"Why, a poor crippled fellow, as queer in the head as he was in the legs, that I had helping in the kitchen. He lost his job as cook on the coast line steamer Druid on account of rheumatism, and they sent him up here to me."
"'They sent him up,' did 'they?' And now when did 'they' send him up?"
"About a week ago. But what's all this about Conrad you're asking, Roque? I'll have him in, and you can judge if he is worth a moment's notice in this kind of affair." Spitznagle started for the kitchen door, Roque at his heels.
"Conrad, Conrad," called Spitznagle.
"Conrad" had flown, leaving nothing behind him but his rheumatism and a dingy apron.
"Yell till you're hoarse, you fathead," raged Roque, "and the cows will come home from nowhere before you get an answer."
While Spitznagle was staring into vacancy, Roque stormed back into the dining-room and announced:
"We've been the dupes of that spy Ardelle. Nobody but he could have gotten away with a venture like this. But" (gritting his teeth), "I'll beat him yet. I say, Vollmer" (turning to the aërial recorder now minus his records), "you have the whole thing in mind and we'll strike while the iron is hot. We may outride the warning, for he can't get it flashed from this coast."
The man in the cloak came to the front on this proposition. "The word is 'immediate,'" he proclaimed.
A speedy departure was in order, and Roque crooked a finger at the young aviators, bidding them follow.