The invisible threads of silken dreams that had been drawing them closer and closer had brought them together at last.
They talked for a moment or two of old times and far-away places.
Then all of a sudden, Johnny started. “But I can’t talk any more now.” He turned about. “Came here to find an Air Mail pilot.”
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Describe him.”
“I can’t.”
“Then what—?” Curlie stared at him.
“He brought the mail from New York. Was forced down; plane robbed. He—”
“Spare your breath,” Curlie grinned. “I’m the guy.”