It was indeed a curious map which had been reproduced on the large photographic print which Gladys Ardmore placed on the desk before her father.
Motioning Curlie to come forward and examine it with them, the magnate rose from his chair to bend over the map. As Curlie stood there looking down at it, the girl in her eagerness bent down so close to him that he felt her warm breath on his cheek.
Nothing, however, could have drawn his gaze from that map. Wrinkled, torn in places, patched, browned with age, smirched by many finger marks, all of which were faithfully reproduced by the freshly printed photograph, it still gave promise of revealing many a mystery if one could but read it correctly.
It showed both land and water. Here on the land was a picture of a castle and there on the water a ship. The shore of the land was not drawn as are maps with which we are in these days familiar, but was cut up in curious geometric forms which surely could not faithfully represent the true lines of the shore. Towns were shown, but only on the shoreline, their names printed in by hand in such small letters as would require a magnifying glass to read them. Crossing and recrossing the water in every conceivable direction were innumerable straight lines. About the edge of the map were eight faces of children. Their cheeks puffed out as if blowing, they appeared to represent the wind that blew from certain quarters.
All the writing was in some foreign language. In the lower left-hand corner was what appeared to be the name of the maker but this was so blotted out as to be unreadable.
"Huh!" The magnate straightened up. "That's a strange map and appears to be very ancient, but I can hardly see how it is going to help us with our present problem."
"There is still the writing," suggested Gladys, turning over the other photograph.
"That," said Mr. Ardmore, after a moment's study of it, "is written in some strange tongue and is, I take it, unintelligible to us all."
"It's a photograph of the back of the map," suggested Curlie, pointing out certain spots where the wrinkles and tears were the same.
"My French teacher will be here at ten o'clock. He knows several languages. Perhaps he could help us," suggested Gladys.
"We will leave that to him," said her father. "Now about these messages," he went on, turning to Curlie. "What is your theory?"
Stammeringly Curlie proceeded to explain the idea which had come to him, the notion that Vincent Ardmore and some pal of his had been planning a secret trip of some sort.
"That is entirely possible," said Ardmore. "Vincent is daring, even rash at times. If some wild fancy leaped into his head, he would attempt anything. Now that you speak of it, I do think there might be something in your theory. Perhaps after all we may get some light from that map and the writing on the back of it. I shall await the coming of the professor with much anxiety."
"Father," exclaimed Gladys, "I have seen some such maps as this one at some other place."
"Where?"
"It was over at that big library, the one you are a director of."
"The Newtonian?"
"Yes. I was over there once and they showed me a great number of ancient maps. Oh, a very great number, and such strange affairs as they were! There were some similar to this one. I know there were!"
"Young man," said the magnate, turning to Curlie, "may I command your services on this matter for the day?"
Curlie bowed.
"Good! You will not be unrewarded. I am of the opinion that something may be learned by a study of the maps my daughter speaks of. Unfortunately I am engaged; I cannot go to the library. Would it be asking too much were I to request that you accompany her?"
Curlie assured him it would not. In his heart of hearts he assured himself that it would be a great privilege.
"Very well then, Gladys," the magnate bowed to his daughter, "I suggest that you plan on being back here at eleven. By that time your French teacher may have something to tell us."
Bowing to them both, he dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
As the neat little town car, which was apparently Gladys Ardmore's exclusive property, hurried them away toward the north side library, Curlie had time to think and to steal a look now and then at his fair hostess.
Matters had been going rather rapidly of late. He found it difficult to keep up with the march of events. What should be his next move? He was torn between two conflicting interests: his loyalty to the radio secret service bureau and his desire to be of service to this girl and her father. The girl, as he stole a glance at her, appeared disturbed and troubled. There was a tenseness about the lines of her mouth, a droop to her eyelids. "For all the world as if she were in some way to blame for what has happened," he told himself.
Instantly the question popped into his mind: "Does she know more than she cares to tell?" He thought of the wireless equipment which had been removed from the wrecked car before the reporters had arrived. The laborer would hardly do that without orders from someone. Who had that someone been? The millionaire had denied all knowledge of the radiophone messages. Curlie believed that he had told the truth. Here was an added mystery. He was revolving this in his mind when the girl spoke:
"It must be very interesting listening in."
"Listening in?" Curlie feigned ignorance of her meaning.
"Yes, isn't that what you do? Listen in on radio all the time?"
Curlie started. How did she know?
"Why, yes, since you've asked, that is my work."
"Where—where—" she hesitated, "is your station?"
"That," smiled Curlie, "is a state secret; very few know where it is."
"Oh!" she breathed. "A mystery?"
Curlie nodded.
"Something like that."
"I love mysteries," she whispered. "I love to unravel them. Some day I shall surprise you. I shall come walking into that secret room of yours." There was a look on her face that he had not seen there before. It was disturbing. It spoke of a quality which, he concluded, she had inherited from her father, the quality of firmness and determination, which had made him great.
"I—I'd rather you wouldn't try," he almost stammered.
"Oh! here we are," she exclaimed, "at the library."
Leaping out of the car she led the way up the broad steps of an imposing gray stone structure.
"Down this way," she whispered, as if awed by the vast fund of knowledge stowed away between those walls. Without further words they made their way within.
Ten minutes later they were together bending over a great pile of ancient maps. Done on sheepskin and vellum, gray and brown with age, yet with colors as bright as on the day they were drawn, these maps spoke of an age that was gone and of a map-making art that is lost forever.
"Look at this one!" exclaimed the girl. "The date's on it—1450. Made before the days of Columbus. And look! It is like the one Vincent had the photograph of; the most like of any."
"Yes, but not the same," said Curlie. "See, those strangely shaped islands in the lower, right-hand corner are not on it; neither are the cherubs blowing to imitate the wind."
"That's true," said the girl in a disappointed tone, "I had hoped it might be the same map. It might have told us something."
Suddenly Curlie was struck with an idea. Leaving the girl's side, he approached the librarian.
"Have any of these maps been photographed recently?" he asked in a low tone.
"Not for several years," she answered. "But there are reproductions of these and others. They're in a bound volume in the next room. There the maps are reproduced on a large scale and a description of each is given. The lady in charge will show you."
Curlie tiptoed into that room. He was soon turning the pages of a large book which resembled an atlas.
After studying each successive page for some time, he came to a halt with a suppressed exclamation.
There, staring up at him, was a reproduction of the very map which had been photographed for Vincent Ardmore and, if further proof were lacking, there on the opposite page was a reproduction of the writing on the back of it, with a translation in fine print below.
Hurriedly he read this translation through. Twice he paused in utter astonishment. Three times he wrote down a brief note on a scrap of paper. When he had finished, he looked at the lower left-hand corner of the map, then copied some figures reproduced there.
Closing the book quickly, as if afraid the girl would find him looking at it, he paused for a second to banish all sign of excitement from his face, then walked leisurely from the room.
"Find anything?" he asked in as quiet a tone as he could command.
"No," there was a tired and worried look in her eyes. "I'm afraid the map is not here."
"By the way," he said in a casual way, "does your brother happen to have a pal living at Landensport on the coast?"
"Why, yes," she said quickly, "that's Alfred Brightwood. They were chums in Brimward Academy."
"And you think—think—" she faltered.
"What we think," he smiled a disarming smile, "doesn't count for much. It's facts which really matter. Excuse me; I'll be back in a moment," he said hurriedly. "Want to telephone."
In the booth of the library he conversed long and earnestly with his chief.
"Why, yes," came over the phone at last, "I don't see but that you had better finish the thing up. We can't let rich young offenders off easily. It would destroy the service entirely. Go ahead. Coles Masters can handle the station while you are away."
The interview ended, he got Joe Marion on the wire.
"Joe," he said hurriedly, "throw some of my things into a bag and some of your own with them. Be down at the Lake Shore station at one-fifteen prepared for a short trip. Where to? Oh, New York and then some. It's important and interesting. Be there! Good. Good-bye till then." He snapped down the receiver and hurriedly left the booth.
"Shall we go back?" he asked the girl.
"I suppose we might as well," she said dejectedly. Then brightening suddenly, "Yes, let's hurry back. Perhaps the professor has found out something from that queer old writing."
On the way back to the Ardmore home both the girl and her escort were silent for some time. Then, turning to her, Curlie asked:
"Has this friend of your brother's—Brightwood, did you say his name was?—has he a seaplane?"
"Is that an airplane which flies up from the ocean and lights upon it when one wishes it to?"
"Yes."
"He has one of those. Yes, I'm sure of it. He wanted to take me for a ride out over the sea last summer."
"And is he what you would call a daring chap, ready to attempt anything?"
"Why, yes, he is; but—but how do you know so many things?"
Again he lapsed into silence. On arriving at the estate they found Gladys' father in a strange state of agitation.
"Just received a telegram from an old and trusted friend who is on the coast of Maine. He says Vincent has been seen there within the last twenty-four hours. What that can mean I haven't the faintest notion. I should go there at once but business makes it entirely impossible."
"Under one condition," said Curlie soberly, "I will go East and attempt to bring your son home. Indeed, I shall go anyway; have already arranged transportation, in fact, and leave in two hours; but it would please me if I might go with your approval."
"You have arranged to go?" The older man's face expressed his astonishment. "For what purpose?"
"On a commission for the government."
"And you wish my permission for what?"
"To bring your son back with a warrant, under arrest."
The older man looked at Curlie for a moment as if to discover whether or not he was joking.
"Young man," he said slowly, "do you know who I am?"
"You are J. Anson Ardmore, one of the richest men of the Middle West."
"And do you know that I could crush you with my influence?"
"No, sir, I do not." Curlie drew himself up to his full height. "Those days are gone forever. I am part of the United States government, the government which has made it possible for you to gain your wealth. Her laws must be obeyed. You could not crush me and, what is still more important, you have no notion of doing so."
"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 associating 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-passenger, 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 passed 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.
"The professor said," smiled the girl, a trifle anxiously, "that the writing was in very, very old Spanish and for that reason he might not have understood every word of it correctly but that taking it all in all he thought he had made the meaning clear."
"We'll have a look," said Curlie, unfolding the paper.
"He said it was the photograph of a very unusual manuscript, rare and valuable." There was something about the way the girl said this which led Curlie to guess that she might know who was in possession of the original. He was, however, too much excited over the first lines of the translation to ask her any questions.
"The Island of Lagos." He read the title to himself. Beneath this in brackets were the words:
"Being the account of how the good ship Torence was cast ashore on an unknown island in the midst of the great sea; an island whereon there are many barbarians having much gold."
Curlie caught his breath. Save for one word the translation was the same as that he had read in the book. That word was of no consequence.
"It's the same map!" he told himself. "The very same!"
The girl, leaning over the table, watched him eagerly. She was both excited and elated over the find.
"Isn't it wonderful?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "I think it's great! And to think that my brother and his chum were the ones who found it!"
"Haven't read it all," Curlie mumbled.
"Then read on. Read it all. Please do."
Curlie, obeying her instructions, read on and with every line his conviction grew stronger that the conclusions he had come to were well formed.
This is what he read:
"Having spent Good Friday with his family, our captain, deeming further delay but loss of time, determined to cast anchor and sail for the coast of Ireland. Here he hoped to do a brisk business at barter with the peasants and fisher-folk who inhabit the shores.
"But Providence had determined otherwise. Hardly had we been from shore a half day's journey, when, without warning, from out the night there rose a great tumult. This tumult, coming as it did from the shore, grasped us in its mighty arms and hurled us league by league in directions that we would not go. And being exceedingly tossed with the tempest we lightened the ship. On the fourth day we, with our own hand, cast out the tackle of the ship. And when not sun nor moon nor stars had appeared for many days, we counted ourselves for lost; for, having been carried straight away these many days, we expected nothing but that we would come soon to that dark and dreadful place which is the end of all land and all seas."
"Isn't it wonderful?" whispered the girl.
Curlie was too much absorbed to answer her.
"When we had given up all hope," he read on, "Markus Laplone, a very old seaman, said we were nearing some land.
"We took soundings and found it forty fathoms. Then again it was thirty. Then with hopeful hearts we looked for that land. But when at last it broke through the fog it was no land that any of the men had seen, no, not the oldest seaman.
"But fearing to be cast upon rocks, we kept a good watch that we might find some harbor. At last we were rewarded, for to the right of us there was a river flowing into the sea.
"The storm having somewhat abated, we took oars, such as had not been broken by the storm, and some with two men to the oar and some with but one, we made shift to enter this river; having accomplished which, we dropped anchor and gave thanks to God for the preservation of our lives.
"Now, on coming on shore we found this to be indeed a strange land. Not alone were the trees and all vegetation of a sort unknown to us, but the barbarians who came about us were of a complexion such as not one man of us had ever before beheld.
"And, what was more astounding, as we made a fire to cook us food, there passed by us bearing on their backs strangely woven baskets, a caravan of these half-naked barbarians. And, when we motioned to show them we would see within his basket, one of these lowered his basket.
"What we saw astounded us much, for it was all filled with finely-beaten gold. The fellow had as much of it as a stout sailor would be able to carry. And there were many such baskets.
"When I made as though I would take the gold, he became very angry, and would have struck me down with an ugly spear which he bore.
"But when I laughed, making as though it were a joke, he gave me a small piece, the which is at this time in my possession, as proof that what I have written here is truth and no lie.
"Now this island I have shown on the map, the nether side upon which I am writing, as a star with six points to it; though the shore marking nor the extent of the island is as yet unknown to any but those barbarians who live upon it."
There ended the main portion of the story, but in a bracket at the bottom was written:
"In some other place will be found the account of our miraculous return from this strange and mysterious island of many barbarians and much gold."
As Curlie finished, he glanced up with a sigh.
The girl was staring at him so intently that he could not but think she was attempting to read his thoughts.
"Isn't it wonderful?" she breathed at last.
"Yes," said Curlie quickly, "you expressed it even better before. It's great!"
He looked away. His head was in a whirl It was the long-lost map; he was sure of that now. He remembered the figures he had copied from that other reproduction. They were blurred and unreadable on this one. Should he tell her?
His lips opened but no sound came out. No, he would not tell her, not at this time. There might be some other way.
"Your brother and his chum," he said evenly, "have gone in search of that island of gold."
"If they haven't gone already, they may be gone before we reach the coast," he continued. "They will probably go in Alfred Brightwood's seaplane."
"Yes, yes," she broke her spell of silence. "That is the way they would go. It's—it's a wonderful plane! You—you don't think anything could happen to them, do you?"
"Supposing they do not find the island?"
"But they will."
"It is to be hoped that they will find an island—some island."
"It's a wonderful plane. It would cross the Atlantic!" She clasped and unclasped her hands.
"But supposing," he rose from his chair in his excitement, "supposing they don't find the island exactly where they expect to find it? Supposing, in their eagerness to find that gold, they circle and circle and circle in search of the island until there is no longer any gas in the tank to bring them home."
"Oh, you don't think that!" She sprang to her feet and, gripping his arm to steady herself, looked up into his eyes. There was a heartbreaking appeal in those blue eyes of hers.
"I think," said Curlie steadily, "that my pal, Joe Marion, and I, if we find them gone when we get there, will take your father's speedy yacht and go for a little pleasure trip in the general direction they have taken. Then if they chance to get into trouble, we can give them a lift. Besides," there came a twinkle in his eye, which was wholly lost on the girl, "they might need the yacht to carry home the gold."
"Oh, will you?" she exclaimed, gripping his arm until it hurt. "That will be grand of you. For you know," she faltered, "I—I feel a little bit responsible for what they have done and if anything should happen I could never forgive myself. I—I'll tell you about it some time."
For a moment they stood there in silence, she steadying herself from the rock of the train by clinging to his arm.
"I think," she said soberly, "if you go in father's yacht, that I shall go along with you."
"And I think," said Curlie in a decided tone, "that you won't."
She said not another word but had he taken a look at her face just then he would have found there the expression that he had seen there before, the expression which she had inherited from her father, the self-made millionaire.
That night in his berth, as the train rushed along on its eastward journey, Curlie narrated to Joe Marion all the events which had led up to the present moment, and as much of his conclusions as he had told to Gladys Ardmore.
"So you see, Joe, old boy," he concluded, "if those young millionaires are away before we arrive we're destined to take a little trip which may have an adventure or two in it; that is, at least I will."
"Count me in," said Joe soberly. "I go anywhere you do."
"Good!" exclaimed Curlie, gripping his hand. "And in the end," he concluded, "I think we shall have told the world in a rather effective way that the air must be free for the important messages; that Uncle Sam has the right of way in the air as well as on land or sea and that he has ways of defending those rights."
At that they turned over, to lie there listening to the click-click of wheels over rails until sleep claimed them.
Darkness was falling when at last Curlie and Joe reached the station at Landensport. In spite of the fact that they had had no supper and were weary from travel, Curlie insisted on going at once to the hangar where the Stormy Petrel, Alfred Brightwood's seaplane, was kept.
"Yes," said the keeper of the hangar, "they hopped off six hours ago. Seemed to be preparing for somethin' of a journey; they filled the tanks with gas and loaded her cabin full of things to eat. Some sort of a picnic, I reckon. Strange part of it was," he said reflectively, "I watched 'em as they went and sure's I'm standin' here they shot out to sea, straight as an arrow, and far as you could see 'em they was going right on. Couldn't be tryin' to cross the Atlantic, but you can never tell what'll get into that Brightwood boy's head. He's darin', he is. Jest some picnic, though, I reckon."
"Some picnic all right!" said Curlie emphatically. "Some picnic for all of us!"
"Eh? What?" the keeper turned on him quickly.
Curlie did not answer.
"Vincent Ardmore went with him, I suppose," Curlie said after a moment's silence.
"Of course. Just them two."
"Was the plane equipped with wireless?"
"Yes. They spent two days tending to that; seemed to be mighty particular about it."
"Yes, of course they would."
"Eh? What?" the man turned sharply about.
Curlie was silent again.
"It's funny about them wireless rigs for a plane," said the keeper at last. "You git your ground by hanging a wire seventy-five er a hundred feet down from the plane, then you get ground just the same as if the wire was dragging through the sea, don't matter whether you're up a hundred miles or five thousand. Strange stuff, this radio."
"Yes," said Curlie, "it is. By the way," he exclaimed suddenly, "do you know about this new Packard-Prentiss equipment?"
"Yes, sir; was tryin' one out only yesterday. Fine thing."
"Reliable?"
"Absolutely."
"Know where I can get one?"
"Over at Dorrotey's sea-goods store on the dock. He's got one er two for sale."
"Thanks." He and Joe started away.
"Next place is Dock No. 3. The Kittlewake, the Ardmore yacht, is tied up over there. Unless I miss my guess we'll be off to sea in less than two hours," said Curlie to Joe. "Speed's the word now. Those two young dreamers have gotten away by plane. We've got to stand by in the Kittlewake or they'll never be seen again. I don't propose to allow the sea to rob me of my first important offender against the laws of the air."
"By the way," said Joe, "where is Gladys Ardmore? I haven't seen her since we left New York."
"I don't know and I'm glad I don't," said Curlie. "She let fall a remark in the dining car that I didn't like. She said she thought she'd go along with us on this trip. A five hundred mile trip straight out to sea in a fifty-foot pleasure yacht with a fifteen-foot beam, is no sort of trip for a girl. I was afraid she'd try to insist. That would have caused a scene, for unless I miss my guess she's the determined sort like her father."
"It's queer she gave us up so quickly."
"Yes, but I'm glad she did."
Suddenly Curlie started. As they rounded a corner he caught sight of a trim, slender figure. This girl had been standing in the light of a shop window. Now she dodged inside.
"Huh!" he grunted. "Thought that looked like her, but of course it couldn't be. Some ship captain's daughter probably."
They arrived on board the Kittlewake just as the captain, a red-faced old British salt, and the engineer, a silent man who was fully as slim and wiry of build as Curlie himself, were finishing lunch.
"Pardon me," said Curlie, "but did you get Mr. Ardmore's wire?"
"You're this wireless man, Curlie Carson?" asked the captain.
"Yes."
"'Is message is 'ere; came this morning."
"Then you're ready to put off at once."
"At once!" The captain stared his amazement. "'Ere it is night. At once, 'e says!"
"It's very necessary that we go at once," said Curlie firmly, "and I believe you have your orders."
"To be hat your service in hevery particular."
"All right then, we must be on our way in an hour."
"Wot course?" The skipper rose to his feet.
"This is the point we must reach with all speed," said Curlie, drawing the photograph of the mysterious old map from his pocket and pointing to the star near the center. "Compare that with your own chart, locate it as well as you can and then mark out your own course."
The skipper stared at him as though he thought Curlie crazy.
"That! Why that—"
Turning quickly, he disappeared up the hatch, to return presently with a chart. This he placed upon the table, beside the photograph.
After five minutes of close study he turned an astonished face upon the boy.
"That, as I 'ave thought, is five 'undred miles hout to sea. Five 'undred miles in a cockleshell. Man, you're daft."
"All right," said Curlie; "the trip's got to be made. I thought you might be afraid to undertake it; that's why I wanted to know at once. I'll go out and hunt another skipper. There's surely plenty of them idle these dull times."
"Hafraid, did 'e say! Me! Hafraid!" The skipper was purple with rage. "Hafraid 'e says. 'E says it, a bloomin' Yankee kid, an' me as 'as 'ad ships sunk under me twice by the bloody German submarines! Me, Captain Jarvis, hafraid."
He turned suddenly upon Curlie. "Go git yer togs an' shake a leg er the bloomin' Kittlewake'll be off without you on board."
"That's the talk!" smiled Curlie. "Never fear! We'll be here."
He turned to Joe. "You go ashore and buy us each a suit of roughing-it things, a so'-wester and the like. We'll need 'em. I'll be back in less than an hour."
When Curlie returned from his mission ashore he carried but one bundle. That resembled a fencepost in size and shape. It was carefully wrapped and sealed in sticky black tar cloth.
"Going to throw a message overboard in case we're lost, I suppose," laughed Joe.
"Something like that," Curlie laughed back. Nevertheless, he carried the thing with great care to his stateroom and deposited it beneath his berth in the cabin forward on the main deck.
An hour later the two boys were standing on deck watching the shore lights fade. Each was busy with his own thoughts and wondering, no doubt, in his own way how much of adventure this trip held for him.
"Ever take much interest in gasoline engines?" Curlie suddenly inquired of Joe.
"Yes, quite a bit; had a shift on one of those marine kinds last summer on the Great Lakes."
"Good! You'll have to take a shift here on the Kittlewake. This trip can't be made without sleep. I'll spell the captain at the wheel and you can relieve that lanky engineer."
Again they lapsed into silence. Half unconsciously each boy was taking stock of the craft they had requisitioned, trying to judge whether or not she was equal to the task she had been put to. Speed she had in plenty. "Do forty knots a 'our," the skipper put it, "an' never 'eat a bearin'."
She was a trim craft. Narrow of beam, a two-master with a steel hull that stood well out of the water forward, she rode the water with the repose and high glee of the bird she was named after.
"Yes, she's a beauty, and a go-getter," Curlie was thinking to himself, "but in a storm, now, four or five hundred miles from land, what then?"
Had he known how soon his question was to be answered he might well have shuddered.
"Better go down and have a look at the engines before you turn in for a wink of sleep," he told Joe.
When Joe had gone below, Curlie still sat there on the rail aft. The throb of the engines beneath him, the rapid rush of air that fanned his cheek, was medicine to his weary brain. He had been caught in a whirlwind of events and here, for a time, he had been cast down in a quiet place where his mind might clear itself of the wreckage of thought that had been torn up and strewn about within it.
It had been a wild race. He had lost thus far; would he lose in the end? Had he, after all, trusted too much to theory? Had these two sons of rich men really only gone for some picnic trip to a well-known island farther south along the coast? Or had they, as he had assumed, guided by their ancient map, gone in search of the island of "many barbarians and much gold," an island which he was convinced existed only in name?
The girl, too; what had she meant when she said she was in some ways responsible for her brother's actions? There was something queer about the whole affair. Who had taken the wireless equipment from the wrecked car out there by the Forest Preserve? Did young Ardmore have the ancient original of that interesting map or only the photograph? If he did not have it, who was in possession of it? Strange thing that it would be lost for a hundred years only to have a brand-new photograph of it show up all at once. Rather ghostly, he thought. He had meant to ask Gladys Ardmore about that. He'd ask her now if she were here. But he was more than glad she was not here.
"No trip for a girl," he told himself, "and she said she'd go. Strange she gave it up so easily. Strange that—"
His thoughts broke off suddenly as he stared forward. The Kittlewake was equipped with three cabins; a forecastle and aftercabin, both below the main deck, built largely for stormy weather, and a fair-weather cabin in the center of the main deck. The night was dark, the moon not having come up. It was difficult to distinguish objects at a distance, but, unless his eyes deceived him, Curlie saw some object, all white and ghostly, rising slowly from the hatchway leading to the forecastle. Cold perspiration sprang out upon his brow, his heart beat madly, his knees trembled as he involuntarily moved forward. That was the way he had of treating ghosts; he walked straight at them.
In the meantime, had one been on some craft three hundred miles farther on in the direct course of the Kittlewake, he might have caught the thunderous drumming of two powerful Liberty motors. He might also have seen a spot of light playing constantly upon the black waters. While this light was constant, it moved rapidly forward in a wide circle. The circle was never the same in size or location, yet the spot of light did not move more than twenty miles in any direction from a certain given center. The spot of illumination came from a powerful searchlight mounted upon a seaplane. It was manipulated by a boy in the rear seat. A second boy drove the plane. These boys, as you have no doubt long since guessed, were Vincent Ardmore and his reckless pal, Alfred Brightwood.
This light had been playing upon the water since darkness had fallen, some three hours before. They had been circling for four hours. Their hopes of completing their search before dark had been thwarted by a defective engine which had compelled them to make a landing upon the sea when the journey was only half completed.
At this particular moment the plane was climbing steadily. It was a perfect "man-bird" of the air, was this Stormy Petrel. With broad spreading planes and powerful motors, it was the type of plane that now and again hops off from some point in England during the dewy morning hours and carries her crew safely to Cuba without a single stop.
Yet these boys were not planning a trip across to Europe. They were, as Curlie had supposed they might be, hunting for the island of "many barbarians and much gold."
When they had mounted to a considerable height, Alfred shut off the engines and allowed her to volplane toward the sea.
"Aw, let's give it up and get back," said Vincent downheartedly. "It's not here. Probably that old map-maker made a mistake of a trifling hundred miles or so."
"That's a grand idea!" exclaimed Brightwood, grasping at a straw. "Not a hundred miles but perhaps thirty or forty miles. Old boy, we'll be cooking lunch on a stove of pure gold in half an hour. You'll see! Just get your light fixed right and I'll take a wider circle. That'll get it."
"But if we use up much more gas we won't get back to land," hesitated Vincent.
"Land! Who wants to get back to land!" the other exploded. "If worst comes to worst we've got the wireless, haven't we? We can light on the water and send out an S. O. S., can't we? I must say you're a mighty bum sailor."
"Oh, all right," said Vincent, stung into silence, "go ahead and try it."
Again the motors thundered. Again the spot light traced a circular path across the dark waters, which to the boy who held the light, appeared to be reaching up black, fiendish hands to drag them down. This time the circle they cut was many miles in circumference, miles which drew deeply from the supply of gasoline in their tanks.