“Come along to the sick bay,” he told the red-haired lieutenant. “We’ll see how sawbones is progressing with his latest patient.”
When the two officers entered that portion of the Gatoon’s sick bay which served as an operating room, the handcuffed pilot was sitting in a chair under a strong electric light. A portion of his scalp had been shaved, and the medical officer was sterilizing the raw furrow left by a glancing bullet. One of the slugs which had pierced the seaplane’s cabin had nearly snuffed out the Scorpion flyer’s life.
It was the first chance either Don or Red had had to examine their captive’s features. Strangely enough, they were not those of a criminal. If it had not been for the man’s wildly staring eyes and look of pained bewilderment, they would have been almost handsome.
There was something hauntingly familiar, too, about the man’s face and build. Studying them, Red decided he had seen the fellow—or his double—somewhere, and not so long ago!
If Don Winslow had the same notion, he didn’t mention it. He waited until the doctor had finished work. Only when the armed boatswain’s mate stepped forward to take the prisoner back, Don stopped him.
“Leave the patient here, and give me the key to his handcuffs!” he told the surprised guard. “I’ll be responsible for him. You may return to your post outside the brig.”
With a puzzled “Aye-aye, sir!” the guard departed. Don closed the door and turned to the prisoner.
“Who are you?” he asked bluntly, looking the man square in the eye.
“André, Count Borg,” the fellow replied mechanically. “I am a licensed pilot and a native of Listonia....”
“Snap out of it, man!” barked Don Winslow, stepping closer. “Do you know what you’ve got on your wrists? Take a good look!”