CHAPTER XVI
THE TAP OF MILADI’S FAN
“Do you think it will surely come? Are you confident that this entire hypothesis of yours is correctly grounded?” and Professor Dean peered with wistful anxiety into Kearns’ face.
That personage stared silently for a moment into the Professor’s inquiring eyes, and then answered with imperturbability:
“Will ducks swim?”
“I believe that according to established natural laws,” answered the Professor acidly, “they will.”
“Will this air-ship of yours fly?”
This time the Professor’s reply showed some warmth.
“Hasn’t it been tested? Haven’t you seen for yourself? Aren’t you satisfied?” he inquired.
“Perfectly,” conceded Kearns bluntly. “Well; just as sure as ducks swim and as your air-ship flies—and mighty high and rapid is its flight, I’ll admit—so surely will my hypothesis, as you call it, turn out scientifically correct and I’ll run my quarry to ground. I’m not accustomed to failure, you know, and I certainly can’t afford to fail in this case. Didn’t the warning say that the next will be the last? That means, I take it, there is going to be at least one more warning and, judging from past success, they’ll adopt the same means and the same methods as before. This is just about the time when things are due; the night, too, judging from present indications, looks as if it would be the right kind. I’d not be astonished if this was the night!”
The conversation was held in a spacious apartment of the Summer Palace immediately to the west of the King’s sleeping apartment, forming part of the suite in the palace assigned to the affairs of the Chancellerie. Stretching across the apartment upon two rests, which brought it to a level with the wide bay windows, was a machine resembling in length and general contour an ordinary steam launch, but differing materially from a steam launch in its various accessory details. It was Professor Dean’s much-prized air-ship—christened by Kearns “The Royal Dean.”