claw-like hand on the other's arm. "Why, to-night we'll put into
execution a plan that will permanently put these young Prescotts out of
it. Fanning knows what I mean. Hey?"

He glanced up at his ill-favored son.

"I know fast enough," said that young hopeful, "but it's a risky matter.
Why don't you get somebody else to do it?"

"Pshaw! It's only filing off a padlock and then smashing a few of the
motor parts," said the old man, in as calm a tone as if he were proposing
a constitutional walk, "that's soon done, hey?"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted any reply Fanning might have been
about to make.

"Come in," snarled Mortlake. "It's the mail, I suppose," he said, turning
to old Mr. Harding, but, to his surprise and consternation, the opened
door revealed Roy Prescott. Close behind him came Mr. Bell and Peggy, with
Jimsy and Jess bringing up the rear.

"To what am I indebted for the pleasure of this visit?" asked Mortlake,
glowering at the newcomers, as they filed in, and Mr. Bell closed the door
behind them. "Why didn't you send up your cards, and I'd have torn them up
and thrown them out of the window."

"Just what I thought you'd do, so we came up ourselves," said Mr. Bell
cheerily. "Now, look here, Mortlake--no, sit down. I've come up here to
right a wrong. You've tried to do all in your power to injure these young
people, whose only fault is that they have built a better aeroplane than
you have. It's their turn now, and you've got to grin and bear it."

Mortlake's jaw dropped. His old bullying manner was gone now. Old Man
Harding cackled inanely, but said nothing. Only his long, lean fingers
drummed on the table. Fanning turned a pasty yellow. He had some idea of
what was to come. His eyes fell to the floor, as if seeking some loophole
of escape there.

"Well," growled Mortlake, "what have you got to say to me?"

"Not much," snapped the mining man, "but I wish to read you something."

He drew from his pocket a paper.

"This is the confession of Joey Eccles," he said quietly. "I've another by
Frederick Palmer."

Mortlake leaped up and sprang toward the Westerner, but Mr. Bell held up
his hand.

"Don't try to destroy them," he said. "They are only copies. The originals
are by this time in the hands of the authorities at Sandy Beach."

Mortlake sank back with staring eyes and white cheeks.

"What do you want me to do?" he gasped.

"Listen to these confessions and then sign your name to them,