The little pursuit plane had come to rest on the sea. For a half hour both plane and sail boat cruised the waters there, but no sign of the missing plane rose from the depths.
When the little plane at last drew in close Ruth saw, with a sudden tremor at her heart, that the young aviator of that other day by Green Island was in the forward cockpit.
“Sorry to spoil your game,” he said, standing up. “But he was about to get away. And that wouldn’t do. Done enough damage already.”
“Quite enough,” said the little man. “We owe you a vote of thanks. You were lucky to escape. There was shooting.”
“They did all the shooting,” said the young man. “I was only trying to force them down for you.”
“Well,” said the little man, “you did that with a vengeance. And now,” he said briskly, “we better get back to old Fort Skammel. These young ladies tell me that there’s a secret cache of silks there. I have no doubt there are papers of great importance there too.”
“Like to ride back with me?” said the young aviator, looking at Ruth. “I—I promised you a trip, you know.”
“Yes,” said Ruth, climbing into the plane.
“We’ll get over to the fort and keep guard there until you arrive,” said the aviator, waving them goodbye as Ruth’s last strap was safely buckled into place.
It was a strange world that Ruth looked down upon as she sped along—her own little world seen from above. Islands, homes, ships, all floated like miniature affairs of paper beneath her. Then, much too soon, they were skimming the bay for a landing.