“That I do not know. I cannot even imagine.”
“There can be but one explanation,” continued Mr. Ward, “though it is almost inadmissible, even impossible.”
“And that is?”
“That the Great Eyrie was the spot selected by the inventor, where he gathered his material.”
“That is impossible!” cried I. “In what way would he get his material in there? And how get his machine out? After what I have seen, Mr. Ward, your suggestion is impossible.”
“Unless, Strock—”
“Unless what?” I demanded.
“Unless the machine of this Master of the World has also wings, which permit it to take refuge in the Great Eyrie.”
At the suggestion that the “Terror,” which had searched the deeps of the sea, might be capable also of rivaling the vultures and the eagles, I could not restrain an expressive shrug of incredulity. Neither did Mr. Ward himself dwell upon the extravagant hypothesis.
He took the two letters and compared them afresh. He examined them under a microscope, especially the signatures, and established their perfect identity. Not only the same hand, but the same pen had written them.