Alan looked sadly at the scene in front of him. A brilliant moon had risen and was sending its beams across the phosphorescent waters. The air was sweet and balmy—the Southern Cross was discernible and the whole scene was like a wonderful painting. The chud-chud of the engines and the swish of the water was the only sound to be heard. Somehow, Alan felt very much alone that night. Desmond, his childish playmate, his boyhood’s chum, and later his companion in adventure, seemed lost to him. He had married a wife. That was the trouble in a nut-shell. Things would never be the same again. He was fond of Mavis—she was a dear girl, and would be a splendid wife for his cousin— “Good night, old chap,” said he huskily. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’ve been keeping you too long from Mavis.” “Good night, Alan. I think I will turn in now. I shall tumble to sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow,” he added boyishly. “Good night.” But it was early morning before Alan went to sleep. He wondered what the future had in store for him. Would it prove as adventurous as the past? Or would he remain a lonely old bachelor, a wanderer on the face of the earth? No fixed home of his own—a favourite uncle, perhaps, to Desmond’s sons. Yes, he was getting morbid. He was still young, barely thirty and had his life before him. Somewhere, perhaps, a mate was waiting for him. Somewhere, some time he would find his ideal,—and then— The clock struck five; he yawned, turned over and fell asleep. CHAPTER II HOME AGAIN In a lovely part of Perthshire, deep in a valley among the mountains, lonely and hard of access, stood a curious building. Any one with a knowledge of aeronautics would have recognized it as a hangar for an airship. A narrow track led from it to a tiny cottage in which lived three men—Sir John Forsyth, Abel Masters and Hector Murdoch, the latter a trusty and faithful mechanic. Shortly after Alan’s supposed death, Sir John gave up everything to the last remaining object of his life—the completion and success of his giant airship. He had grown very secretive about it. He had it dismantled and taken to pieces, and in pieces it was sent to Scotland to await further experiments. A hangar had been built, the workmen had gone—and then the three men set to work to build up the “Argenta” once again. Sir John had disposed of his interest in the Marshfielden collieries, and his London offices had been taken over by the new owners, hence he had no tie to keep him in the great metropolis. For over five years he had worked, and now success had come. The powerful spirit he had perfected as a motive power was unexcelled and on the morrow they were going for their first trial flight in the great machine. Sir John rubbed his hand affectionately over the shimmering metal. It meant everything to him since his nephews had gone.