"It would be nice to think that we'll be back in Moscow, or even London, then," the English youth murmured. "But of course, that's down-right silly, what? Well, I'm afraid that Senior Lieutenant Petrovski's secret inner feeling is a bit of a lost cause."
"Kind of think so myself," Dawson grunted, and turned to stare south. "Guess Agent Jones won't be with us. A tough break for him. He seemed like a swell guy at that luncheon when we met him. But anybody who went through what he did is automatically a swell guy. Did anything about him strike you, Freddy?"
"Eh? Why, certainly. That he was a very splendid sort of chap. Blast! I hate to think of him dead, and out of this. Seems so unfair, you know."
"And how!" Dawson echoed. "But that wasn't what I meant. It was about his face, his looks."
"A very good-looking face," Freddy replied. "Good grief! His good looks make you jealous, old thing? You, with the face you've got?"
"Skip it, pal!" Dawson growled. "If you missed it, then maybe I was wrong. Come on. Let's go give the crate another look-see. Boy! Am I tickled it's a Yank plane. These Russians are for my money any day in the week!"
"Wonderful people," the English youth agreed as he dropped into step. "But what did you mean by 'skip it?' What's on your mind?"
"We'll still skip it," Dawson replied stubbornly. "If it is a secret, maybe it's better to keep it that way. I don't know."
"Now, see here, my man!" Freddy Farmer snapped, and took hold of Dawson by the arm. "You—!"
But that's as far as Freddy got. At that exact moment both of them heard the roar of aircraft engines in the distance. The sound came from the south. And both, from long experience, knew instantly that British-made engines were making the noise. As one man they both froze stiff, breath locked in their lungs, and eyes frantically searched the overcast sky to the south. As usual, Freddy Farmer's eagle sharp eyes picked out the tiny moving dot sliding downward.