The Gay Triangle: The Romance of the First Air Adventurers

William Le Queux

"The Gay Triangle"

"The Romance of the First Air Adventurers"

Chapter One.

The Mystery of Rasputin’s Jewels.

From a derelict shed adjoining a lonely road which stretched for miles across the Norfolk fens, a strange shape slid silently into the night mist. It was a motor-car of an unfamiliar design. The body, of gleaming aluminium, was of unusual width, and was lifted high above the delicate chassis and spidery bicycle wheels that seemed almost too fragile to bear the weight of an engine.

Noiselessly the strange car backed out of the shed. There was no familiar teuf-teuf of the motor-engine; so silent was the car that it might have been driven by electricity, save that the air was filled with the reek of petrol.

Swinging round on the grass of the meadow, the car headed for the gateway, turned into the road, and sped along silently for a few miles.

It halted at length at a point where the narrow roadway widened somewhat and ran along an elevated embankment evidently constructed to raise the road above flood-level.

As the car came to rest, two leather-helmeted figures descended from the tiny cockpit in the body of it. One was a slim young fellow of twenty-five or twenty-six; the other, despite the clinging motor costume, showed feminine grace in every movement. It was a young girl, evidently in the early twenties.

The two set busily to work, and in a few minutes their strange car had undergone a wonderful transformation.

From each side shot out long twin telescopic rods. These, swiftly joined together by rapidly unrolled strips of fabric, soon resolved themselves into the wings of a tiny monoplane. From a cleverly hidden trap-door in the front of the car, appeared an extending shaft bearing a small propeller, whose twin blades, hinged so as to fold alongside the shaft when not in use, were quickly spread out and locked into position. A network of wire stays running from the wings to the fuselage of the car were speedily hooked up and drawn taut.

Then the two mysterious figures climbed again into the transformed car. There was a low, deep hum as the propellers began to revolve, the monoplane shot forward a few yards along the road, then lifted noiselessly, and, graceful and silent as a night-bird, vanished into the shrouding mist.

The adventures of the Gay Triangle had begun!

Dick Manton, lounging idly in the Assembly Hall of the little town of Fenways, in the centre of the Norfolk Broads, watched with eyes half critical and half amused the throng of dancers circling gaily to the strains of three violins and a tinkling piano which did duty for an orchestra when the youth of Fenways amused itself with a dance.

Dick was wholly and entirely a product of the war. The lithe, slim body, hatchet face, and keen, resolute eyes stamped him from head to foot with the unmistakable cachet of the airman. He smiled, as he watched the dancers, in acknowledgment of the gay greeting flung to him by a score of laughing girls who, with the joy of youth, were giving themselves unreservedly to the pleasures of the fox-trot.

Dick was a general favourite, and more than one pretty girl in the room would have been only too glad to arouse something more than a passing interest in the young airman, whose dare-devil exploits above the German lines in France had brought him the Flying Cross, whose brilliant career had been cut short by a bullet wound, received in a “dog-fight” above Bethune, which had rendered him unfit for the continual hardships of active service. He had been offered a “cushy” job in acknowledgment of his services. But Dick could not bear the idea of being “in the show” and yet not of it, and had accepted his discharge with what philosophy he could muster.

His chief asset was his amazing knowledge of motor-engines. They had been his one absorbing craze. While in the Army he had studied intently every type of engine to which he could gain access; he had read every book on the subject upon which he could lay his hands, and even among the expert pilots of the Air Force he was acknowledged as a master of engine craft.

It was this knowledge of engines which had sent Dick into the motor business. He knew, of course, that he could have obtained a good post with one of the big companies had he chosen to stay in London. But his nerves were still tingling from the stress of war, and he was still weak from the after effects of his wounds. So, for the sake of peace and fresh air, he had invested a part of his capital in a small motor business at Fenways. If he was not making a fortune he was at least living, and the keen Norfolk air was rapidly bringing him back to health.

At times the longing for the old life, the rash and whirl of the city, came upon him with almost overwhelming force.

Suddenly a cameo of his days in France leapt into his mental vision. He found himself once again staring, as in a mirror, at the slim figure of a half-fainting French girl stealing through the dusk towards the British lines. A crackling volley of shots from the Boche lines followed her, but by some miracle she came on unhurt. Dick had been sent up to the front to supervise the removal of a German plane of a new pattern which had crashed just behind the trenches and had wandered into the front line (where, of course, he had no business!), and it was he who caught the exhausted girl in his arms as she dropped into the British trench.

He had often wondered since what had become of Yvette Pasquet. She had stayed on in the little town where Dick’s squadron was stationed, and they had become good friends. Dick had thus learnt something of her tragic history.

An Alsatian, French to the finger-tips, Yvette had lived in London for some years and spoke English well. But she had seen her father and mother shot down by the Germans on the threshold of their home, and she herself had only been preserved from a worse fate by a young German officer, who had risked his life to save her from his drink-maddened soldiers. Sweet and gentle in all other respects, Yvette Pasquet was a merciless fiend where Germans were concerned; her hatred of them reached a passion of intensity which dominated every other emotion.

How she had managed to get through the German lines she never quite remembered. Her father had been well-to-do, and before her escape after the final tragedy, Yvette had managed to secure the scrip and shares which represented the bulk of his fortune, and had brought them across with her safely concealed under her clothing.

From that time forward she had been the brain of a remarkable organisation which had devoted itself to smuggling from the occupied regions into France gold, jewellery, and securities, which had been hidden from the prying eyes of the Hun.

After his wound Dick had lost sight of her. For many months he had lain dangerously ill, and when he had recovered sufficiently to write, Yvette had disappeared.

Dick’s reverie was broken at length by a light touch on his arm. “A penny for your thoughts!” said a soft voice at his elbow.

Dick came to earth with a jerk. The voice was that of Yvette herself! And when he turned he found her standing beside him, smiling into his face with the light of sheer mischief dancing in her brilliant eyes. With her was a tall young Frenchman, obviously her brother.

“Yvette!” Dick gasped in sheer amazement. “What on earth brings you here?”

“I came to look for you, my friend,” was the quaint but sufficiently startling reply in excellent English. “But let me present my brother. Jules—this is Mr Manton.”

Dick, his head in a whirl, mechanically acknowledged the introduction. Yvette had come to look for him! What could it mean?

“We came down from London this evening,” Yvette explained, “and are staying at the ‘George.’ We soon found your rooms, and hearing you were here decided to give you a surprise.”

“You have certainly succeeded,” Dick rejoined. “But how on earth did you learn I was in Fenways?”

“Well,” said Yvette, “it’s no mystery. I happened to meet Vincent quite by accident in Paris, and he told me where you were.” Vincent was an old flying colleague, and one of the very few people with whom Dick had cared to keep in touch.

“I have tried several times to find you,” went on the girl, “but even your own War Office didn’t seem to know what had become of you after you left the Army, and my letters were returned to me.”

Then her manner changed.

“Dick,” she said seriously, “I came down to see you on business—important business. I can’t explain here. I want you to come back to Town with us in the morning. My brother and I have a proposition to put before you. We want your help. Will you come?”

Wonderingly, Dick consented.

“Yes,” he said, “I shall be glad. My assistant can quite well look after things here while I am away.”

“Very well,” said Yvette, with a look of relief which did not escape Dick, “that’s settled. Now let us enjoy ourselves.”

Dick spent a sleepless night, crowded with old memories which kept him wide awake. Next morning he found himself with his two companions in the train for London. Arriving at Liverpool Street, they took a taxi and were soon comfortably ensconced in a private room at a small but exclusive West End hotel.

It was not until after lunch that Yvette opened a conversation that was destined to exercise a powerful influence on Dick Manton’s career.

“Now, Dick,”—she called him “Deek”—“before I say anything I must make it a condition that under no circumstances will you ever mention what passes between us. I know I can trust you implicitly. I am going to make you an offer which you are absolutely free either to accept or refuse. It will surprise you, and you are entitled to a full explanation. But in case you refuse, not a word of our conversation must ever pass your lips under any circumstances whatever. Do you agree?”

“Of course I do,” replied Dick, wondering what was coming.

“Very well,” laughed Yvette, “now I can tell you everything.”

“You will remember,” she went on, “what I was doing in France—smuggling money and valuables out of the reach of the Germans. Well, I am doing the same thing still, but on a different scale and by different methods. I dare say you know that there is an enormous amount of smuggling into England; the heavy import duties have made it a very profitable game. What you probably don’t know is that it is mostly carried on by Germans. There is a regular organisation at work, clever, secret, and highly efficient. But the chain, like every chain, has a weak link, and I happen to have found it. The head of the whole undertaking is Otto Kranzler, of Frankfort. You will remember him. He was the commandant responsible for the murder of my father and mother.”

“I remember!” Dick exclaimed.

“At the very moment Kranzler is in Paris, looking for an opportunity to get into England with a wonderful collection of jewels, which formed a part of those given to the mock-monk Rasputin by the late Czarina of Russia and some of his wealthy female admirers. Now, Dick, I want those jewels, and I am going to have them?”

“But how?” queried Dick.

“Kranzler is in a serious difficulty. So far as I can make out the jewels were brought into Germany by a Bolshevik agent for disposal, of course, against the German law. Rasputin’s jewels were liable to confiscation, and by some means the German Secret Police got wind of the affair. Kranzler, however, was too quick for them, and slipped over the frontier into France in the nick of time. Now he is in a quandary.

“Under French law he has so far committed no offence, and cannot be arrested. But if he attempts either to deal in the jewels or to export them he will find himself in trouble. The French police are wide-awake—of course, they got a tip from the Germans—and are watching him as a cat watches a mouse.

“So there he is,” she went on, “planted in an hotel with jewels worth at least fifty thousand pounds, and unable to move! His one chance is to get the jewels away by a messenger. He is clever and may succeed, but I don’t think he will. He has already tried but without success.

“I have a plan. I think I can get the jewels out of the hotel. But they must be brought to England, and there is the difficulty. When Kranzler loses them he can’t make any formal complaint, but he will certainly get out of France as speedily as possible; that will give the game away, and the watch on the boats will be keener than ever. I dare not risk sending them by a messenger. An aeroplane is the only chance. And I want you to fly that aeroplane!”

Dick coloured painfully.

“But, my dear Yvette,” he stammered, “you don’t mean to say you intend—?”

“To steal the jewels?” Yvette completed the sentence.

“Yes,” Dick admitted, horribly embarrassed. He found it impossible to associate Yvette with what appeared to him a piece of cold-blooded larceny.

“I quite expected you to say that, Dick,” Yvette replied. “And perhaps I should have thought less of you if you had said anything else. But surely you don’t take me for a common thief?” Without waiting for Dick’s reply, she went on: “Now, try to look at this affair through our French eyes for a moment. I’m going to have those jewels—at least, I’m going to try. Who am I hurting? A German who robbed me of my father and mother! Would any Frenchman or Frenchwoman hesitate a moment? He is a thief and a murderer! Whom am I benefiting? Myself? Not for a moment; I wouldn’t touch a penny of the money. If I bring this off—and I think I shall—there will be at least a million francs to help on the restoration of the devastated regions of France. Now, Dick, you helped France once. Won’t you do it again? I must have some one I can trust, and I know no one but yourself. It will be great sport to beat the police of two countries,” she added with a laugh.

Dick’s imagination caught fire. It was impossible to resist Yvette’s appeal. He was more weary than he knew of his humdrum life in Norfolk, and here was an adventure after his own heart. His mind was swiftly made up.

“I’m on, Yvette!” he said shortly.

To his amazement, the girl burst into a sudden passion of tears.

“On? Dick—if you could only realise what it means to me!” she sobbed. “I have been all through the smashed-up parts of France—everything, even our churches, is smashed and broken and defiled. The poor people are working desperately to restore their old homes, and they only want help to be happy again. But France has no money, and Germany won’t pay—as every one foresaw except your British statesmen. Do you think I am likely to hesitate to rob a German thief when it means happiness for hundreds of French men and women and children?”

He tried clumsily to comfort her, and at length she grew more calm.

“There is no time to be lost,” she declared. “We must get over to Paris to-night. I have lately learnt to fly, and my aeroplane is hidden a few miles from Paris. The real problem is to get hold of the jewels and bring them safely out of the hotel. Then the aeroplane can start at once.”

“But what about Lympne?” Dick asked. “You know all aeroplanes entering England from the Continent must land at Lympne for identification and customs examination. And the jewels would certainly be found.”

“You must not land at Lympne,” Yvette declared positively. “You will have to get in unobserved and land somewhere away from any aerodrome. You can abandon the aeroplane; that won’t matter if you get through safely.”

“And leave it to be identified in a few hours’ time by the engine marks?” asked Dick. “No, Yvette, that won’t do. And besides,” he went on, “there wouldn’t be the slightest chance of getting through. The new wireless direction-finders would give me away long before I could even reach the coast, and the Air Police would do the rest. I should simply be shadowed till I landed—or even shot down if I refused to land! Four smuggling planes were picked up last week by the new wireless-detectors, and every one was captured.”

“Then I don’t know what I shall do,” Yvette replied blankly. “I thought you would surely be able to slip over at night.”

Then Dick, even against his better judgment, which warned him he was taking on a foolhardy enterprise, sprang his great surprise.

“Well,” he said, “perhaps I can help you, after all. You know, in Fenways I’m supposed to be only a motor-dealer. Really, I have been working for over two years quite secretly on a combination of aeroplane and motor-car, and now I think I have got it about perfect. You can change the motor-car to a little monoplane in less than half an hour. The wing struts telescope back into the body, so does the propeller-shaft, and the blades fold back along the shaft.”

“Have you really?” she gasped eagerly.

“Yes. Best of all, I’ve got an absolute silencer on the exhaust; I’ve run the engine at top speed on the ground and found I could not hear it a hundred yards away. So far I have only made one or two flights, but they were quite successful. It seats two in little cockpits placed one on each side of the centre line where the propeller shaft runs. Why shouldn’t we try to fly her over tonight? I feel pretty sure we could do it at ten thousand feet without the direction-finders knowing anything about us.”

“Excellent!” cried the girl.

“The great disadvantage is that I can’t get any speed to speak of on the ground. I have had to make everything very light, of course, and I fancy about twenty miles an hour, unless the roads were exceptionally good, would be our limit. We should have no chance of getting away if we were chased on the ground—or in the air, for that matter—if we were spotted. We might fly over to-night and chance getting caught. Of course, I have my pilot’s certificate, and if we were caught I could easily explain that I was making a night flight and my compass had gone wrong. It wouldn’t be a very serious matter the first time as, of course, we should have nothing contraband. If we got over safely we could take the chance of coming back loaded.”

Yvette had become suddenly radiant.

“Why, Dick!” she cried, “that’s the very thing. We simply can’t be caught. And when we land anywhere we can be ordinary motorists. It’s wonderful—wonderful!”

“Don’t be too sure,” replied Dick grimly. “The Air Police are pretty wide awake. However, it’s worth trying. Now, shall we go to-night? There’s a train from Liverpool Street at six-twenty. We shall get down to Fenways by nine. We shall have five miles to walk to the shed where I keep the machine—of course, we daren’t drive out—and we must manage to reach Paris about dawn. If we are too early I cannot land in the dark, and if we are late people will be about and we shall run the risk of being spotted.”

Yvette promptly produced a small but beautifully clear contour map.

“There’s your landing-place,” she said, pointing to a large clearing surrounded by thick woods. “It’s about fifteen miles from Paris, and my own aeroplane is pushed in under the edge of the trees. It is quite a lonely spot in the forest a little to the north of Triel. Of late years the forest has been very much neglected and very few people go there. An old farmer, who lives quite alone, grazes a few sheep in the clearing, and I have, of course, had to arrange with him about my machine. He thinks I am an amateur flyer, and I have told him I am making some secret experiments and paid him to keep quiet. I flew the machine there myself when I bought it from the François Frères, of Bordeaux. Of course, I had my papers all in order when I bought it.”

“All right; that will do well enough,” said Dick. “We will go over to-night. Jules can go by the boat train.”

A few hours later Dick and Yvette were standing in the shed beside the strange motor-car, Dick rapidly explaining the system of converting the machine into a monoplane.

“We must get off the ground as quickly as possible,” he said. “People go to bed early in these parts, but there is always a chance of some one being about, and I don’t want to be caught while we are making the change.”

At a suitable spot on the road, the change was made. It occupied Dick, with Yvette’s skilful help, just twenty minutes.

“We can do it in fifteen,” he declared, “when you are thoroughly accustomed to it.”

As a matter of fact they did it in less on one memorable occasion some weeks later when their pursuers were hot on their heels.

Soon they were speeding swiftly southwards. Dick had set the monoplane on a steep, upward slant, aiming to reach ten thousand feet before he drew abreast of London. Thanks to the clinging mist, they were soon utterly out of sight from below, and Dick had to steer by compass until they sighted thirty miles ahead, and slightly to their right, the great twin beams of light which marked the huge aerodrome at Croydon.

Then Dick veered to the south-east, flying straight for Lympne and the French coast. After all, he argued, the bold course was the best. No one would expect an aeroplane on an illicit errand to venture right above the head-quarters of the Air Police, and should any machine be about on lawful business the noise of their engines would prevent the detectors picking up the throbbing whirr of the propeller, which, of course, could not be absolutely silenced.

Fortune favoured them. As they drew nearer to Lympne, swinging in from the slightly easterly course he had set, Dick caught sight of the navigation lights of the big mail aeroplane heading from London to Paris. His own machine, bearing, of course, no lights, was far above the stranger, the thunder of whose big engines came clearly up to them. A couple of red flares from the big plane signalled her code to the aerodrome, the searchlight blinked an acknowledgment, and the mail plane tore swiftly onward. Dick could not match its hurtling speed, but he followed along its track, confident that he would now be undetected.

They swept silently above the brilliantly lighted aerodrome, then across the Channel, and just as dawn was breaking detected the Triel forest, and dropped lightly to earth almost alongside Yvette’s machine. By eight o’clock the machine, now a motor-car, was safely locked up in a disused stable in the Montmartre quarter of Paris, and Dick, Jules, and Yvette were soon in deep consultation.

That evening, just as dusk was falling, a half-drunken coachman sprawled lazily on a bench set against a wall in the deep courtyard of the “Baton d’Or,” a quiet hotel located in aback street in the market quarter of Paris. By his side was a bottle of vin blanc. Before him, harnessed to a dilapidated carriage, stood his horse, a dejected-looking animal enough.

Directly over his head, at a window of a room on the third floor, two men stood talking. One of them was Otto Kranzler.

Two rooms away, on the same floor, a curious little drama was being enacted.

Lounging on a sofa near the door was Dick Manton. Yvette, on a chair drawn near the window, faced him.

Yvette rang the bell, and the two were talking when a chambermaid appeared.

“Coffee and cognac for two,” Yvette ordered.

A few minutes later the girl reappeared. She crossed the room with a tray and set it on the table in front of Yvette.

As the maid turned Dick’s arm was slipped round her, and a chloroformed pad was pressed swiftly over her face. Taken utterly by surprise, the girl was too firmly held to do more than struggle convulsively, and in a few moments, as the drug took effect, she lay a limp heap in Dick’s arms.

Snatching from a valise a chambermaid’s costume and cap, Yvette swiftly transformed herself into a replica of the unconscious girl. Then picking up the tray and its contents she silently left the room, having poured a few drops of colourless liquid into each of the glasses of brandy.

Kranzler was evidently in a bad temper.

“I tell you,” he said to his companion, “there must be a way out. That infernal—”

There was a knock at the door, and a chambermaid entered with coffee and liqueurs. It was Yvette!

“Would the messieurs require anything further?” she asked as she set down the tray.

“No, that’s all for to-night,” said Kranzler in a surly tone, as he picked up the brandy and drained it with obvious relish. His companion followed suit.

Dick was sitting beside the unconscious girl as Yvette re-entered the room.

“She’s quite all right,” he said, as he watched her narrowly for signs of returning consciousness, “but I must give her a little more just as we are leaving. How did you get on?”

“Splendidly,” said Yvette; “they noticed nothing, and I saw them both drink the brandy as I left the room.”

Ten minutes later Yvette re-entered Kranzler’s room. The two men had collapsed into chairs. Both were sleeping heavily.

Without losing a second Yvette tore open Kranzler’s waistcoat and passed her hand rapidly over his body. A moment later she had slit open the unconscious man’s shirt, and from a belt of webbing which ran round his shoulders cut away a flat leather pouch.

From her pocket she took a reel of strong black thread. To one end of this she fastened the pouch, and, crouching by the open window, pushed the pouch over the sill and swiftly lowered it into the darkness.

A moment later came a sort of tug at the line, the thread snapped, and Yvette let the end fall. Then, with a glance at her drugged victims, she snatched up the tray and returned with it to her own room.

Lying on the sofa, the chambermaid stirred uneasily. She was evidently recovering. While Yvette swiftly discarded her disguise Dick again pressed the chloroform to the girl’s face.

A few moments later “Mr and Mrs Wilson, of London,” were being escorted by the hotel porter to a waiting taxi-cab.

They never returned.

In the semi-darkness of the courtyard the drunken coachman had stiffened and leant back against the wall as a small, dark object lightly touched his shoulder. His arm, twisted behind him, felt for and found a slender thread. Held against the wall behind him was the flat leather pouch which Yvette had lowered. A moment later it was transferred to a capacious pocket, and the coachman, staggering uncertainly to his horse, mounted the carriage and drove noisily out of the yard. No one paid the slightest attention to him; no one realised that that uncouth exterior concealed the slim form of Jules Pasquet, his nerves quivering with excitement at the success of the Gay Triangle’s first daring coup.

An hour later the Paris police took charge of an old horse found aimlessly dragging an empty carriage along one of the boulevards. About the same time, from a forest clearing fifteen miles away from Paris, a tiny monoplane rose silently into the air and sped away in the direction of the French coast.

Kranzler left Paris the following day and returned to Germany. He was strictly searched at the frontier, of course without result, and the puzzled French police never solved the problem of how, as they thought, he had beaten them. He had not dared to complain. “Mr and Mrs Wilson” were never even suspected, for by a strange coincidence some articles of jewellery were stolen from another room that same night, and when the drugged chambermaid told her story it was assumed that the Wilsons were hotel thieves of the ordinary type.

A month later the Petit Parisien announced in black type with a flaring headline:

“An anonymous gift of one million francs has been received by the French Government, to be devoted to the relief of the devastated regions of France.”

Chapter Two.

A Race for a Throne.

Paris, keenly sensitive to political vibrations which left less emotional centres relatively unmoved, was rippling with excitement.

The death of the aged King John of Galdavia had been followed by the sudden appearance of a second claimant to the stormy throne of the latter principality in the Middle East, and the stormy petrels of politics, to whom international political complications are as the breath of life, had scented trouble from afar, and were flocking to the gay city. For the moment, however, the rest of the world seemed to take but little interest in the new problem. It was generally felt that the succession to the Throne of Galdavia was a matter for the Galdavians alone, and only a few long-sighted individuals perceived the small cloud, “no bigger than a man’s hand,” which threatened to darken the entire political firmament.

Back in his quiet Norfolk home, Dick Manton had dropped into a state of profound dejection. The adventure of the Russian Jewels, with its wild plunge into the thrills of the old life, had awakened an irrepressible desire for action and movement which had lain dormant while his shattered health was being slowly re-established.

Now, fully recovered, and in the perfection of physical condition, he could only contemplate with distaste and aversion continued existence in the humdrum surroundings of East Anglia.

But what was he to do? Like thousands of others he felt that the ordered life of civilisation, with every daily action laid out according to plan, was for him impossible. His was essentially one of the restless spirits, stirred into life by the war, which craved action, difficulty, and even danger. Moreover his growing affection for Yvette troubled him.

Yvette had been delicately brought up. She was accustomed to luxury, and Dick could only realise that his present prospects were such that, even if he were sure she cared for him, a marriage between them must entail such sacrifice on her part as he could not contemplate with equanimity.

But, though dull, he had not been idle. The brilliant initial test of the new motor-plane, which he had fancifully christened “The Mohawk” had stirred his ambition, and every moment he could snatch from business had been devoted to thinking out and applying improvements. Some of these had been of real importance, and the machine had gained substantially in strength and lifting power, as well as in speed both on the ground and in the air. He was also making experiments in gliding.

For some months he had heard little of Yvette. A few brief notes had told him she was well. But that was all, and he felt a little hurt. He never dreamed that Yvette’s feelings were singularly like his own; that she, too, was the prey of emotions which sometimes alarmed her. They were, in fact, kept apart by Dick’s shyness and poverty, and by the French girl’s profound pride and reserve.

Matters were in this stage when Dick, to his great surprise, received a brief telegram from Yvette.

“Can you come to Paris? very urgent—Yvette,” the message ran.

Dick left at once and next evening found him with Yvette and Jules at a small hotel near the Gare du Nord. After a cordial greeting Yvette, as usual, plunged direct into the business in hand.

“Now, Dick,” she said, “our last adventure was quite a success. Are you good for something more exciting and decidedly more dangerous? Or,” she added mischievously, “is Norfolk and the motor business exciting and dangerous enough for you?”

Dick laughed.

“To tell the truth,” he replied, smiling, “I’m about fed up with both of them. You can count me in on anything short of murder.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” was Yvette’s rejoinder, “but I admit you may find your automatic pistol useful, perhaps indispensable. But let me explain. You English don’t take much interest in foreign politics, and perhaps you haven’t—in Norfolk—paid much attention to Galdavia.”

“I read that King John has died,” Dick rejoined, “but I didn’t suppose it made much difference.”

“Just as I expected!” said Yvette, laughing. “Well, it does; it makes quite a lot of difference as it happens. Of course it ought not to. In the ordinary way Milenko, the son of King John, should succeed peacefully enough. But he has done some foolish things, and he is not too popular. There is a strong party in Galdavia which professes to object to the manner in which John was called to the throne. You know, of course, how it happened; he was summoned after his predecessor, King Boris, was killed by a bomb. Legally, of course, Milenko’s claim is unchallengeable. But legality doesn’t count for too much in Galdavian politics, and a second claimant to the throne has appeared in the person of Prince Michael Ostrovitch, whose title lies in the fact that he is descended from a brother of Boris’s grandfather. He was only a boy when John was chosen, and in any case he would have had no possible chance of election, for Galdavian opinion then was overwhelmingly in favour of John. But there has been a change. The change would not be enough to cause uneasiness, but for the appearance of another and very sinister influence,” and she paused.

“We are convinced that Germany, for very obvious motives, is backing Prince Ostrovitch,” she went on. “The scheme is being very skilfully worked, and so far we have failed entirely to secure positive proof. If we could do so the plot would be at an end, for France and Great Britain, and perhaps even America would intervene at once. They would never allow a German puppet to ascend the throne of Galdavia. But they would not interfere with a fait accompli, especially if Ostrovitch’s election were so stage-managed as to give it the appearance of a popular movement.”

“I quite see the point,” Manton said, much interested.

“Now we have found out this much,” she went on. “Jules and I have been working at the case for some weeks, and we have both been to Langengrad, the capital. The secret is there. Bausch and Horst,”—she named two well-known agents of the German Foreign Office—“are both there, disguised and under assumed names. We believe that a formal agreement is being prepared between the Ostrovitch Party and Germany. Now, neither the Germans nor the Ostrovitch Party fully trust one another, and each will seek to safeguard itself by documents which in the event of treachery by either side would mean certain ruin. I am convinced that such a document either exists or is being drawn up, and we must get hold of it if the peace of Europe is to be kept. Now,” she added slowly, “I want you to come with me to Langengrad and get it!”

Dick sat silent for a moment.

“I want to ask one or two questions,” he said at length. “Do you mind telling me how you come to be in this?”

“I expected that, of course,” replied Yvette. “The answer is simple enough. I have been working for a long time for the French Secret Service.”

“And why do you want me?” Dick queried.

Yvette coloured.

“I didn’t expect that, Dick,” she answered slowly. “I want you first because I know you thoroughly, and secondly because I must have the Mohawk. If you decide to go we shall go in the Mohawk as motorists touring for pleasure. But if we succeed we shall certainly have to leave Langengrad in a desperate hurry, and we should certainly find all the roads blocked. What chance do you think a motor-car, to say nothing of such a conspicuous oddity as the Mohawk, would have of getting all through Austria-Hungary and Germany, even if it got over the Galdavian frontier, when so many people in Galdavia, Austria, and Germany would have the liveliest interest in stopping it? No, we must fly out of Galdavia. We cannot fly in, because our passports must be in order—but we shall have to fly out.”

Dick smiled, but made no comment.

“But remember this,” the girl said, “if we arouse the slightest suspicion it is a hundred to one we shall never return. The French Foreign Office cannot appear in the matter under any circumstances. If we succeed, it means a big reward; if we fall into Ostrovitch’s hands—!” and a shrug of Yvette’s shapely shoulders ended the sentence.

“Very well, Yvette,” exclaimed Manton. “I’ll go with you. There’s no one to worry about me, anyhow, and I’m fed up with Norfolk. When do we start?”

“The sooner the better. Is the Mohawk ready?”

“Yes,” replied Dick. “I can start half an hour after I get back.”

“Then you had better go over by the air express to-morrow morning,” replied Yvette, “and fly back to-morrow night. I will meet you at the old place ready to start. You can leave all papers to me.”

Then Jules took up the story and for a couple of hours Dick listened carefully to the details of the organisation which Jules and Yvette had set up in Langengrad, and he marvelled greatly at the extent and thoroughness of the work which had been done in so short a time.

A few days later Dick and Yvette, under the names of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Victor, sister and brother, crossed the German frontier in the Mohawk in the guise of tourists motoring through Germany and Austria-Hungary to Galdavia. Their passports, prepared by the French Secret Service and bearing all the necessary visas, got them through without the smallest difficulty. Speaking French really well, Dick had no doubt that, outside France at any rate, he could safely pass for a young French officer. Jules had remained behind to carry out his share of the campaign.

Dick drove steadily via Stuttgart and Munich to Salzburg, where he loaded up the Mohawk with all the petrol she could carry for the last stage of the journey. From Salzburg he proposed to fly across the mountains to Klagenfurt, where he hoped to pick up the line of the Drave River and follow it to its confluence with the Danube. From there a brief trip by road would bring them to the borders of Galdavia.

It was a lovely autumn evening when the queer-looking motor-car left the “Bristol Hotel” at Salzburg and slid along the road to Radstadt, the “winter sport” resort. Very soon a sufficiently lonely spot was reached and from a smooth patch of moorland turf the Mohawk rose into the air just as the full moon was rising above the great mountains. The engine was working splendidly and the Mohawk climbing swiftly into the keen air travelled steadily until, just before midnight, Dick and Yvette sighted simultaneously the lake at Klagenfurt and the silvery line of the Drave stretching away to the eastward.

With nearly three hundred miles to fly Dick set the Mohawk on a course parallel to the Drave and slightly to the south of it, and for hour after hour they flew on through the brilliant night. Five thousand feet up, they had no fear of detection and gave themselves up to enjoy the beauty of the glorious panorama unfolded below them.

In less than five hours the Danube was sighted and crossed, and just as dawn was breaking, the Mohawk came to earth a few miles from the little town of Neusatz. Quickly the aeroplane was metamorphosed into a motor-car and the “tourists” ran into Neusatz, the little Danube town, for breakfast and rest. A few hours later they were across the borders of Galdavia and heading for Langengrad, the old capital surmounted by a frowning fortress built by the Turks in the Middle Ages.

Twenty-five miles from the city they halted at a wayside inn.

“This is where we shall meet Fédor,” Yvette explained.

It was not until after they had had dinner, a homely meal in the true Galdavian fashion, and it grew dark, that they heard from the roadway three sharp blasts on a motor-horn.

“There he is!” exclaimed the shrewd athletic girl. “Get the car out, Dick!”

The latter hurried to the shed at the rear which served as a garage and when, a few moments later, he drove the Mohawk into the white dusty roadway he found a big touring car drawn up and Yvette talking to a tall, dark-eyed young fellow whom she introduced to Dick as “Count Fédor Ruffo.”

Dick gazed at him with quick interest, for he had heard much of a wonderful invention of the Count which was expected to play an important part in their quest. Fédor was a young fellow of quiet demeanour, with the long nervous hands of an artist, a delicately cultured voice and soft dreamy eyes. Dick took him for an Austrian, which he afterwards found to be correct. He had taken a high degree in science at Vienna and had settled in Langengrad as a teacher at the University there.

“Follow the Count’s car as closely as possible, Dick,” said Yvette. “We want to slip into Langengrad unnoticed, if possible. The fewer people who see the Mohawk the better.”

The Count’s car moved away almost noiselessly into the darkness. Several times Fédor stopped and listened intently, and once they waited an hour at a point where two roads crossed. Nothing happened, however, and about one o’clock in the morning they reached the outskirts of Langengrad. Here the Count left the main road and slipped into a series of crooked by-streets lit only by the light of the moon. Finally, he turned into the courtyard of an old-fashioned house standing in its own grounds and the Mohawk was speedily backed into a large empty shed, and the door locked.

“Now, Mr Manton,” said the Count in fair English, “will you drive Miss Pasquet in my car to the Continental and register there? She knows the way. Rooms have been taken for you. You had better use my car while you are here. In the meantime if we meet in public remember we are strangers. Foreigners here are pretty closely watched.”

The Hôtel Continental at Langengrad is one of those cosmopolitan caravanserais dear to the heart of the tourist. As usual it was crowded, and even at two o’clock in the morning the café was humming with activity. Consequently Dick and Yvette arrived almost unnoticed. Explaining that they had been delayed by a motor breakdown they were soon in their rooms and were sound asleep.

Next morning Yvette took Dick out into the gay pleasant city of boulevards and handsome buildings. He was immensely interested in the brilliant scene, but he realised they were on a desperate mission and took care to fix firmly in his mind the roads they would have to use. It was necessary, of course, to keep up the appearance of being mere gaping sightseers and they went from shop to shop buying a quantity of souvenirs which neither desired in the smallest degree, and arranging for them to be delivered to their hotel.

In the Balkanskaya, one of the principal streets, Yvette paused at last before a jewellers’ window which blazed with gems. A moment later, followed by Dick, she slipped into a narrow passage at the side of the shop and turning into a doorway began to mount a flight of stairs which seemingly led to suites of offices in the upper part of the building. On the third floor she halted before a dingy door, and knocked softly.

Instantly the door was opened by Fédor who, inviting them within, shut the door and locked it. “Well, Fédor, what luck?” Yvette asked.

“The best,” was the reply. “We have been able to find out exactly the people with whom Bausch and Horst are associating, and where their meetings are being held. You have arrived in the very nick of time. I fancy—indeed, I am almost sure—the agreement will be signed either to-night or to-morrow night. I have overheard most of their talk.”

“But how have you managed that?” Dick asked eagerly.

“Miss Pasquet’s telephone, of course,” said Fédor. “Didn’t she tell you about it?” Yvette blushed and laughed.

“You didn’t know I was an electrician, did you, Dick?” she said. “Well, you will soon see my little invention at work. But it is nothing to compare with Fédor’s.”

The good-looking Count talked earnestly for half an hour, acquainting them fully with the work of Yvette’s agents in the Galdavian capital, until Dick became amazed at the perfection of the organisation which the alert young French girl had so swiftly created.

“Ostrovitch’s Party,” Fédor concluded, “usually meet at the house of General Mestich, who, as you know, is the Commander of the Headquarter Troops in Langengrad. He is a wonderfully able man, but is a confirmed gambler and bon viveur, and is head over ears in debt. He plays at the Jockey Club each night. There can be no doubt whatever that he has been bought by Germany. His house in the Dalmatinska for a long time has been notorious for its rowdy parties, and as a result it is quite easy for the conspirators to meet there without attracting undue attention. I am certain the Government does not realise how far things have gone yet. There is not a scrap of direct evidence. Mestich is personally very popular, and would in any ordinary matter carry with him a big volume of public opinion. But he dare not, as yet, venture on any direct revolutionary action. His hope is to give his plot some semblance of a popular movement, and he is gradually winning important adherents. If he is given enough time I think he will succeed. But without Bausch and Horst—that is without Germany—the plot must go to pieces. They are finding the money, which is being spent like water.”

“This is certainly interesting,” Dick exclaimed. “What are your intentions?”

“Well, immediately opposite Mestich’s house is an old building which for many years has been used as a store. It belongs to a loyalist friend of ours, and I can use it as I like. From one of the upper windows it is possible to see right into Mestich’s little salon, where the meetings are held. We will meet there to-night. You must come separately to the alley at the back; we dare not enter by the front. There is a small doorway there, half overgrown by clematis and apparently never used. I will be inside waiting to open the door when you knock.”

For the rest of the day Dick and Yvette were careful to behave as ordinary tourists “doing the sights” of Langengrad, the Rathaus, the Museum, and the Opera House, and still buying piles of useless souvenirs. But they were soon to realise that a careful watch was kept on all strangers in Langengrad.

Just as they were finishing dinner that night they were approached by an officious little black-moustached man who sent a waiter to call them aside. When they were in a small smoking-room he made a courteous request for their papers. These were, of course, in order, and Dick had no misgivings on the point. But for some reason the shrewd, sallow-faced official seemed suspicious, and Dick noticed with anxiety that he spoke faultless French.

Would his own, he wondered, pass muster?

“Monsieur speaks French like an Englishman,” the police officer suddenly rapped out.

Luckily Dick was prepared.

“Yes,” he answered readily, “I was brought up in England. I was at school at Rugby. My friends in our French Air Force nicknamed me ‘The Englishman.’”

The officer, it appeared, had also been an airman and proceeded to talk interestingly on the subject of aero engines. He was perfectly courteous, but none the less Dick had an uncomfortable suspicion that he was beneath a human microscope. Fortunately the subject was on one which he could not possibly be “stumped” and try as he would the police official found he had met his match.

Dick was intensely interested and amused by his skill and courtesy. None the less the position was most dangerous. He realised fully that—as was indeed the fact—the officer might be one of Mestich’s lieutenants, and unless he could be satisfied their chances of getting away from Langengrad were trifling.

At length he seemed satisfied that Dick was really what he pretended to be, and finally left them with a courteous farewell, having accepted a glass of slivovitza—or plum gin—the liqueur of the Galdavians—and chatted for a time on ordinary topics.

“That man is dangerous, Dick,” whispered Yvette when he had gone. “We shall have to be most careful. I wish I knew how much he knows, or suspects.”

They were soon to learn how acute this visitor really was!

Shortly after, Dick, smoking an exquisite cigarette such as can only be bought in Langengrad, a dark coat thrown over his evening dress, left the hotel quite openly, but keenly on the alert. He suspected he might be followed, a premonition that was to prove useful.

He strolled idly through the broad Kossowska agog with evening life, gradually working his way towards the rendezvous, and keeping a sharp look out. Soon he picked out the figure of a man who always seemed to be about fifty yards behind him. A few turns through side streets confirmed his suspicions; clearly, he was being “shadowed!”

Dick Manton’s brain always worked rapidly in a crisis. Obviously the man must be got rid of. So he speedily formed a plan.

Strolling down the alley behind the old storehouse, Dick marked the exact locality of the clematis-grown doorway, passed it and then turned, so timing his movement that he and his pursuer met exactly outside the door. It was the agent of political police who had interrogated him after dinner!

Further pretence was useless, and Dick came straight to the point.

“To what am I indebted for Monsieur’s very polite attentions?” he demanded bluntly.

The stranger shrugged his shoulders insolently.

“Langengrad at night is not too healthy for foreigners,” he replied with an obvious sneer, “and of course we feel responsible for—”

He got no further. Dick’s clenched fist jerked upward with every ounce of his strength and skill behind it. Taken utterly by surprise the police agent was caught squarely on the point of the jaw and went down like a log.

Dick tapped at the door, which was instantly opened by Fédor, and together they dragged the unconscious officer inside. A moment later he was securely bound, gagged and blindfolded.

Dick was now thoroughly alarmed about Yvette. Would she be followed, and if so, could she win clear?

Here fortune favoured them. Apparently the police official, whatever his suspicions were, had meant to make sure of Dick, knowing that Yvette alone could not escape him. A few minutes later they heard her knock, and soon all three were in the house.

“Safe enough now,” said Fédor laconically as he led the way through piles of stored goods to an upper room at the top of the building.

The room was faintly illuminated by a gleam of moonlight which came through a skylight in the roof, and when a small lamp was turned on Dick looked around him with keen interest. Filthily dirty, and apparently unused for years, the room was crammed with a heterogeneous mass of canvas packages and wooden boxes. The only window was covered with shutters through which circular holes had been bored to admit light, but these were covered over with flaps of felt. The dust of years lay thick everywhere.

Dick’s attention was instantly centred on a large, square table in the middle of the room.

Upon the table stood what appeared to be a big camera, its lens pointing to the window, with a screen of ground glass at the back of the camera exposed. A few feet behind, on a tripod, stood a small cinema apparatus with the lens aperture directed at the ground glass plate of the camera. To each ran electric wires from a bracket on the wall of the room. The whole of the electrical apparatus was weird and complicated.

There were also on the table two head telephones connected by wires to the horn of what looked like a large phonograph.

“Now, Mr Manton,” said Fédor in a low, intense voice, “I will show you my new apparatus. Mademoiselle Pasquet knows about it.”

Dick was breathless with excitement. Yvette’s story of Fédor’s wonderful invention had filled him with keenest curiosity.

“If you will look through one of the holes in this shutter,” Fédor went on, “you will see, directly opposite, the window of Mestich’s dining-room. The curtains are drawn, but you will see the room is lighted inside. He and his friends have been there for some time; apparently they have been awaiting Horst.” Dick looked through the hole and saw the lighted window. “Now, come and look at the screen,” urged the Count.

As he spoke he touched an electric switch. Immediately a soft purring noise came from the camera and on the screen there showed a vivid well-focused picture of a room with about a dozen men seated round a long table. The interior of the closed room was revealed by the new invention. At the head of the table, facing the camera, sat a big, soldierly man whom Dick at once recognised, from his published photographs, as General Mestich.

Fédor rapidly named the others—Bausch, Horst, Colonel Federvany, leader of the Parliamentary Opposition, several officials of the Galdavian Government and War Office, and two or three Jew financiers, one of whom named Mendelssohn Dick knew to be of international reputation.

The marvellous picture was framed in a solid black outline. It gave a curious effect, just as though one were looking from the darkness into a fiercely lighted cave.

Dick was almost stupefied with astonishment.

“Do you mean to say that that is the room in the house on the opposite side of the road?” he asked.

“Certainly I do,” said Fédor with a grim smile.

“But how is it done?” demanded Dick, aghast. “The shutters are closed here and the curtains drawn on the other side.”

“It’s a new electric ray I stumbled upon quite by accident,” Fédor explained. “I was experimenting, and found it. It passes quite readily through wood, fibre and fabric, in fact through almost anything except stone, mica, and metal. That is why you see only part of the room; the walls cut off everything except the space directly behind the window. If the table were in the corner of the room they would be safe enough—if they only knew!”

“Marvellous!” Dick ejaculated.

“This new ray is projected from these two rods of silenium,” the Count went on, “and for some reason which I cannot explain it follows the direction of the longitudinal axis of the metal. Thus any object at which the rods are pointed is rendered luminous by the ray on the screen, which is coated with the barium sulphate used in X-ray work. It can be photographed by the cinema and we shall have evidence enough to hang the lot.”

Then he paused for a few seconds.

“Now we must begin,” he said suddenly. “They are just about to start. Hold the telephone receivers to your ear. Mademoiselle will look after the cinema.”

Picking up the receiver, Dick heard a voice speaking clearly and earnestly. It was evidently that of General Mestich, who, as he saw by the screen, was on his feet and speaking. The language, of course, he did not understand, but Fédor, who was also listening, became excited and snapped on a switch which started the phonograph. In the meantime Yvette was turning the handle of the cinema camera.

“Here it comes,” Fédor ejaculated a moment later, and Dick saw General Mestich take from his pocket a big blue document which he unfolded and spread on the table before him. Bausch at the same time produced a similar paper.

Then Bausch got to his feet and also spoke briefly. Immediately after the documents were passed round and signed by all present. The treaty was made! But every action of the plotters had been caught by the eye of the camera, and every word they uttered was recorded by the phonograph! The evidence was complete!

“Now, Manton,” said Fédor, “we have all we want except Mestich’s copy of the treaty which will be signed by the German Secretary of State, as well as Bausch and Horst. To get that and get away is your work. I have to stay in Langengrad and I dare not risk being seen and identified. You understand?”

“Of course,” answered Dick. “You have done wonders—absolute wonders! But just tell me how this telephone works.”

“That is Mademoiselle Pasquet’s invention,” replied Fédor. “It is really a secret change-over switch which projects an electric ray which sets the General’s transmitter working even when the receiver is on the hook and the instrument would in the ordinary way be ‘dead.’ It can be put in in three minutes; as a matter of fact I slipped it in one day when I called to see the General and was kept waiting. The main wire from the General’s ’phone to the Exchange passes over the house and it was easy enough to ‘tap’ it with a fine wire that can be pulled away so as to leave no cause for suspicion. I shall do that now; we shall not want it again.”

Soon after, the party opposite began to break up and finally, on the screen, they saw the General standing alone, the treaty in his hand, and a look of triumph and elation on his handsome face. It was the picture of a man who had very nearly reached the summit of his ambitions. A moment later he crossed to the big, high stove, lifted a heavy picture, and slid aside a small door in the panelling of the wall. This disclosed a recess in which the treaty was deposited, the slide was closed, and the picture replaced.

“Clever,” said Dick, “but easy now we know. I thought he would put it in a safe. But how are we going to get it?”

Yvette, who had been silent, interposed.

“I think the General’s house might unexpectedly catch fire,” she said quietly. “That will give Dick a chance to make a dash for the treaty in the confusion.”

“I don’t see any better plan,” Fédor agreed. “It can easily be managed. I have plenty of petrol here, and there is a small leaded window on the ground floor that can be pushed in without making too much noise.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Dick. “I’ll manage that. I’ll see there’s plenty of confusion.”

“Very well, that is settled,” answered Fédor. “Now I will take Mademoiselle to your car and have everything ready for you to start. It will be touch and go. Here is the phonograph record, with the cinema film rolled up inside it. Take care of them; they are priceless. The film must be developed in Paris.”

Then Fédor produced a can of petrol and thoroughly soaked the room.

“This place is going up to-night,” he explained. “That police agent will know all about it and it will be searched at once. I can’t get my camera away and I don’t want it found.”

As he spoke Fédor was laying a long strip of fuse from the room to the ground floor. Striking a match he lit the end.

“In half an hour the place will be a furnace,” he said coolly.

What to do with the police agent was a problem.

“I can’t kill the fellow in cold blood,” remarked Fédor, “and I can’t leave him here to be burnt alive.”

Finally they dragged the man outside and left him lying in the darkest corner of the alley they could find.

“Some one will find him when the fire starts,” was Fédor’s conclusion.

But some one found him much earlier, and their clemency nearly cost them their lives!

Yvette and Fédor started for the Mohawk and Dick walked swiftly over to the General’s house. It was very late and not a soul was stirring in the now deserted streets. Without difficulty Dick found the leaded window and scarcely troubling about the slight noise he made, forced it partly in, poured in a liberal supply of petrol and flung after it a lighted match. Instantly there was a most satisfactory sheet of flame.

A moment later Dick was hammering at the front door, shouting at the top of his voice. He aimed at making all the confusion he could.

Instantly the street was in an uproar. People poured half-dressed from the houses, and from General Mestich’s residence came a stream of frightened domestics, screaming in terror and half-choked with smoke.

Slipping unnoticed into the house, Dick made straight for the salon. As he entered, General Mestich was in the very act of withdrawing the treaty from the secret receptacle. He turned towards Dick and their eyes met.

Traitor though he was, the Galdavian General was a cool and brave man. His hand dropped to his pocket and a revolver flashed out. But he was just a fraction of a second too late. Dick’s hand was ready on his automatic, and as the General’s revolver came out Dick fired from his pocket and the leader of the Galdavian revolution fell dead with a bullet through his heart.

A moment later Dick, the precious treaty in his pocket, had joined the shouting throng in the crowded street. As he did so, a burst of flame from the old storehouse announced the success of Fédor’s plan and added to the general confusion.

Dick worked himself clear of the crowd and dashed off at top speed for the Mohawk. Yvette was already seated at the wheel, with the engine started ready for instant departure. As Dick sprang into his seat Fédor laid beside him a loaded rifle.

“Ten shots, explosive bullets,” he said coolly. “It may be useful if you are followed.”

Then hastily they shook hands and the Mohawk leaped forward for the hill road and safety.

The moon was unfortunately very bright, and it was not until they had gone five or six miles that Dick ventured to draw a breath of relief.

“We ought to be safe now,” he said. “We must find a place to fly from.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the roar of a big car behind them caught his ears. They had forgotten the bound and blindfolded police agent.

That very astute individual had been found and released by a passer-by a few minutes after they had left the warehouse! Frantic with rage and determined to catch Dick at all costs, he had acted with wonderful promptness. His first step was to send out cars loaded with armed policemen to block all three roads leading from Langengrad so that Dick’s motor should not get away. Had he been found a few moments earlier Dick and Yvette must have been hopelessly trapped. But the delay of a few minutes had given them a priceless advantage.

Looking back as the big car came swiftly on, Dick caught the gleam of rifle barrels in the moonlight. His plan was swiftly made.

At the top of a steep slope, where the road made a sharp curve and dipped into a small depression, Dick bade Yvette halt. Blessing Fédor’s foresight, he took the rifle from the car and in the shadow flung himself down on the grass bordering the road. For five hundred yards below him the road stretched in a smooth unbroken descent.

As the pursuing car came into sight Dick took careful aim and fired, aiming not at the men, but at the engine of the car. His first shot was low, and he saw a burst of flame as the explosive bullet struck the road a few yards short of the car.

His second shot got home. The big car lurched, slewed round, and dashing into the side of the road, toppled over. Evidently the explosive bullet had wrecked the steering gear.

He leapt into the car again, but the danger was not over. Checked by the steep rise the big car was only going slowly, and the men inside had evidently escaped unhurt. And they were clearly well led, for a dozen of them dashed into the road and a volley of shots rattled round Dick as he dashed for the Mohawk.

For the moment, racing down the hill, they were safe. But Dick saw, with inward trepidation, that a little farther on the road rose again and they would be a clear mark for their pursuers in the bright moonlight.

His fears were justified. Again a volley of shots rang out and bullets pattered round them. One smashed the wind screen, a second went through Yvette’s hat. But they were untouched, and raced on. A moment more and they would be safe. Then another volley rang out and Dick felt a stinging pain in his left shoulder. He had been hit by one of the last shots fired!

They were now out of range and Yvette sent the Mohawk along as fast as she dared until, a few miles farther, she left the high road and drove across the smooth upland turf to the shelter of a small wood where they could convert the car into the aeroplane.

Despite the danger of delay Yvette insisted on binding up Dick’s shoulder. Luckily no bone had been touched, but he had lost a lot of blood. By a tremendous effort of will he managed to help Yvette until the aeroplane was ready, and then climbing into his seat collapsed in a dead faint.

When he came to his senses again it was daylight and the Mohawk was flying steadily high above a carpet of white mist which hid the ground. Yvette, crouched over the duplicate control lever, nodded and smiled.

“Better now?” she called.

“A bit rocky,” laughed Dick. “Where are we?”

“We ought to be about over Scutari according to speed and compass bearings,” was Yvette’s reply, “but the mist has been baffling me. Still, I don’t think we are far out.”

“How long have we been flying?” asked Dick.

“About two hours,” Yvette responded, “and we have been doing about seventy. That should bring us very near the coast.”

After a stiff dose of brandy and a mouthful of food Dick felt better. A few moments later he pointed downwards.

“Lake Scutari!” he remarked, as he recognised the long narrow sheet of water at the head of which the ramshackle half-Turkish town stands.

The mist was already breaking as, at ten thousand feet elevation, they swept out over the Adriatic and headed for the Italian coast. Then Yvette began a rapid call on the wireless set with which the Mohawk was fitted and placed the head-telephones over her ears.

“Got him! He’s there all right!” she exclaimed triumphantly a few minutes later. “He answers ‘O.K.’”

It was Jules, who for three days had been cruising off Cape Gallo in a motor-launch, ready to dash to their rescue if anything went wrong as they crossed the Adriatic, and who was now heading in their direction as fast as his engines would drive him.

Suddenly Yvette uttered an exclamation of alarm.

“Dick,” she said, “our petrol is giving out. There is none left in the number four tank and five and six will only carry us about seventy miles.”

Evidently the bullets of their pursuers had pierced the tank which was now empty and the precious spirit had drained away unnoticed.

The situation was now serious indeed. Could they get to Jules in time? A wireless message bade him hasten.

“Ten miles more, Dick,” said Yvette at last, “and then I can make three miles and the glide as we come down. It’s lucky we are so high; we ought to do it.”

Then seven or eight miles away a column of vapour rose from the water ahead. Jules had fired a smoke bomb to guide them! Their petrol was almost gone. But as the engine flickered out and stopped Yvette, with a cry of joy, pointed to a tiny dot on the sea which they knew was Jules rushing to their help. A rocket shot up from the launch.

“He sees us!” said Dick, as Yvette set the Mohawk on a flat downward slant. Two minutes later they struck the water with a mighty splash just as the motor-launch tore up, flinging a cloud of spray into the air as she rushed to their rescue. They were safe and they had saved a throne! But the gallant Mohawk sank to the bottom of the Adriatic.

There was no revolution in Galdavia. With the damning evidence of the film and the phonograph record the Allies acted promptly, and with the traitor Mestich dead the plot went to pieces. King Milenko rules to-day over a contented, happy and prosperous people, and his early follies laid aside has become a capable and popular ruler. Fédor they never saw again; he was killed in a motor smash a week after they left, and the secret of his wonderful invention died with him.

Chapter Three.

The Seven Dots.

In a cosy little house at Veneux Nadon, near Moret-sur-Loing, in the great Forest of Fontainebleau, Dick, Yvette, and Jules were seated in earnest conversation. They made a remarkable trio. Dick was unmistakably English, Yvette and her brother as unmistakably French—the girl dark-haired and dark-eyed, and with all the grace and vivacity which distinguish Frenchwomen of the better class. Her brother, quiet and dreamy, lacked his sister’s vivacity, but there was a suggestion of strength and iron resolution in the firm mouth and steely eyes.

“It will be terribly dangerous, Dick,” said Yvette, with an altogether new note of anxiety in her voice.

“I suppose it will,” replied Dick, “but,”—and his voice hardened as he spoke—“I don’t see what else we can do. We cannot run the risk of seeing a perfected helicopter in German hands. It would be too fearful a weapon. We must get hold of the plans and destroy the machine, whatever the risk may be.”

Strange stories had come through the French Secret Service of a new and wonderful type of aircraft which was being tested with the utmost secrecy somewhere in the neighbourhood of Spandau, the great military town near Berlin. Of its precise character little was known or could be ascertained, and even Regnier, the astute and energetic head of the French Secret Service, had at length to confess himself utterly beaten. His cleverest agents had been baffled; more than one was in a German prison, with little hope of an early release. In the meantime the mysterious machine flitted about the neighbourhood of the great garrison, always at night, appearing and disappearing under circumstances which proved conclusively that it must be of a type which differed widely from any yet known to the public.

“We must go, Dick,” said Yvette, “and Regnier is extremely anxious that you should help us. His trouble is that while he has dozens of capable men at his command none of them has a really expert knowledge of aviation. He thinks that if you once got a good look at the machine you could form a complete idea of what it really is.”