“No. What was up?”
“The strangest thing happened. It sounds like a miracle. A bright flare, brightest ever seen, hung over a bomber ready to help destroy London, when a single Spitfire plunging down, down, down, loosed a burst of fire at the bomber. Then came a terrible explosion in midair.” “Got him!” Brand’s eyes shone. “But the Spitfire?”
“He was blown against a balloon cable. He baled out. He landed on a roof. Then he vanished. Who does that sound like?”
“Like Fiddlin’ Johnny,” Brand whispered. “But the Fiddler is dead and so is—”
He did not finish for at that moment the door opened. Cherry, who stood facing the door, let out a hoarse whispering cry, then barely missed throwing herself in the new-comer’s arms.
“Careful, Cherry,” said a calm voice. “I’ve had a lot of trouble and a heap of luck these last hours. I couldn’t stand much more.” It was Dave.
“Dave! Are you really alive?” It was Alice who asked this remarkable question.
“Why—yes. I—I think so.” Dave looked from one to the other across the room. “At least that’s the way I like to feel about it.” At this they all burst into a merry laugh and somehow life seemed to begin all over again.
“Tell us about it, Dave,” Cherry commanded.
“Wait. I’ll have to phone headquarters.” Dave looked about for a phone. Then he remembered, there was no phone in the Hideout.