there's nothing to say, except to the police, when we get to New York."
Abruptly Garth broke off. He had turned in his seat, and his glare-glassed eyes caught sudden sight of pretty Nancy Clay, the stewardess, standing directly behind the two seats with her coffee tray. She was staring at them both, her lips half parted.
Garth darted a warning look at Truesdale who seemed oblivious of her presence. He spoke to Truesdale in a tone momentarily harsh:
"Well, forget about it! It's all a joke of no importance."
But the stark, haunted fear in Truesdale's eyes did not lessen. He started to speak again, then gulped and shut his lips tightly. Only then did he seem to become aware of the stewardess, as she came forward.
"Coffee, gentlemen?"
Garth shook his head. Truesdale growled a shaky: "No thank you, Miss."
"Come, come," she insisted. "It will warm you up. Make you feel fit for the landing."
"When do we land, stewardess?" Garth demanded.
She flicked around the wrist of the hand gripping the tray to look at her watch.
"Little more than three-quarters of an hour now," she said. "We're scheduled to land at nine-forty-five. It's now exactly two minutes to nine." She smiled, glancing at the closed partition in front of the two seats. "And if I know our pilot, we'll make that schedule!"
On the other side of the partition, his strong young hands gripping the Dep-wheel, Pat Bentley turned to his co-pilot.
"You can take over soon, Bill. I want to tell Newark now that everything's okay."
His eyes glanced through the oblique windows in the nose of the ship, at the dim mountains growing less precipitous ahead and below. Visibility was fairly good now. Not far ahead, Bentley saw the Balesville beacon funneling upwards, blinking like a white tentacle in the sky.
Yet, in the light from the myriad-instrumented dashboard, the young ace pilot's rugged, wind-swept face was etched tense. His broad shoulders were braced as if against some invisible foe. Veteran of thousands of flying hours, the big Douglas was a placid baby in his skilled hands—and yet, somehow, he did not feel right tonight.
A grim responsibility weighed him down. This was a maiden flight—for a big airline. Important people were in this plane; and there was important cargo too. Bentley had seen the armored truck come up on the Chicago field, seen the strong boxes being loaded into the great plane. Exactly what they contained he didn't know. But he did know he was carrying a fortune of some kind.
His keen eyes narrowed, thinking about the passengers. Two of them had acted queerly when they went aboard. The pilot had overheard a few words, tense words. Now that he thought of it, he realized that was what had created the uneasiness in him.
Garth and Truesdale. Two big scientists. Working, just now, Bentley knew for the Empire and Southwest Railway line. He grinned crookedly. That railway was in a slump: the growth of airline travel hadn't helped it any—Why had Truesdale looked so frightened when he climbed into the plane?
And why had Garth looked so icily cold?
Bentley cursed himself inwardly. He well knew just what part of his nature made him so curious about things like this. Once a newspaper man—
Yes, he had worked for a paper, a big New York paper. For several years he had been a flying reporter, and a radio news commentator. His voice had become as famous for its rapid-fire reports as Floyd Gibbons. He had covered many "exclusives," but now his real love, flying, had claimed him again and he had welcomed the job of piloting this new transport.
"It's just nine, Pat. Better call in Newark." The voice of the young co-pilot held the proper amount of respect for his "skipper."
"Right!" Quickly Pat Bentley snapped out of his reverie. "Take her, Bill." And added, listening to the neutral sound of the radio compass. "She's right smack on the beam now."
He released the Dep-wheel and rudder bars in precise synchronization with the moment that his co-pilot took them in control. Adjusting earphones under his trim visor-cap, he picked up the radio microphone.
"—Number One calling Newark—Number One calling Newark."
"This is Newark," came the prompt answer. "Go ahead, Number One."
"We're passing Balesville now. Visibility okay at eight thousand. How's the weather ahead?"
"Ceiling nine thousand. Visibility good."
"We may still beat the schedule," Bentley stated, hopefully, then broke off.
A buzzer had sounded in the little glass-windowed compartment in the nose of the big ship. It rang once, then again—imperatively. The co-pilot jerked up his head.
"Someone ringing, Pat."
"Just a minute," Bentley clipped into the microphone.
He reached back with annoyance, to unlock the partition door. And then his annoyance changed to sudden surprise.
His eyes went wide, stark, with horrified amazement!
Chapter II.
One Did Not Die
"Just a minute."
In the modernistic, gleaming radio cupola of Newark Airport, those words of Pat Bentley's had emanated from the loudspeaker.
Two uniformed operators sat at tables in the brightly lighted room, handling two microphones. Two more stood at the big sets, with earphones glued on, their eyes watching the great, humming transmitters, the many tubes and condensers. From this room planes in the sky and on the field were guided; and though the atmosphere was tense, the work was performed with smooth efficiency.
Tonight, attention had been focused chiefly on the new flight from Chicago. While no other planes had been neglected, the men in the airport cupola had given their utmost cooperation to the big Douglas to see that the trip was smooth and successful.
The confident, incisive voice of Bentley had kept them reassured, even when the Douglas had been flying in the high clouds of fog. They had followed its every move, knew the exact position with which it should correspond with the big map on the wall.
As Bentley's voice said "Just a moment," the radio man at the microphone who had conducted the conversation with the plane relaxed, smiling.
"Two to one he beats the schedule!" he offered, and had no comers. "This is going to boost the Harvey Airlines all right. It's the fastest Chicago run in the air! And with Bentley the safest—"
He broke off, suddenly jerking up his head. From the loudspeaker came a low exclamation. Then—
"Wait!" Bentley's voice, no longer crisp but suddenly sharp, agitated. "Something's the matter! Something's wrong!"
The four men in the room stiffened, their confidence changing to
