"The younger generation moves too fast for me," he said. "But will you please explain?"
"It's a long story, Dad," said Jack, "and I haven't the time. But it's Bob's airplane. The fellows who kidnapped you stole the machine in Long Island several days before that. Well, Mr. Temple and the boys came out to New Mexico, and we recovered the plane and, and—well, there you are."
"Yes, I see," said Mr. Hampton. "It's as clear as a New York fog. But it's enough to know that Bob—didn't you mention his name—is here with the machine. Let's go and find him."
He started for the door. But at that moment Rafaela, who stood closer to it, halted him with upraised hand.
"Listen," she whispered.
Cautious footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs.
"Quick, Jack," whispered Mr. Hampton, "you mustn't be seen. Nor you, Miss Calomares. Here, hide behind this bed. And he pushed the two behind the hangings of a great four-poster. Then removing the key from the outside of the door, he hurriedly but noiselessly swung the ponderous frame shut, and locked it on the inside.
"Calomares won't recall losing the key," he said grimly to himself. "There may be a chance yet."
He listened with his ear at the keyhole. The cautious footsteps mounted higher. They reached the landing. Then there was a low knock on the panel, and a voice called low and urgently:
"Mr. Hampton. Mr. Hampton. This is Bob."