Part 11 (1/2)

”What?” The magnate's face became a study, then it broke into a smile.

”I like your spirit,” he said seizing Curlie's hand in a viselike grip.

”You have the power of the law behind you; you need no consent of mine.

But so be it; if my son has broken the law, he shall suffer the penalty.”

”There is one other matter,” said Curlie soberly. ”At the present moment it is merely a theory. I am unable to offer any worth-while proof for it, but it is my belief that your son and his chum, Alfred Brightwood, are considering a very perilous seaplane journey. Indeed, they may even at this moment be on their way. If that is true they should be followed at once in some swift traveling vessel, for they are almost certain to meet with disaster.”

”That Brightwood boy will be the death of us all yet,” exploded the father. ”For sheer foolhardy daring I have never known his equal. Time and again I have attempted to persuade Vincent to give up a.s.sociating with him, but it has been of no avail. Alfred appears to hold some strange hypnotic power over him.”

For a moment he stood there in silence. When he spoke he was again the sober, thoughtful business man.

”If what you say is true, and you find that they have already departed on this supposed journey, my private yacht is at your disposal. It lies in the mouth of the river at Landensport. The captain and engineer are on board. You will need no further crew. She is the fastest private engine-driven yacht afloat. If necessity demands, do not hesitate risking her destruction, but you will not, of course, endanger your own life.”

”All right; then I guess everything is settled. You will wire instructions to the captain of the yacht. I must hurry to my train.”

Curlie hastened from the room.

Joe was awaiting Curlie at the depot. Filled with an eager desire to know what was to be the nature of this new adventure, he could wait scarcely long enough to buy tickets, reserve sleeper berths, and to board the train before demanding full details.

The train was a trifle slow in pulling out. As he outlined the situation to Joe, Curlie kept an eye out of the window. Once he caught sight of a slight girlish figure which seemed familiar. He could not be sure, so heavily veiled was her face.

He had quite forgotten the incident when, a few hours later, he entered the diner for his evening lunch. What then was his surprise, on entering, to see Gladys Ardmore calmly seated at a table and nibbling at a bun.

She motioned him to a seat opposite her.

”You didn't expect to have me for a fellow-pa.s.senger, did you?” she smiled.

Curlie shook his head.

”Well, I didn't expect to go until the last moment. Then the professor came with the translation of the writing on the map all written out.

Father thought you should have it, so he sent me with it. I arrived just in time and decided all at once that I ought to--Oh, that I wanted--that I _must_ go with you.” There was a pathetic catch in her voice that went straight to Curlie's heart.

”After all,” he told himself, ”he's her brother and that means a lot.”

When he looked at her the next moment he discovered there the strangely determined look which was so like her father's, and which he had seen once before on her face.

”Here is the translation,” she said simply as she pa.s.sed over a roll of paper. ”Order your dinner; we will have plenty of time to look over the papers later.”

”She's a most determined and composed little piece of humanity,” was Curlie's mental comment. ”I don't like her following me, but since she's here I suppose I better make the best of it!”

Had he known how far she would follow him and what adventures she was destined to share with him, he might have been tempted to wire her father to call her back. Since he did not know, he ordered meat-pie, French fried potatoes, English tea biscuits, cocoa and apple pie, then settled himself down to talk of trivial matters until the meal was over.

When at last he saw the waiter remove the girl's finger bowl, Curlie put out his hand for the paper. The hand trembled a trifle. Truth was, he was more eager than he was willing to admit to read the French teacher's translation of the writing on the back of the map.

Now as he held it in his hand one question came to the forefront in his mind: Was this photograph a reproduction of the map that had looked so much like it, the one in the great volume at the library? The translation would dear up that point.

But then it might not be, he reasoned. The book said that the original of this map had belonged to an English lord something like a hundred years ago; that it had disappeared and nothing had been heard of it since.