"There is something about that land I don't understand," admitted Matt. "But that's the way the matter stands, anyhow, no matter what is back of the mortgage. The government, I presume," he added, "merely buys the aëroplane? What it pays for the machine isn't a purchase of Traquair's patents?"
"Not at all," went on the officer who had been doing most of the talking. "The government simply buys this aëroplane, called the—er—the June Bug—a name, by the way, which I don't fancy—and the government likewise secures the right to purchase any other aëroplane using the Traquair patents, or to build such machines itself, paying Traquair's heirs at law a royalty."
"That," said Matt, "is liable to make Mrs. Traquair a rich woman."
"Well, hardly, unless the government goes into the aëroplane business rather more extensively than I think. Still, Mrs. Traquair should be assured of a modest competence, say, a hundred thousand dollars, or such a matter."
McGlory reeled on his chair.
"Modest competence!" he gulped. "Sufferin' poorhouses! Why, Mrs. Traquair wouldn't know how to spend a quarter of that money. She——"
"Tillygram, sor," announced O'Hara, again thrusting his head through the tent flap. "It jist came down from th' post an' has th' name av Motor Matt on th' face av ut."
Matt took the envelope and tore it open. His face crimsoned as he read, and he started to put the yellow slip away in his pocket.
But McGlory grabbed it.
"Listen to this once," said he, and read aloud: