“Scott!”
As Garry shouted it the disguised man nodded.
“But—Scott flew us here at the first,” Chick expostulated. “Besides—he’s injured!”
“Camouflage!” laughed the man, brazen and triumphant. “I got you to fly here to make sure you wouldn’t suspect me. Besides, it helped me get the ship here, so I could go in a dory to my helicopter, and ‘put on my sky show.’ Then—with the storm coming, I had the Dart to get back in: I used these oilskins, while I dug. I had the tracing made to guide my aerial photography, and as soon as I located the buried chest I left the tracing where it would get Doc suspected. I left a key where it might incriminate the control chief. The more people you suspected the more I could work. I had to burrow for that treasure—but—now—I’ve got it all loaded and ready to fly to a place where a boat can take me out to the twelve mile limit. There a rum-runner will ship me for parts unknown. As far as being hurt by the ‘prop’ goes, I pretended that to get out of flying that night—I knew the Indians were after me. And now——”
“You can’t escape!” taunted Chick. “The swamp is surrounded.”
“But the police left some very powerful arguments where I could get them—and they’ll help me escape instead of catching me.”
Then the figure on the ladder snatched a round, queer object from under its oilskins.
Instantly the reference to police supplies became clear to Don.
“Look out!” yelled Don. “Tear-gas—don’t breathe—run!”
The bomb flew, dropped, burst. Garry and Chick, their sleeves held over their faces, leaped toward the doorway; but the bomb, flung at Don’s feet spread its fumes swiftly. The trap door slammed to the roar of exultant laughter.