Toby took his revenge.
“Yes,” he admitted, “they might be on the bottle—the one a certain person emptied or spilled, the night he was where the tracing was found!”
“When it comes to that,” Doc flashed back, “somebody had his initials on that—er—tracing, I recall,” he glanced meaningly toward the control chief.
“Casting suspicion and making mean remarks won’t get the boys along,” Scott hinted. “Have you any other clues? I don’t suppose you searched the boathouse thoroughly—or the helicopter, maybe?”
“We were too excited.” Garry turned quickly. “That makes me think—we might bring in the projector and the film cases—there might be a clue we didn’t notice in the dark. They ought to be kept in a locker, anyway—like the others——”
“What others?” Scott leaned forward, and then, perhaps recalled by pain to his injuries, he groaned, and slumped back, his lips set.
“We found—well, never mind,” Chick was about to tell their whole story when he caught sight of Don’s expression.
His eyes swung to follow those of his chum.
At the hangar doorway, on either side, were two intent, coppery-red faces, one old and seamed, the other young and alert.
The others followed the line of Don’s gaze.