The remainder of their conversation was carried on in low tones and with the greatest earnestness. These two rascals, for both were that, bargained eagerly, and it was quite an hour later before they parted. Then Mr. Carl Reitberg passed out of the house, roughly pushed aside a poor woman who begged alms of him, hailed a taxi, and drove away to his gorgeous mansion. He left Adolf Fruhmann richer than he had been for many a day, with the promise of abundance in the future and sufficient money with which to carry on the plot so craftily hatched in that back room in the grimy house off Whitechapel. The following day found the magnate down at Joe Gresson's wonderful hangar again. He was geniality itself. He had come to wish the crew and the ship a safe voyage and a rapid one, and to hope that nothing might happen to arrest their progress or to damage the airship. "To my old friend, Mr. Andrew Provost," he said, "and to his wonderful nephew, Mr. Joseph Gresson. May they return triumphant!" Lifting the glass of wine he had been sipping and standing up he solemnly drank the health of the party. Then, with a cordial grip of the hand all round, he left the ship under the pilotage of Sergeant Evans. His tongue was in his cheek as he stepped on to the gangway which led to the floor of the hangar. He turned to wave his adieus to the people above, distinguishable through the framework of the vessel. And then he regarded the Sergeant with a puzzled expression. "Strange," he said. "I seem to know your face, to have met you before." "The other day, sir," came the respectful and guarded answer; "I took your card up to Mr. Andrew."