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Updated: June 25, 2025
"All right," he said in a quiet voice, "you just sit where you are and I'll sit here beside you and you tell me one or two things. That will help." "Tell tell what?" "Tell me this: Did your brother have the original of that old map?" "Yes," her tone was already quieting down, "yes, he did, or Alfred Brightwood did.
These boys, as you have no doubt long since guessed, were Vincent Ardmore and his reckless pal, Alfred Brightwood. This light had been playing upon the water since darkness had fallen, some three hours before. They had been circling for four hours.
"That Brightwood boy will be the death of us all yet," exploded the father. "For sheer foolhardy daring I have never known his equal. Time and again I have attempted to persuade Vincent to give up associating with him, but it has been of no avail. Alfred appears to hold some strange hypnotic power over him." For a moment he stood there in silence.
On the way back to the Ardmore home both the girl and her escort were silent for some time. Then, turning to her, Curlie asked: "Has this friend of your brother's Brightwood, did you say his name was? has he a seaplane?" "Is that an airplane which flies up from the ocean and lights upon it when one wishes it to?" "Yes." "He has one of those. Yes, I'm sure of it.
"Find anything?" he asked in as quiet a tone as he could command. "No," there was a tired and worried look in her eyes. "I'm afraid the map is not here." "By the way," he said in a casual way, "does your brother happen to have a pal living at Landensport on the coast?" "Why, yes," she said quickly, "that's Alfred Brightwood. They were chums in Brimward Academy." "I thought that might be so."
When Alfred Brightwood had tilted the nose of the Stormy Petrel upward and away from the threatening bank of clouds she rose rapidly. A thousand, two thousand, three, four, five thousand feet she mounted to dizzy heights above the sea. As they mounted, the stars, swinging about in the sky, like incandescent bulbs strung on a wire, made their appearance here and there.
"You see," he went on, "the day I was in the library with Miss Gladys I saw an exact reproduction of this map in a large volume. At the same time I read a description of it and a brief account of its history. It seems it was lost sight of about a century ago. There were copies, but the original was gone. "I concluded at once that the map had somehow come into the hands of Alfred Brightwood.
Couldn't be tryin' to cross the Atlantic, but you can never tell what'll get into that Brightwood boy's head. He's darin', he is. Jest some picnic, though, I reckon." "Some picnic all right!" said Curlie emphatically. "Some picnic for all of us!" "Eh? What?" the keeper turned on him quickly. Curlie did not answer. "Vincent Ardmore went with him, I suppose," Curlie said after a moment's silence.
Only one thing he could be sure of; his throbbing brain told it to him over and over: Alfred Brightwood, his friend, was gone gone forever. The sea had swallowed him up. When Curlie Carson had fastened the mysterious post-shaped affair to the springs of his berth, he fought his way against wind, waves and darkness back to the radiophone cabin.
I am unable to offer any worth-while proof for it, but it is my belief that your son and his chum, Alfred Brightwood, are considering a very perilous seaplane journey. Indeed, they may even at this moment be on their way. If that is true they should be followed at once in some swift traveling vessel, for they are almost certain to meet with disaster."
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