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Updated: June 24, 2025
Darkness was falling when at last Curlie and Joe reached the station at Landensport. In spite of the fact that they had had no supper and were weary from travel, Curlie insisted on going at once to the hangar where the Stormy Petrel, Alfred Brightwood's seaplane, was kept. "Yes," said the keeper of the hangar, "they hopped off six hours ago.
When he spoke he was again the sober, thoughtful business man. "If what you say is true, and you find that they have already departed on this supposed journey, my private yacht is at your disposal. It lies in the mouth of the river at Landensport. The captain and engineer are on board. You will need no further crew. She is the fastest private engine-driven yacht afloat.
"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."
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