“Yes, yes! Malcolm Forsyth! Of course, of course. Well, I can’t see him. I won’t see him. I don’t want to see anyone. But why did he wire you, Masters? He didn’t even know your name.” “I can’t understand it at all, Sir John,” then his face brightened, “unless the clerk who redirected it put my name on by mistake.” “Ah, perhaps that was it. Oh well, never mind,” said Sir John testily. “You must write and say I can’t see him. Here’s a letter for you, too,” he went on. “I expect it’s from the Stores,” said Masters. “I have been expecting their list of concentrated foods with the highest caloric value. We want them in our flights.” He opened the letter casually. “My God!” he cried and it dropped from his nerveless fingers. “For Heaven’s sake control yourself,” said Sir John sharply. Now his airship was complete, his nerves were all on edge waiting for the trial. “What is it? What is it?” “I’m sorry,” said Masters penitently, “but I’ve had a shock. I’ve heard from some one I thought was dead years ago.” Sir John showed little interest. “Well let us now get on with lunch,” was all he said. “I don’t think I’ll have any if you don’t mind,” said Masters. “I must go into Arroch Head at once and send a telegram. I may have the car I suppose?” “Why, of course, but do have your meal first.” “No—no I can’t wait. I must go at once.” Masters had had a shock. He had received Alan’s letter from Sydney, and the meaning of the telegram was clear. Alan and Desmond were safe and had arrived in England. He must wire them at once, and give them Sir John’s address. He scarcely knew how to break the news to him, and it worried him as he went into the little village. “Have you wired your friend?” asked Sir John when he got back. “Yes.” “Do you want to see him—if so you had better take a short holiday after the trial.” “Thank you all the same, Sir John, but I’ve wired them to come to Arroch Head.” “The devil you have!” roared Sir John. “I suppose the next thing will be that you want them to come over here and see the Argenta.” “I was going to suggest it to you,” answered Masters imperturbably. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Show my work—the child of my brain to strangers? Never!” “They are not quite strangers, Sir John. The fact is—” he hesitated, “I told you I had mourned them as dead—so have _you_, Sir John.” “What?” “I have given them your address and—” “You’ve given them my address?” spluttered the old gentleman in rage. “Yes, Sir John—don’t you understand now? I told you that _you too_ had mourned them as dead.” Sir John looked sharply at Masters, and as he gazed deep into his eyes he read there the truth. “Alan—Desmond,” he said hoarsely. Masters nodded his head and Sir John sank back into his chair. “Alan!” he whispered. “Is it true?” “Yes.” “Don’t joke, man, for God’s sake! Don’t fool me! It can’t be true. It’s six years since the accident. Why the mine has never been in use since—not that part.”