“Where is this Passage Island?” he demanded of the scout. “Can a fellow land there in a sea plane?”
“Four miles off Blake’s Point. Land on the lee side all right.”
“Then we’re off.”
“Here, Johnny, slip these on ’em.” He dangled two pairs of handcuffs. “It’ll be a little crowded with four of us in the red racer, but we’ll make it. We—”
He broke off to stare at the doorway. Standing there was a very tall and very thin young man in a tight-fitting suit.
“Jimmie Drury!” he exclaimed. “How’d you come here?”
“Walked, old son. Walked. How’d you suppose?” Jimmie Drury, reporter for the News, grinned from ear to ear. “Worth it, too! Grand story. Good old scoop!”
“Good enough story,” Drew grumbled. “But you’ll not shoot it till I tell you when. I’ll tell you about that later.
“We’re off for Passage Island,” he grinned. “You’ll walk there, too, I suppose; just four miles of Lake Superior. And they tell me Superior never gives up her dead.”
“I’ll be there, never fear!” Jimmie laughed. “Sooner than you’d think! Before you arrive, perhaps. Who knows?”