t. I
couldn't get him myself--but anyway I'm satisfied."

* * * * *

He staggered and would have fallen, had not Bart caught him in his
arms. Poor old Van! Nearly killed him, this thing had, but he'd be
himself again, after it was all over. No wonder he'd gone out of his
head with the horror of it, and the blame that had been so cruelly
laid on him! No wonder he'd become obsessed with this idea of getting
square with Dan Kelly! But now he was content: sleeping like a babe in
Bart's arms.

Tenderly they carried him to the plane and laid him out on the
cushions in back. They'd let him sleep as long as he could; return him
to Washington where he'd receive his just dues in recognition for his
services. Then would follow the work of reconstruction and
rehabilitation. Van would glory in that.

Bart regarded his sleeping friend thoughtfully as they winged their
swift way toward the American border. The harsh lines that had showed
in his face during the past few hours were smoothed away and in their
place was an expression of deep contentment. He was at peace with the
world once more. Good old Van.

What a difference there would be when he awakened to full realization
of the changed order of things! What satisfaction and relief!

[Illustration: Advertisement]

The Port of Missing Planes

_By Captain S. P. Meek_

[Illustration: _"That portion of the wall has gone back in time
exactly three seconds," he announced._]

[Sidenote: In the underground caverns of the Selom, Dr. Bird once
again locks wills with the subversive genius, Saranoff.]

So that's the "Port of Missing Planes," mused Dick Purdy as he looked
down over the side of his cockpit. "It looks wild and desolate all
right, but at that I can't fancy a bus cracking up here and not being
found pronto. Gosh, Wilder cracked in the wildest part of Arizona and
he was found in a week."

The mail plane droned monotonously on through perfect flying weather.
Purdy continued to study the ground. Recently transferred from a
western run, he was getting his first glimpse of that section of ill
repute. Below him stretched a desolate, almost uninhabited stretch of
country. By looking back he could see Bellefonte a few miles behind
him, but Philipsburg, the next spot marked on his map, was not yet
visible. Twelve hundred feet below him ran a silver line of water
which his map told him was Little Moshannon Run. As he watched he
suddenly