Reaching his destination, Marquette told the man at the desk that he wished to speak to Lieutenant Branson.
The room clerk shook his head.
“Orders not to disturb,” he said. “He is asleep.”
“I must see him,” replied Marquette firmly.
“You can talk to his friend, Mr. Peterson,” said the clerk. “The gentleman over there in the corner of the lobby.”
Marquette walked over and stepped up to a man who was writing at a desk.
“Mr. Peterson?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I must see Lieutenant Raymond Branson immediately.”
Peterson smiled as he shook his head.
“It’s all set for to-morrow,” he said. “Looks like we’ll have the break he’s been waiting for. He’s asleep now. Can’t be disturbed.” He noted the firm look on Marquette’s face. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked.
The secret-service man drew back the lapel of his coat, and revealed a badge. A surprised look came over Peterson’s face.
“What’s up?” he questioned anxiously. “Nothing the matter, is there? No trouble for Branson? I can’t figure this, at all — ” He rose from the desk as he spoke.
“No trouble at all,” said Marquette quietly. “I want to see Branson in private. That’s all. He’ll understand when he talks to me.”
“I’ll take you to his room,” agreed Peterson. “Come on. I’ll get the key.”
FIVE minutes later, Lieutenant Raymond Branson was aroused from sleep. He was indignant for a moment, as he sat up in bed; then Marquette’s badge proved a talisman that quieted him.
Peterson was dismissed. Marquette talked to the man alone.
It was half an hour before the secret-service man had concluded his conversation with the lieutenant. As Marquette rose to leave, Branson smiled rather bitterly.
“I hadn’t figured on this,” he said. “It’s very sudden, and I can’t quite realize it. But — “
“It may mean a lot to your country,” replied Marquette.
Lieutenant Branson arose from his chair. He walked to the window, and stood with his back toward the room.
“All right,” he said. “You’ll arrange everything?”
“I shall,” replied Marquette. “Get up early as you planned; meet me, and I’ll take care of the rest. You will sail on the Colonia to-morrow morning.”
“What if this fellow fails — “
“We can worry about that later. I’m figuring that he’ll make it. You had no particular destination, did you?”
“Anywhere on the other side,” replied Branson. “But can he play the part?”
“He can play any part,” replied Marquette. “I’m going with you on the Colonia; we’ll fix everything up. Count on me. Don’t be discouraged, old man. You’ll get another chance at it.”
Vic Marquette received a phone call shortly after he reached his hotel.
A quiet voice asked him if everything had been satisfactorily arranged. Marquette gave an affirmative reply.
A LARGE crowd was assembled at a Long Island flying field early the next morning. The dim light of a new day shone on the wings of a glistening monoplane, which gleamed like burnished silver.
An automobile rolled up, and four men stepped out. Among them was one dressed in an aviator’s costume.
“It’s Branson!”
A cheer went up from the crowd. The man did not appear to notice it. He walked over to inspect the plane.
Another aviator joined him; the two shook hands, while photographers sought to obtain shots.
“Branson’s in great shape, isn’t he?” said one of the men who had driven up in the car.
“Never saw him looking better.” It was Peterson who spoke. “He had a good rest last night. I saw to that.”
The men entered the plane; the one whom the crowd had acclaimed as Branson took the pilot’s seat. The propeller whirled; the plane rolled heavily along the ground.
As it gained speed, it slowly rose in the air, and its wings, flashing in the dawn, gave it the appearance of a graceful bird.
The Silver Comet, it was called, and as it headed toward the northeast, it ascended higher and sped onward, until it became a silver speck in the clear sky.
The crowd broke into little groups; then disbanded. A solemnity had fallen over the people gathered at the flying field.
Two men had left America. They were matching their man-made bird against the mighty pitfalls of the great Atlantic. They were attempting a transoceanic flight.
That afternoon the papers reported that the plane flown by Lieutenant Raymond Branson had been sighted off the Maine coast. Later reports stated that it had been seen near Newfoundland.
All touch with the aviators had been lost. Hours passed with no report of their progress. The flight had been delayed by head winds; it was certain that the aviators were behind their anticipated schedule.
Some thirty-six hours after the take-off, there was a rumor that the plane had been seen above Ireland.
It was believed that the fliers were keeping on to continental Europe. They had run into night, and it was impossible to trace them.
This report was received by radio, aboard the Steamship Colonia outward bound from New York. It was discussed by a group of men, in the salon.
“Well,” said one man, “there’s another pair lost in the Atlantic. Take it from me, young fellow, you’ll never hear anything of this man Branson, again.”
The person to whom the speaker chanced to address his remark was none other than Lieutenant Raymond Branson, in person.
Vic Marquette smiled as he heard the statement. To the world, it was Branson who was flying the Silver Comet. No one even suspected that the actual pilot was The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXXIII
ON THE TRAIN DE LUXE
A MAN came down the corridor of a car on the train de luxe that was moving swiftly toward Berlin. He reached a compartment, and entered. He closed the door, and seated himself with a quiet chuckle.
He glanced at a newspaper, and noted that two Americans were attempting to fly the Atlantic.
“Americans,” he muttered in English. “Bah! I have seen enough of Americans and America.”
The man noted an account of an explosion in New York City. His eyes lighted as he looked for details; but the report was meager. Even the time was not given. Twenty people were reported killed. A building had collapsed.
The man folded the paper, and leaned back in his seat. He began to doze. The train rolled steadily onward. It had made a stop half an hour before; the next station would be reached in another half hour.
The wind began to sweep against the window, and rain appeared there. The window was totally black; darkness held sway. The train passed through a tunnel; smoke poured by the window.
The man in the compartment had fallen asleep.
The knob of the door began to turn. The door opened slowly. As it swung inward, nothing was revealed except a blackness in the corridor. Then that blackness assumed a human form. A man stepped in and closed the door.
The sleeper stirred, but did not awaken. The man who had entered began a close search of the compartment. He came to the man who dozed.
The sleeper was a man of middle age with aristocratic features. His hair was gray; he wore a close-clipped mustache, apparently of recent growth.
The mysterious visitor leaned over the occupant of the compartment. His black cloak seemed to envelop the sleeper, as it obscured him from view. When the man in black stepped away, his hand held a thin package of folded papers.
He stood there, studying the man before him. The man in black seemed to have no face; it was entirely hidden by his upturned collar, and by the brim of his dark hat. His form cast a huge, fantastic shadow. The mysterious man laughed softly.