Paul nodded. Wheeling along about ten feet behind the others, he asked, “What is it, Jack?”
“It’s this, Paul. This morning I happened to glance through the Dispatch and I came across a small article stating that last Wednesday it was discovered that several hundred army rifles were stolen from an armory in New York and that the crime had most likely been committed within the past twenty-four hours.”
“What about it?”
Jack pursed his lips, mused for a moment, then said, “Remember, Paul, last Wednesday morning was when Wallace saw that airplane land at that mysterious airport.”
Paul cried, “By golly, that’s correct. Do you really think that they are arms smugglers and that this theft of army rifles has any connection with that airplane landing at the mysterious airport?”
“I don’t know,” answered Jack. “I’m wondering. But if you stop to consider, the parts seem to fit the puzzle mighty well.”
“You’re right Jack. What do you think we ought to do? Do you think we ought to take Major McCarthy into our confidence?”
Shaking his head, he replied, “No, I don’t think so. He might either tell it to the police and we don’t have enough evidence for that; or he might fly over there, land, and possibly complicate everything.”
Again Paul agreed with his chum, adding, “Yes, we have to follow it up slowly. Another thing, we must learn how to fly darn quick because if we want to get anything on them we have to do it in their way—by air.”
“Correct,” said Paul. “For the present, we’ll just let matters take their own course.”