“But remember this,” she added, “I am no thief. I had a camera. It was mine. I took pictures. They also were mine. I made drawings with my own hands. Surely that which one creates is his own. I saw things. One cannot be arrested for seeing. And more than this,” she added with a touch of sadness, “I did all this, not for myself, but for thousands in my own land who should be as prosperous as your people in Happy Vale.”
“I believe this,” said Danby Force, “yet that does not justify your action. To rob one community that another may be prosperous gets us nowhere.
“I am willing, however—” he spoke slowly. “I am willing to make matters as simple as possible. If you are willing to surrender the pictures and papers you have in your possession, if you will submit to a search and will leave our land empty-handed, we of Happy Vale will forgive and forget.”
This the dark lady could not refuse. Her papers were surrendered and were taken over by Danby Force.
“As for you!” Danby Force turned to Hugo. On his face was a look in which was strangely mingled sorrow, pity and scorn. “You are an American citizen. This woman has been doing what she could for her people—doing it in a wrong way, but doing it all the same. You—” he paused. “You have sold out your own countrymen to her for gold. You were given the friendship, love, admiration and loyalty of our people. You sold it for a price. You attempted to steal the labor of another’s brain. For this there is no legal penalty. But to know that you have been a traitor, to know that thousands who have admired you will think of you as a traitor, to live all your life remembering that you have been a traitor, that is punishment enough. You may go.”
With bowed head, the once magnificent Hugo disappeared from their sight. And at that Petite Jeanne’s heart was heavy with sorrow. Why? Who could tell?
“And now,” said Willie VanGeldt to the little stewardess when they were alone once more, “what do you think of my motor?”
“I think,” said Rosemary soberly, “that if I hadn’t spent a month’s pay having it put in order, we would not be here at all. It would never have carried us through the storm had it not been for that. So—o! Chalk up one big mark for the Flying Corntassel from Kansas.”
“What? You?” Willie stared.
“Yes,” she smiled. “I did that. But forget it. Only take a solemn vow with yourself and me that you will never, never go into the air again unless a mechanic’s seal of ‘Perfect’ is stamped upon your plane! The little French girl was right—life is God’s most beautiful gift.”