“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying,” accused the Major. “Has he gone to Melveredge Field?”
“Not Rascomb! He’s flying to Mexico tonight.”
“Flying!” exclaimed Flash. “In his own plane?”
“Yeah. At the hotel I heard him telephone a man by the name of Fleur. He told him to be at the airport by five o’clock.”
“Rascomb must have meant his own private field,” Flash said, looking at his watch. “It’s fifteen after three now. But we still have a chance to stop him.”
“How far are we from Excelsior City?” asked the Major.
“Forty-seven miles,” the chauffeur informed.
“Let’s get started,” Flash urged tersely. “We haven’t a minute to lose.”
Major Hartgrove untied the chauffeur’s feet and they forced the man to walk back to the road where the car had been left. Flash slid behind the wheel.