"Praed," he murmured. "Yes, I saw him come back, by himself. He said
you were following. Two of his motors were shot. He seems to bear a
charmed life, doesn't he?"

Lance nodded. He didn't like to hint at the thought he had in mind. It
seemed a cowardly, stab-in-the-back thing to do. Yet it was duty, and
there was no questioning duty.

"I've never seen Praed shoot down an enemy plane," he said slowly.
"This is the fifth time we've been ambushed--and Praed's never been
caught. Somehow, he's always seemed to be aware of what was coming."

"You mean--?" the colonel questioned.

Lance shook his head. "I don't want to commit myself, Colonel Douglas,
but--I'm suggesting that we--well--keep our eyes peeled, and perhaps
watch certain members of the outfit more closely."

* * * * *

Douglas rose as his orderly, Ranth, came into the room. "Find
Lieutenant Praed for me," the colonel ordered crisply. Then, turning
to Lance, he said: "You'd better knock off a few hours' sleep. You are
worn out."

Lance watched the orderly, Ranth, salute and leave. Ranth was heavy,
thick-built, with closely set eyes. The young squadron leader was
suddenly conscious that he was, as the colonel said, worn out; his
limbs seemed leaden, his eyelids heavy. "I think you're right, sir,"
he murmured, and walked out onto the field.

Seeing Praed's machine drawn up with the overall-clad figure of a
mechanic fussing at its motors, he wandered over to survey it. The
scout was an exact replica of his, a model of the famous Goshawk type.
It was all motor--everything being sacrificed to speed. On either side
of the stubby brow of the fuselage, which held the death-dealing
battery of three machine-guns, were set the four Rahl-Diesel motors,
back to back. The pilot's tiny enclosed cockpit was thus surrounded by
engines. In the V-shaped, smooth-lined wings were the two helicopter
props; further back, inside the steel-sheathed, bullet-like fuselage,
the radio outfit and fuel tanks. The craft's rounded belly covered the
gas bomb compartment.

The mechanic was a little cockney Englishman, a fugitive, like all his
countrymen, from the horror which had stricken England suddenly and
left her wallowing in her life blood. He looked up at Lance, and a
smile broke forth on his wizened, sharp little face.

"It's got me beat, sir," he said in his curious, twanging voice.
"Lieutenant Praed, 'e sez to me, 'Somethin' wrong with two of m