“A spy?” growled Morgan.
“Call him as you like. Cousin Emil is a wonderful man. Why, to fly from our bases in Belgium to this England is nothing to Cousin Emil. He has so traveled a dozen times. But this was my first trip.”
“You were not traveling with your cousin in that Zep, were you?”
“Ah, no. You say our sister Luftshiff—she is fallen?”
“Smashed all to pieces,” declared Whistler with satisfaction. “And her crew prisoners—all but one.”
“Ah!” breathed Eberhardt, slyly smiling again. “And he who escaped?”
“What do you know about him?” asked Whistler in surprise. “That fellow is a spy I bet! He was not a regular member of the Zep’s crew.”
“No? You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a man with a very sharp eye, a moustache like our Emperor, a tiny beard here?” touching his lower lip.