"Oh, will you?" she exclaimed, gripping his arm until it hurt. "That will be grand of you. For you know," she faltered, "I—I feel a little bit responsible for what they have done and if anything should happen I could never forgive myself. I—I'll tell you about it some time."
For a moment they stood there in silence, she steadying herself from the rock of the train by clinging to his arm.
"I think," she said soberly, "if you go in father's yacht, that I shall go along with you."
"And I think," said Curlie in a decided tone, "that you won't."
She said not another word but had he taken a look at her face just then he would have found there the expression that he had seen there before, the expression which she had inherited from her father, the self-made millionaire.
That night in his berth, as the train rushed along on its eastward journey, Curlie narrated to Joe Marion all the events which had led up to the present moment, and as much of his conclusions as he had told to Gladys Ardmore.
"So you see, Joe, old boy," he concluded, "if those young millionaires are away before we arrive we're destined to take a little trip which may have an adventure or two in it; that is, at least I will."
"Count me in," said Joe soberly. "I go anywhere you do."
"Good!" exclaimed Curlie, gripping his hand. "And in the end," he concluded, "I think we shall have told the world in a rather effective way that the air must be free for the important messages; that Uncle Sam has the right of way in the air as well as on land or sea and that he has ways of defending those rights."
At that they turned over, to lie there listening to the click-click of wheels over rails until sleep claimed them.