“Aren’t you going back into the air?” she asked.
“Not to-day. Some other time.”
He climbed over the fence, caught a ride on a passing truck, and was gone.
That night there was surprise and great rejoicing in the little unpainted farmhouse that lay beneath the great Air Mail route to New York. And many were the happy days that followed.
It is safe to say that Greasy Thumb and his gang never guessed the final disposition of their ill-gotten gain—their marked money.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE TRAIL LEADS NORTH
Johnny Thompson was back at the shack in the city. Drew Lane and Tom Howe were there. So too was “The Ferret,” and two heavy-set Federal men. But the center of attention was a certain slim miss in a plain, dark gray suit—Joyce Mills.
“I have the whole story,” she said impressively, as the last man to arrive drew up a chair. “The trail leads north to the woods and lakes of Michigan.”
“Did he tell you where the loot is hidden?” It was a Federal man who spoke.
“He did not, because he could not. He didn’t know. He gave the package to another man.”