“By all the signs that any man can know,” he said slowly, “you should be dead. With my own eyes I saw you pass into a cloud. You were dropping earthward in a parachute. I saw the parachute flutter out of the cloud. You were gone. A fall of two thousand feet in such a spot must kill any mortal man; yet here you are! I—I am glad! But how does one do it?” He stared hard at the detective.
“Simple enough.” Drew gave forth a low laugh. “When one knows how, there’s really nothing to it. Been done several times. Two parachutes, that’s the answer. When you release one, you open the other. The second one takes you safely to earth.
“It seems, however,” he spoke slowly, “that it got me nothing, that trick. Thought I’d be able to slip up on them and take them single-handed.
“Trouble was I didn’t know the land. Got myself lost right at the start. Had a mighty tough time of it, I have. Lost all trace of them. This is the first I’ve seen of them for days. And now I find them only to see them crack up.
“Well,” he added philosophically, “that’s the end of the ‘Gray Streak.’ Not a chance that they came down alive. Only thing that’s left is to search the wreckage for clues, then give them an aviator’s funeral, light a match and touch off their gas. What say we go?”
Eight hours later, gathered about the fire in the cabin that had but a few hours before been the base of strange outlaws, they were preparing to go through with an unusual ceremony—the opening of the black cube, which had been thrown from the wrecked plane and, strangely enough, had received not the slightest injury.
“Heavy!” said Jock Gordon, lifting it to the table. “Wonder what’s in it. We’ll see.”
The next instant as one man they started back. They were met by a blaze of such varied light as they had never before beheld. They were looking upon a crown, the crown of a one-time powerful ruler. And not a jewel was missing.
“The crown of the Tzar of Russia, as I live!” exclaimed Sandy MacDonald.
“Do—do you think so?” Jock asked.