Chapter SEVENTEEN

The time passed slowly as the situation over the Pacific Ocean gradually assumed a normal condition. Day after day lapsed into infinity with Arthur Ingleton waiting aimlessly and almost hopelessly, wondering what to do. In this manner two weeks passed by. Then one morning he received a call at his hotel over the telephone from the hospital where his wife was lying, asking him to come there as quickly as possible. On arrival there he was met by the superintendent who said:

“I’m very sorry to tell you Mr. Ingleton that your wife has suffered a relapse, and we thought it best to call you. I will summon Dr. Harrington who is attending her.”

A few moments later Dr. Harrington came into the superintendent’s room.

“There is no use in discussing the situation, Mr. Ingleton,” he said, “Your wife has taken a decided turn for the worse. She is in a kind of stupor. I have been thinking that if we could awaken her interest we might bring about a change and put her on the road to recovery. There is no doubt that your presence will revive her interest, but if she should find out about your daughter’s death the result would be disastrous. What do you think?”

The expression of deep concern and apprehension that crept over Ingleton’s face clearly showed his thoughts. After a few moments’ reflection he said:

“I think it may be just as well if I go and see her. I may be able to awaken her interest sufficiently to help in improving her condition. If she asks me about Mary, I’ll try to evade her question for the time being.”

Ingleton followed Dr. Harrington through the hospital until they came to a room where his wife was lying. As they entered, the nurse who was sitting alongside the bed, got up and made way for them. Ingleton walked over to the head of the bed and, bending over, kissed his wife and gently clasped her hand. The patient’s eyes opened languidly and glanced up wearily. Then as she recognized her husband, they lit with a gleam of pleasurable excitement.

“Oh! Arthur,” she said feebly, “I’m so glad you came. I have waited such a long time for you, dear.”

An expression of contentment settled upon her worn face, and Dr. Harrington who stood by watching closely, nodded approvingly.

“I came here as quickly as I could, dear,” replied Ingleton. “Now I want to see you get well again soon.”

“Oh! I will,” declared his wife, and then as in an after-thought, she asked, “Have you got Mary for me?”

For a moment Ingleton paused, thinking rapidly for a reply. Before he could frame one his wife exclaimed:

“Nothing has happened to her, Arthur?”

The unexpectedness of this question coming in the midst of his hurried thoughts left Ingleton still further perplexed and at a loss for an answer with which to allay his wife’s anxiety. With quick intuition she grasped the situation and cried out:

“Oh! Arthur, for God’s sake, tell me! I know something terrible has happened, and you don’t want to tell me. I know it. What is it?”

“There, there, dear,” pleaded Ingleton, “Don’t excite yourself. We want you to get well again. Everything will be alright.”

“Oh! you’re hiding it from me,” sobbed his wife, “you won’t tell me. I know it’s something terrible. I know it! I know it!!”

Turning over in bed and burying her face in the pillows, she burst into a fit of hysterical tears, and her weakened frame shook with the violence of her sobs. Her husband looked on in helpless fear. Dr. Harrington, however, quickly saw the seriousness of the situation and, summoning the nurse, administered a drug in an effort to quiet the paroxysm of his patient. He motioned Ingleton to be seated and not to say anything further.

While this pathetic scene was being enacted in the hospital, another more amazing one was taking place over the Pacific Ocean. The wireless operator on duty at Pearl Harbor, listening with indifferent patience, had been electrified into sudden action by an S. O. S. call. Quickly answering it, he received a reply from the transpacific airship Montgolfier, whose operator sent the following message:

“Montgolfier, 300 miles east of Honolulu attacked by strange airplane. We are disabled and settling to the surface of the ocean rapidly. Rush assistance immediately. Won’t be able to send much longer.”

Before the Honolulu operator could acknowledge the message, another call came in on the same wavelength. There was something familiar about the sending, and he listened carefully. Presently the second station began to send a message. Picking up a pencil the Pearl Harbor operator wrote down:

“Please give my compliments to Commodore Heathcote. Tell him he has a lot to learn about the art of aviation. I hope that Commander Fitzgerald enjoyed his little scrap with us. Miss Ingleton sends her best wishes.”

That was all. Reading it over after it was completed, the operator rubbed his head in amazement and then exclaimed:

“Well I’ll be damned.”

For a few minutes he sent out a series of queries to the sender of the message, but got no further response. He also tried to get in touch with the Montgolfier again, but his efforts in this respect also failed. Then he telephoned to Commodore Heathcote and read the message to him. The latter came over to the station, where he examined the message carefully and questioned the operator about their receipt.

“Good God!” he exclaimed, “if they mean anything at all they mean that the pirate is still on the job and couldn’t have been destroyed by Fitzgerald. How on earth could he have possibly escaped? That’s strange! The pirate certainly had a surprise up his sleeve for us alright. I wonder what his secret is? We’re in a worse fix now than ever.”

Without wasting any further time on conjecture, Heathcote rushed out to the hangars and ordered a squadron of the largest type of bombing machines to fly out three hundred miles east and search for traces of the Montgolfier, and if possible pick up her survivors. Having completed this task and witnessed the departure of the rescuing craft, he went over to the post hospital. He knew the astonishing news would materially affect Fitzgerald, and the fact that Miss Ingleton was safe might prove to be the rallying point for his recovery.

Before he left for the hospital, however, Heathcote also dispatched an officer over to Ingleton’s hotel with copies of the messages to show to the former secretary of the navy. The clerk of the hotel told the officer that Mr. Ingleton was at the general hospital, and the latter went there. He was ushered into the waiting room. After he had explained the urgency of his message, a nurse went to summon Ingleton from the bedside of his wife. In a few seconds she returned with the former secretary.

“We have just received word that your daughter is alive and well, Sir,” said the officer handing copies of the message to him.

Ingleton read them over carefully and slowly, then with a sigh of deep regret he exclaimed:

“Good Heavens! why didn’t I wait.”

He hurried back to his wife’s room and pushed the messages into Dr. Harrington’s hands, saying:

“Here’s good news for your patient, doctor.”

Almost mechanically Dr. Harrington took the messages and glanced over them. Then his eyes wandered slowly over to the recumbent figure in the bed now strangely silent, and then, with the light of compassion softening them, they turned upon Ingleton as the doctor, with a catch in his voice, said:

“I’m sorry, dreadfully sorry, Ingleton, but these messages came too late.”