“You said we couldn’t get away to tell anybody anyway,” Sandy said, but he was compelled to admit to himself that although anyone might write such a letter—even Jeff!—the postmark was Los Angeles and the enclosure had every appearance of sincerity.
“Never mind old Suspicious Sandy,” urged Dick. “Let him read that, but you tell us.”
“It will check up, that way, too,” smiled Larry.
“Suits me!” Jeff crossed his legs, leaning against the metal wall, as he related an amazing and mystifying series of events.
“I’m pretty close to one of the richest men in America,” he began. “You see, we both enlisted in aviation units when the big war tore loose and got Uncle Sam mixed up in it. We were buddies, Atley and me. Well, after we came back I stayed in aviation, knocking around from control jobs to designing new gadgets like superchargers and all. But when he went to California and began to organize some passenger flying lines, I stayed East in a commercial pilot’s job.”
“This letter starts off as if you were old friends,” Sandy had to admit.
“Buddies—closer’n brothers,” nodded Jeff.
“Atley Everdail sold out stocks and stuff here and went West to work out some pet ideas about passenger transport,” he told Dick and Larry. “Of course he bought a big place out there and closed up this estate—put it up for sale. Hard times kept it from selling, the same reason made him hang onto that-there swell yacht he owned.”
“I’ve seen pictures of the Tramp,” Dick nodded. “One fine boat.”
“She is that!” Jeff agreed. “Well, as Sandy must be reading, about where he’s got in that letter, Mrs. Everdail, who goes in for society pretty strong, got a chance to be presented, this Spring, before the King and Queen of England at one of their receptions.”