Flash ran until he was exhausted. After that he walked at a fast pace. The shoes he had borrowed from Rascomb’s wardrobe were too large for his feet, and rubbed up and down at every step. Soon he was tormented by painful blisters on each heel.
Driven by the knowledge that minutes were precious, he kept steadily on. The road was deserted of traffic. Cars neither approached nor passed him.
Turning a bend he came within view of Rascomb’s private air field. A sudden fear assailed him. Already he might be too late! In all probability the man had made a quick get-away by plane.
Crawling under a fence, he hastened to the hangar. The huge doors were padlocked.
Striking a match, he gazed through a window. To his great relief, the monoplane was still there.
“Then Rascomb must be at Excelsior City or somewhere fairly close,” he reasoned. “That final ‘deal’ he mentioned! It is holding him here and may yet prove his undoing!”
As far as Flash was concerned, Rascomb’s espionage work still was shrouded in deep mystery. His knowledge of the man’s past was merely vague rumor.
But there were certain definite points from which he might work. He definitely knew that Rascomb and Albert Povy were the same man. From his own observation, Povy had displayed interest in Bailey Brooks’ new parachute, which might or might not have significance.
And Povy’s interest in Major Hartgrove was a factor not to be ignored. Obviously he had boarded the streamliner with the intention of keeping the army man under observation. The wreck itself might have been an accident, but one which possibly had given Povy the opportunity he sought.
“He tried to steal something from the Major and seemingly failed,” Flash reasoned. “Then, knowing that his identity had been learned, he deemed it wise to disappear. But now he may make a final attempt to achieve his purpose. The first thing I must do is get in touch with the Major and warn him!”