a storm tomorrow."
"Yes, whatever the weather, you must go—or get someone else."
So, in spite of the terrible downpour and the high winds of June thirtieth, a cabin monoplane flew across Georgia and out over the ocean to a group of islands just off the coast. Three men were aboard—two experienced pilots, one of whom was also a mechanic—besides the police officer.
Leaving the coast behind, they flew out into the grayness that was ocean and sky. The waves were high, the sea rough and angry, and the rain was coming down in sheets, blinding their vision, but they pressed on, two of the men keeping their spyglasses on the water, watching for islands. They passed over several, but they were small, with little or no place to land. Eagerly the men watched for some sign of human life, some signal, some glimpse of the autogiro.