icular evening. And it
would give me a chance to see Elza again.

I could tell by the light-numerals below, that I was now over Maine. I
did not need to consult my charts; I had been up this way many times,
for, the Brendes--the doctor, his daughter Elza, and her twin brother
Georg--I counted my best friends.

I was over the sea, with the coast of Maine to my left. The traffic,
since I left the line of Boston, had been far less. The patrols flashed
by me at intervals, but they did not molest me.

I descended presently, and located the small two-mile island which Dr.
Brende owned and upon which he lived.

It was 10:20 when I came down to find them waiting for me on the runway.

The doctor held out both his hands. "Good enough, Jac. I got your
code--we've been waiting for you."

"It's crowded," I said. "Heavy up to Boston. And they wouldn't let me go
high."

He nodded. And then Elza put her cool little hand in mine.

"We're glad to see you, Jac. Very glad."

They took me to the house. Dr. Brende was a small, dark man of
sixty-odd, smooth-shaven, a thin face, with a mop of iron-grey hair
above it, and keen dark eyes beneath bushy white brows. He was usually
kindly and gentle of manner--at times a little abstracted; at other
times he could be more forceful and direct than anyone with whom I had
ever had contact.

At the house we were joined by the doctor's son, Georg. My best friend,
I should say; certainly, for my part, I treasured his friendship very
highly. He and Elza were twins--twenty-three years old at this time. I
am two years older; and I had been a room-mate with Georg at the Common
University of the Potomac.

Our friendship had, if anything, grown closer since my promotion into
the business world. Yet we were as unlike as two individuals could
possibly be. I am dark-haired, slim, and of comparatively slight
muscular strength. Restless--full of nervous energy--and, they tell me,
somewhat short of temper. Georg was a blond, powerful young giant. A
head taller than I--blue-eyed, from his mother, now dead--square-jawed,
and a complexion pink and white. He was slow to anger. He seldom spoke
impulsively; and usually with a slow, quiet drawl. Always he seemed
looking at life and people with a half-humorous smile--looking at the
human pageant with its foibles, follies and frailties--tolerantly. Yet
there was nothing conceited about him. Quite the reverse. He was
generally wholly deprecating in manner, as th