“What will you ask him? How will you act?” Margaret wanted to know.
“Now don’t try to get me flustered before I see Rand,” laughed Helen. “I think I’ll just explain that I am the local correspondent for the Associated Press, show him the telegram from Mr. McClintock and ask him to confirm or deny the story.”
“I’ll bet Rand’s been interviewed by every famous reporter in the country,” said Tom.
“Which will mean all the more honor and glory for Helen if she can get him to tell about his plans,” said Margaret.
“I’ll do my best,” promised Helen and her lips set in a line that indicated the Blair fighting spirit was on the job.
They were still more than two miles from Sandy Point when a scarlet-hued plane shot into sight and climbed dizzily toward the clouds. It spiralled up and up, the roar of its motor audible even above the noise of the speedboat’s engine.
“There’s ‘Speed’ Rand now!” cried Tom. “No one flies like that but ‘Speed’.”
The graceful little plane reached the zenith of its climb, turned over on its back and fell away in twisting series of spirals that held the little group in the boat breathless.
The plane fluttered toward the lake, seemingly without life or power. Just before it appeared about to crash, the propeller fanned the sunlight, the nose jerked up, and the little ship skimmed over the waters of the lake.
It was coming toward the Liberty at 200 miles an hour. On and on it came until the roar of its motor drowned out every other sound. Helen, Tom and Margaret threw themselves onto the floor of the boat and Jim Preston crouched low behind his steering wheel.