“Came here, kept quiet, watched. I kept sending Father word, and tonight, early, somebody told me that mail pilot who had been up at our place once was flying the mail! I lost my self-control. I was in a rage, I hated that fellow. He had cheated, falsified his errand, imposed on my mother’s good nature——”
“Just a minute,” Scott broke in, “who told you he was coming in?”
“I got the call at the theatre—just before the ‘presentation’ was on the stage,” John stated. “He called me up—told me the flyer who had been at our place—and he knew I was looking for the man, he said—was flying in the mail.”
“Did he say who was calling?” Don was excited.
The eyes of the young Indian turned, covered the group.
They rested on Doc Morgan.
“You’re crazy!” The-man-of-all-work leaped from his chair. “I won’t stand for that, I won’t. You shan’t accuse me. I never called—I did not!”
“You did—I think I recognize the voice!” cried John.
“And was it you who flew over in the helicopter, out of the swamp, and tried to drive us out of control with rockets?” demanded Garry.
“Yes. My father was in the moving picture theatre, in the room with the projectors, and he wheeled the spot lamp across to a window, and used it to light up and blind you! But I thought you were the man who had taken our property.”