With an execration Van Arsdale fired. But in the second that it took to aim at the grinning lad, Lawrence had disappeared. Lying flat on the floor, he wriggled over toward the wheel which he found lashed in position. The ship, drifting about, commenced to wobble. Second by second Lawrence waited for the shots that would put the bag above him in a worse condition than the one he had just fixed. He could not doubt that they were doomed. He knew very well that even when offering them a chance for life Van Arsdale had fully intended to let them get away and then shoot up the ship and drown them all. But now he could see through the open slat left for sweeping off the deck that Van Arsdale was trying to keep the dirigible up until reinforcements should come. And in a minute or two Lawrence knew by the sound of the engine they would hail them.

Many thoughts passed through his mind as he lay there waiting to hear the first shot clip through the billowing silk above him.

His first thought was a heart-breaking one. He would never know his own people, never feel the touch of his mother’s soft and loving cheek against his own! Bitterly he regretted that he had not told Mr. Ridgeway the whole thing.

He could not make himself believe that Mr. Ridgeway too was doomed. He wanted Mr. Ridgeway or someone to take a message to the dear ones he so longed for. He wanted them to know that the son so long lost loved them and had built his young life out of the best he had, for their sakes. Mr. Ridgeway lay motionless, and the roar of the approaching engine sounded loud in Lawrence’s ears. In a moment he heard it close in on the other side of their dirigible and shouts sounded. Unable to withstand his curiosity, Lawrence popped his head above the bulwark and witnessed a most amazing thing.

As the newcomer broke through the fog and swung to the left, a burly figure hanging over the bulwark swept the tableau through his goggles. It was astonishing enough. On the right was the big dirigible with the punctured gas bag struggling with all the might of its powerful engine to keep in the air.

Brown had already mounted the network and was trying to stop the leak.

At the wheel stood Smith, a smile frozen on his face as he swept his eyes over the newcomers. Even with all their coats and wrappings, he knew that John and the others were not there.

The newcomer saw the figure of Mr. Ridgeway lying in the bottom of the ship nearest; he saw the boy wigwag frantically from the bottom; he saw the two bound and gagged mechanicians.

He uttered an imprecation, and leaping lightly into the middle ship called to his men as he did so. Then hauling out his revolver, he made another leap which landed him in front of Van Arsdale. As he landed, he tore off his mask and goggles and stripped off the heavy leather coat.

“Ye lyin’, stealin’, murderin’ villain!” he shouted. “I won’t defile me new pistol on ye! Fight! Fight, can ye? Fer I’m goin’ to slay ye wit’ me own hands!”

As he made a lunge for Van Arsdale, the man attempted to shoot, but the weapon was dashed from his hand.

This much Lawrence saw, then he found there was something else for him to do besides watch the maddened O’Brien rushing his snaky adversary, as the balloon almost imperceptibly settled into the fog. The machine he was in was reeling around as the wheel turned and the rudder swung to and fro. Lawrence trued it and lashed the wheel. Then he shouted an order to Hank and Bill who were on the point of following their leader with their new guns in hand. Hank sprang for the wheel with an order to Ollie. Quickly the dirigible rounded the bow of the middle ship, and dipping a little, lashed fast to the sinking balloon and held it steady. Hank drew a bead on Brown, still clinging to the ropes on the side of the gas bag, and ordered him down. In the meantime, Lawrence was ripping the gags out of the mouths of the two men but he could not free them as the anklets and handcuffs were locked on, and he did not know where to look for the key. He tried only for a moment, for Mr. Ridgeway claimed his attention. Dashing some water over his set and pallid face, he was relieved to see the eyelids quiver, and a broken sigh well up from the sunken chest.

His friend and benefactor would live!

Panting cries and gurgles sounded from the collapsed dirigible, and Lawrence looked over upon a terrific encounter. Both Van Arsdale and O’Brien were large men, O’Brien stocky and full muscled, Van Arsdale built pantherlike and slim.

Van Arsdale fought with the surprise that one so low as a mere detective should raise a hand against him and with a furious resolve to punish, mangle and kill his opponent.

But something deadlier, colder and deeper stirred in O’Brien’s blood. He remembered his own death sentence on the lips of this man now delivered into his hands. He could hear the smooth voice say, “It will not be painful, only for half an hour, O’Brien!” O’Brien wondered as he lunged out at his enemy, delivering slashing blows, he wondered how many men and boys and indeed women had gone down to death by his hand or by his orders.

Hank, clinging to the ropes and trying to watch Brown as he came slowly down, saw the conflict out of the corner of his eye, and muttered, “Some folks has all the luck! I bet one of ’em get killed!”

As O’Brien delivered a terrific blow and Van Arsdale reeled back against the rail, O’Brien looked him in the eye.

“Come on, you snake!” he gritted. “No quarter! I’ll make you pay for what you did to me. You lily-fingered murderer, you! See if you can fight a white man’s way!”

Van Arsdale sprang forward, murder in his eye. O’Brien read it there and laughed a laugh that was like the flick of a whip across the face of the man before him.

It was not O’Brien’s first fist-fight. Many and many the time he had encountered men his equal in size and strength on the mat, but in the long nights in the frozen north O’Brien had met men of many kinds and races, and his joyful laugh and ready wit and square open nature had made him many friends. From one and another he had learned tricks worth remembering: the feint, the unexpected stoop, the rush and instant withdrawal.

And as the struggle went on up there far above the sea, jewels worth a king’s ransom under their scuffling feet, the fog close about them, the punctured bag doubling and flopping overhead, and here and there the small steel muzzles that yearned to speak their short, sudden summons of death, as they fought on and on it became apparent that at last O’Brien had met his match.

He could despise Van Arsdale, could hate him, but O’Brien had to acknowledge that the man could fight. O’Brien was rushing. All his fighting was offensive. Van Arsdale, on the defensive, parried and sidestepped O’Brien’s bull-like rushes.

O’Brien couldn’t rid himself of the idea that Van Arsdale was fighting for time. It puzzled the detective, but with the one idea of administering a drubbing that would forever mark his cold and handsome adversary O’Brien fought on while the fog slowly cleared and the dirigible hung low between the supporting ships.

The little wind that had been blowing from the north grew suddenly stronger, and as a curtain rolls up and is forgotten, so the thick fog disappeared and left the strange group swinging over the sea that washed the white cliffs of England. They shone in the morning sunlight, and on the gray sea beneath a schooner rocked lazily.

Van Arsdale, buffeted against the rail by one of O’Brien’s sledge-hammer blows, saw the schooner and his heart leaped. He knew that the two ships supporting the dirigible in which they were fighting were slowly seeking a lower level. It was not a killing height from the sea if he could manage to hit the water right. O’Brien, hammering one blow after another, was punishing him badly, but he was also returning enough blows to keep O’Brien from landing a knockout. Once in awhile O’Brien would land a slashing blow on his face. He felt the bridge of his nose crack under a terrific slam, and a moment later it crashed in. One eye was closing. Again, in a moment when both rested for breath, Van Arsdale measured the distance to the sea. He knew the schooner would pick him up, and safe in his pocket rested the check for three million dollars.

He was growing tired. O’Brien rushed him again and with the quickness of light Van Arsdale slipped his left hand in his breast. There was a narrow silvery flash as the hand lifted and came down straight for O’Brien’s heart. Van Arsdale knew where to strike and knew he could not miss as he leaned lightly forward. He had meant this ending but somehow could not bring it about sooner. The knife descended in a true path, but something happened. Eyes as quick as Van Arsdale’s own watched under O’Brien’s set brows, and with a leap he writhed aside. The razor-edged blade slid through the slack of his coat, and instantly O’Brien had clasped his man in the Indian wrestler’s grip.

There was a moment of mighty effort, when the trained muscles gathered and tightened to their task. Then all at once the watcher there heard a strange crackling snap, as Van Arsdale was lifted high over O’Brien’s head and went whirling down, and down, and down, a limp and grotesque figure that met the tumbled sea and disappeared beneath the waves forever.

There was a long silence while O’Brien leaned panting against the rail and the others strained their fascinated eyes to see if Van Arsdale’s body would appear. But there was no break on the surface of the sea. Only Hank found his voice. For want of a better listener he addressed Brown. Prodding him recklessly with the muzzle of his new automatic, he demanded, “Didn’t I say so? Sure I did!”

But Brown made no reply. A man who can feel the exact shape of a gun muzzle against his third rib never feels in the mood for bandying words. He stood quite still. Brown knew that for him the end had come. He lowered his wolfish head and cringed. Even when they put him in irons he did not speak.

O’Brien was the first to collect himself. He opened his coat, and parting the slashed cloth traced the course of a clean-cut scratch that commenced at the left breast and curved downward for twelve inches. He turned and showed it to Hank and Bill. A trickle of blood marked its course.

“Gee!” said Bill.

“That’s going to leave a scar,” said Hank hopefully.

“Naw, it won’t!” Bill retorted.

“It will if he rubs salt in it,” said Hank.

“Well, what in time would he do that for?” the much-tried Bill wanted to know.

“Why, salt is an epidemic,” said Hank. “Best thing in the world!”

“Whadder you mean: epidemic?” demanded Bill.

“He means antiseptic, I suppose,” smiled O’Brien, almost too tired and blown to talk.

“Yes, antiseptic, or epidemic, all the same thing,” Bill replied. “Stuff to rub, on a sore spot, and she gets well. If you don’t, piff! you get blood poison and swell up, and swell up till you die.” He grew silent, seeming to gloat over the picture of swelling up and swelling up. Then “Turrible!” he said.

“Well, I won’t swell up unless we have let Mr. Ridgeway die while we were settling things with Smith. Get over there, you two, and lay him down on the rugs.”

The two young men leaped back and, followed rather stiffly by O’Brien, found Mr. Ridgeway lying with open eyes, while Lawrence laid cloths soaked in cold water on his head. He looked very ill, and O’Brien was frightened when he saw his condition. Lifting him gently, he examined the bruise made by the blow, then went to attend a little to his own hurt.

“About a millionth of a inch more and he would uv croaked him,” Hank assured Bill in an undertone as they brought cushions and tucked them around the injured man.

Bill merely glared.

“I never saw anybody like you in this world!” he said finally.

“All right,” said Hank. “Say it all you please, but I don’t see as anybody has thought of what I am a-goin’ to do next, and it’s what he needs worst of all.”

He vaulted over into the ship they had come in, and disappeared into the tiny cabin. In a few minutes he appeared with a covered basket. This in hand, he went back to Mr. Ridgeway and knelt beside him. Uncovering the basket, he took out a pot of tea, boiling hot, and a couple of slices of toast. Mr. Ridgeway tasted it languidly, then drank with relish as the hot liquid warmed his chilled frame.

“I never tasted anything quite so good,” he said as he finished his second cup. “You had better pass some of that to O’Brien, young man. I never did know before how good tea could be.”

Hank returned to the cabin with his basket and a jeer for Bill.

O’Brien, scorning the “epidemic,” had bound up the scratch and now commenced to manoeuver the three planes in toward the cliffs. The punctured bag hung heavy between the others, but he thought he could manage to clear the rocks and drop the useless dirigible on the plain beyond. Mr. Ridgeway insisted on going on with the papers and jewels, and suggested to O’Brien that he should give him Hank and Bill, while he could stay to see to the dirigible and have Brown placed in prison. Also the two men who were still wearing their iron bracelets and anklets were clamoring loudly for release.

Brown, the prisoner, kept an unbroken silence.

After trying in vain to make Mr. Ridgeway wait over or let O’Brien go in his place, everything was settled in the way stated and the slow aerial procession made its way to the top of the cliffs or over them, and carefully led the broken dirigible, with O’Brien, Brown, the two manacled mechanicians and Ollie in the other balloon.

As Bill skillfully propelled their machine up into the higher currents, Lawrence looked at the cylinder which had been lifted into their machine, and marveled that it could make so much trouble. However, once more they were safe, he was lying beside Mr. Ridgeway, and a wave of love seemed to flood him. Lawrence wondered if he could ever care so much for his own father back there in the States.

It was a clear and sunny day; not a cloud in the sky; not a cross current to bother them. Almost mid-day indeed, yet Lawrence, dead tired, dropped asleep.