“Let’s sneak out of the back door,” he said, “and all go to some quiet place to dine.  Hullo, who’s this?” he exclaimed, as the tattered figure of the man of the island appeared.

“I am what is left of Budd Pierce, Jim Bell,” said the man, in his queer, tired tones.

“Budd Pierce!” exclaimed the mining man, falling back a step.  “No—­but, yes, now I look again—­it is.  But, man, what has happened to you?  What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story,” said the ragged man, while the younger members of the party looked on in astonishment, “but I can tell you that Gene Mortlake has reached the end of his tether.  I’ve heard all you said about him, and my interest in him you know already.”

“I know that you were swindled out of your fortune by some man years ago, and then disappeared,” said Mr. Bell.  “But I had forgotten the name of the rascal.”

“It was Eugene Mortlake,” said the man of the island slowly.  “After I knew I was ruined, I fled down here, where I was raised, and became a recluse on that island.  It was cowardly of me, I know, but from now on I am going to lead a different life.”

“You have found yourself!” cried James Bell, gleefully clasping the other’s thin, worn hand.

“I have found something dearer to me,” was the quiet reply; “but come, let us be going.  I have much that is strange to tell you.”

With wondering looks, the young aviators—­Roy leaning on Peggy’s devoted arm—­followed James Bell and the man from Lost Brig Island out of the aeroplane shed.

* * * * *

In his suite of rooms at the Hotel Hampton, the best hotel in the place, Eugene Mortlake sat opposite old Mr. Harding.  His brow was furrowed, and little wrinkles that had not been there earlier in the day, appeared at the corners of his eyes.  Old Mr. Harding seemed to be trying to cheer him up.  In another corner of the room, sullen and depressed, Fanning Harding was standing puffing a cigarette and filling the atmosphere with its reeking fumes.

“All is not lost yet, Mortlake, hey, hey, hey?” said the old man, laying a skinny, claw-like hand on the other’s arm.  “Why, to-night we’ll put into execution a plan that will permanently put these young Prescotts out of it.  Fanning knows what I mean.  Hey?”

He glanced up at his ill-favored son.

“I know fast enough,” said that young hopeful, “but it’s a risky matter.  Why don’t you get somebody else to do it?”

“Pshaw!  It’s only filing off a padlock and then smashing a few of the motor parts,” said the old man, in as calm a tone as if he were proposing a constitutional walk, “that’s soon done, hey?”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted any reply Fanning might have been about to make.

“Come in,” snarled Mortlake.  “It’s the mail, I suppose,” he said, turning to old Mr. Harding, but, to his surprise and consternation, the opened door revealed Roy Prescott.  Close behind him came Mr. Bell and Peggy, with Jimsy and Jess bringing up the rear.