efore be
all the more terrible in retrospect.

The only impressions which were real were those of motion to the front,
and upward, and the sense of noiseless machinery, vibrating the whole,
nearby.

Then a distinct realization of the cessation of the sense of flying, and
a return, though in lesser degree, of the rising and falling of waves.
This latter sensation became less and less, though the feeling of
traveling downward continued. Prester Kleig knew that he was going down
into the sea again, down into it deeply.... Then that odor once more,
and the elusive memory.

Forward motion at last, in the depths, swift, forward motion, though
Prester Kleig could not even guess at the direction. Just swift motion,
and the mutter of voices, the giving of orders....

* * * * *

Prester Kleig regained consciousness fully on the sands of the shore. He
sat up stiffly, staring out to sea. A storm was raging, and the sea was
an angry waste. No ship showed on the waters; the mad, tumbled sky above
it was either empty of planes or they had climbed to invisibility above
the clouds that raced and churned with the storm.

Out of the storm, almost at Prester Kleig's feet, dropped a small
airplane. Through the window a familiar face peered at Kleig. A
helmeted, begoggled figure opened the door and stepped out.

"Kleig, old man," said the flyer, "you gave me the right dope all right,
but I'll swear there isn't a wireless tower within a hundred miles of
this place! How did you manage it?"

"Kane, you're crazy, or I am, or...." But Prester Kleig could not go on
with the thought which had rushed through his brain with the numbing
impact of a blow. He grasped the hand of Carlos Kane, of the Domestic
Service, and the yellow flimsy Kane held out to him. It read simply:

"Shipwrecked. Am ashore at--" There followed grid coordinate map
readings. "Come at once, prepared to fly me to Washington." It was
signed "Kleig."

"Kane," said Kleig, "I did not send this message!"

What more was there to be said? Horror looked out of the eyes of Prester
Kleig, and was reflected in those of Carlos Kane. Both men turned,
peering out across the tumbled welter of waters.

Somewhere out there, tight-locked in the gloomy archives of the
Atlantic, was the secret of the message which had brought Carlos Kane to
Prester Kleig--and the agency which had sent it.

CHAPTER III

_Wings of To-morrow_

As Prester Kleig c