We stopped our machine at the entrance to the field and walked toward the hangars. Three aeroplanes were out, being tuned up. They looked like birds, ready to take wing at the slightest disturbance. The coroner walked over to one of the helpers. "Can you direct me to the hangar Mr. Frank Woods uses?" "Woods?" the man repeated with a puzzled frown. "I don't remember any such machine here. I know most of 'em, but I don't think any Woods has a machine here. Wait! I'll ask Bill. He'd know if any one did." He walked over to a group of mechanicians and returned in a moment. "It's the last one down. He ain't had a machine here only two weeks. That's the reason I didn't know the name." We thanked him and started for the other end of the field. A pilot climbed into one of the machines. Two mechanicians spun the propeller and the engine sputtered and roared. The plane wabbled and swayed drunkenly out on to the field, then as the roar increased, it gathered speed and was off. At the door of the Woods hangar, a red-haired mechanic of powerful build was cleaning and oiling some delicate-looking piece of mechanism. He looked up with a questioning frown as we approached, then became engrossed again in his work. "Is this where Mr. Woods keeps his aeroplane?" the coroner asked. "Un-hu," grunted the mechanician, continuing with his work. "Mr. Woods isn't here, is he?" "No," was the laconic reply. "Are you Mr. Woods' mechanician?" "One of 'em," the red one responded. "How many has he?" "Three." "Are the others about?" continued the coroner. "One of 'em is," said the mechanic, "and he just loves to answer fool questions." The coroner laughed. "Excuse me, my friend, but I am in need of some important information. Will you tell me which one of the mechanicians was with Mr. Woods when he visited the country-club two weeks ago last Thursday night?" The mechanic scrambled to his feet and advanced toward the coroner, his face twisted with passion. For a moment I thought he was going to attack us, but he stopped a foot in front of the coroner and snarled: "I don't know who you are, nor what you are, nor what you want, but I ain't no information bureau--See? So git t' hell out o' here if you know what's good for you!" With that he turned and disappeared inside the hangar. We looked at one another. The signs seemed propitious. "Would it do any good to try to bribe him?" I asked. "You can try it if you want to; I don't care for the job," Simpson smiled. "No," the coroner interposed. "He was with Woods that night and he won't talk." "Shouldn't we get the police?" suggested Simpson. "That wouldn't do any good," the coroner replied. "Wait a minute! I think I've got it." And with that he went inside.