Then he crawled, like a stricken animal, away from the light, until a mass of twisted steel plating impeded his progress. "There's been a most unholy smash," he declared solemnly. Gradually coherent reasoning returned to him. Strangely enough he completely forgot that Peter had been with him in the crash. His chief thoughts were for the safety of the essential parts of the secret-ray apparatus. Those placed in a locker in the flying-boat were probably smashed, but there remained the most important object of all--the delicate valve which he had hidden in an empty cartridge case. Almost feverishly he tore open his leather greatcoat and felt for the cartridge-belt that had been his constant companion from the time he left El Toro. With trembling fingers he extracted the small glass phial and held it up to the light. Then he gave a gulp of relief and satisfaction. The delicate filament and the minute and complex mechanism were intact. "Hello, Uncle! Taking a blood test?" Brian Strong turned at the sound of the well-known voice. Walking unsteadily towards him was Peter Corbold. His nephew was still wearing his flying-coat and helmet, which he had put on merely for the sake of warmth. The coat was rent in half a dozen places, while the left side of his face was red with blood welling from a cut on the forehead. Peter's period of insensibility had been of short duration, Thrown clear of the wreckage after his impact with the instrument-board, he had got off with a nasty bruise on the forehead. The padded helmet had saved his skull from being fractured, but the blow had been sufficient to cause the blood to flow freely. His head was whirling, he felt horribly sick and as weak as a kitten, yet he could not repress a facetious remark upon seeing his relative so absorbed in his precious invention. "We're here," continued Peter. "But where, goodness only knows. What's your damage, Uncle Brian? Wasn't it a jolly old crash? It reminds me of a song we used to yell in the gun-room of the old _Baffin_: 'She bumped as she'd never bumped before.'" "And never will again," added Uncle Brian with emphasis. "What's to be done now?" "Sleep till the morning," replied the practical Peter. "My head's buzzing like a top. There's a chunk of the old 'bus that will make quite a decent bunk. I vote we turn in." Eight hours later Peter awoke to find the sun shining brightly. His headache had vanished and--good sign--he felt ravenously and healthily hungry. Uncle Brian was still sleeping soundly. Peter let him sleep. It would give him an opportunity to take stock of the locality. Throwing off his blankets and greatcoat, for the heat of the sun was oppressive, Peter emerged from his retreat and stood blinking in amazement in the dazzling light--sheer amazement at their marvellous escape.