“That means ‘noble sirs’,” scoffed Whistler. “No, thank heaven, we do not have such a caste as that in America!” “You have some very rich men--very rich. I have heard my cousin Emil say. He knows many of them. Many are from German blood. Of course, _when_ we finish the war, they will create a caste, as you call it, in your United States. Cousin Emil says----” “Who is your Cousin Emil?” demanded Phil Morgan more amused than angered after all, by this kind of talk. “Is he in the States now?” “Not yet,” said young Eberhardt, slyly looking at his inquisitor. “But he is going.” “Before the war ends? Not much chance of that.” “Poof!” rejoined the German youth. “You cannot stop Emil. What he wants to do, he does. He is a great man. He has been decorated by the Emperor.” “What department does he fight in?” “Ah, he is greater than a fighter,” said young Eberhardt, shaking his head. “He goes hither and yon--where he chooses. In France, England, Italy, and now to your country, America.” “A spy?” growled Morgan. “Call him as you like. Cousin Emil is a wonderful man. Why, to fly from our bases in Belgium to this England is nothing to Cousin Emil. He has so traveled a dozen times. But this was my first trip.” “You were not traveling with your cousin in that Zep, were you?” “Ah, no. You say our sister _Luftshiff_--she is fallen?” “Smashed all to pieces,” declared Whistler with satisfaction. “And her crew prisoners--all but one.” “Ah!” breathed Eberhardt, slyly smiling again. “And he who escaped?” “What do you know about him?” asked Whistler in surprise. “That fellow is a spy I bet! He was not a regular member of the Zep’s crew.” “No? You saw him?” “Yes.” “Is he a man with a very sharp eye, a moustache like our Emperor, a tiny beard here?” touching his lower lip. “That’s the fellow!” cried Whistler. “Do you mean to say he is your cousin Emil, and a spy?” “Oh, no, my friend,” chuckled the “schmardie.” “Oh, no. I do not say that. I merely say that man with the little beard on his lip--a goatee, do you call it?--plays the cornet. You know, most cornet players wear the little goatee, isn’t it so?” Eberhardt laughed again and wagged his head, refusing to say more. As for thanking Whistler for what he and Belding had done toward saving his life, such a thought never seemed to enter the German youth’s mind. CHAPTER X--THE TERROR OF THE SEAS Phil Morgan, on thinking over the conversation with Franz Eberhardt, was not at all sure that he should have discussed the wreck of the other Zeppelin so freely with the prisoner. Yet Eberhardt was a prisoner, and was not likely to be in a position to use any information he might have gained to benefit his nation for a long time to come. If Eberhardt’s cousin was a spy, perhaps this young chap was one too.