“How is that,” inquired the big Syndicate manager.
“A dummy barograph,” chuckled the trick aeronaut. “Oh, I’ll beat ten thousand feet easy as pie! The Ariel might have made it, but—pouf! We’ve got that off our minds, more’s the luck! You’re sure there’s no chance of Dashaway coming on the scene to spoil things?”
“Dashaway won’t get away,” coarsely laughed Worthington. “I sent Borden down with Terry to double the guard on him this afternoon.”
Some one hailed the manager just then and the talk ended. Hiram’s spirits drooped. Borden had been sent away from the meet before he could get any further word to the Ariel hangar. For some time Hiram hung around, hoping to overhear some indication as to the place where his chum was undoubtedly held a captive. His energy was unrewarded, and he returned to his own hangar.
“I know two things,” he reflected, but disconsolately, as he tossed restlessly in bed some hours later. “Dave is alive—the Ariel is gone. Another thing; we won’t be in this meet. Poor Dave! How will it all come out?”
Hiram was fairly frantic when the next day passed, and there was no word from Bruce. The next morning he had decided to proceed to see Mr. Brackett himself, fearing that something had happened to his messenger, when Bruce himself appeared.
“What news? Quick!” spoke Hiram, in great excitement. “What kept you?”
“I was delayed. Mr. Brackett was away until yesterday afternoon. He listened to my story and asked me a hundred questions. Then he sent a note to you. Here it is.”
Hiram was so eager and anxious that he fairly tore a folded sheet from the hand of Bruce. Quickly his eyes scanned its contents.
And thus it read: