airplane that has the document aboard. Also, certain of our U-boats well posted about the North Atlantic are keeping track of that British airplane's journey. I will contact them by radio, and will meet the one nearest to that airplane's course. By parachute I will go down to the water's surface. The U-boat I select will pick me up. A short time later it will be light. Then we will go to the surface and watch for this aircraft. And when we sight this airplane?"

The German paused again, rubbed his hands together, and shook with silent laughter.

"Then, Herr Kyoto," he continued, "will be the beginning of a most enjoyable little experience. And by the following day, at the latest, you can expect me here in this room—with your precious document! It will all be so very simple."

As the Nazi finished the Japanese rose from his chair, clasped his two hands in front of him and bowed low from the waist.

"I salute you and bid you good fortune, Herr Miller," he said in his soft hissing tone. "I will await with joy and confidence for your return. When the document of which we speak is in my hands, it will be the same as the winning of a score of major battles. May good fortune go with you, and the deep joy of your personal revenge be yours after you have accomplished the main part of your mission."

The Nazi smiled and turned toward the door, but there was a look of icy contempt in his eyes that the Japanese did not see. However, perhaps it was not necessary for the Japanese to see that look of cold contempt, for when the door had closed behind the Nazi the little brown rat from the Far East curled his lips back in a snarl, lifted one hand and sliced it edgewise through the air.

"When you return with the document," he hissed out in his native tongue, "then we shall see who is of the master race!"

CHAPTER FOUR
Atlantic Mirage

With its twin engines thundering out a mighty song of power, the R.A.F. Lockheed Hudson bomber cut a straight and true path westward at some eight thousand feet above the long rolling grey-green swells of the North Atlantic. Higher up, a billion twinkling stars looked down on a crazy world at war out of a cloudless night sky, and served as a billion guiding beacons to that lone aircraft pointed dead on for the Newfoundland coast.

Stretched out comfortably in the empty bomb compartment of the Lockheed, Dave Dawson absently lifted a hand and pressed it against the upper left part of his tunic. Underneath the cloth he could feel the sealed envelope tucked safely away in the inside pocket. A moment later he let his hand drop down into his lap and sat scowling faintly at the rack of signal flares on the port side of the compartment. Then, suddenly, as though he could actually feel it, he turned his head to meet Freddy Farmer's curious stare. The English-born air ace nodded and grinned.

"I've been combing my brains, too, old thing," Freddy said, "wondering what in the world that envelope contains. Blasted odd that it should be turned over to us for delivery. And to your Secretary of State, no less."

"Yeah, screwy, all right," Dawson grunted. "Funny thing, though. The way it was handed to us, it makes me feel as though I were smuggling something into the States. You haven't got enough fingers on your two hands to count the number of aircraft that are flying back and forth across the Atlantic these days. And not a few of them are strictly courier planes, too. So why wasn't this sent by one of the usual courier planes, I ask you?"

Freddy Farmer sighed and shook his head.

"You can ask me," he grunted, "but I haven't the faintest idea what's the correct answer."

"And you can say that again for me!" Dawson muttered. "Unless it's because—Oh nuts! I'm just letting the old brain go for a stroll."

"Unless what, Dave?" the English youth prompted. "I know, I know! It's probably another one of those crazy hunches of yours. But some of them have come pretty close to the real thing in the past. So what's this one about?"

"Come close, huh?" Dawson snorted, and gave Freddy a hard look. "Plenty of them have smacked the nail right on the head. And you know it, pal. But anyway, the only reason I can see why they handed this to us is because they didn't want it to go by the usual method."

"Obvious!" Freddy Farmer snapped. "A ten year old child could reason that out, silly! I thought you had a hunch on why they didn't want it to go the usual way. And while you're on the subject, just who do you mean by they?"

"For a little guy you can sure ask plenty of big questions!" Dawson growled. "Sweet tripe! How do I know? They could be most anybody. Maybe the Yank Embassy in London. Maybe Yank G.H.Q. in London. And maybe the Queen of Sheba, too! How do I know? I had lots of questions I wanted to ask the group captain back there at Croydon, but after taking a look at his face, I could tell it wouldn't get me to first base. Maybe he knew, but it was my hunch he wasn't going to tell us."

Dawson paused a moment to lick his lips and shrugged.

"So who sent it is anybody's guess, and I'm not even bothering to guess," he continued. "But about it not going through the usual channels, here's what I think. The powers that be were afraid it would be spotted, maybe even swiped, or lost. Maybe they knew that somebody was wise to the fact that this was headed for Secretary Hull. So to throw whoever it was off the beam, they sneaked it out to Croydon to be taken across and delivered by us. Who would guess that a couple of guys going to the States on leave would be carrying a letter to the Secretary of State? See what I mean?"

"Yes, that's a possibility," Freddy Farmer grunted with a frown. "But here's a funny thing, Dave. I didn't exactly plan to pop on down to Washington to say hello to Colonel Welsh. Did you?"

"To tell the truth, I hadn't even thought of it yet," Dawson replied. "Of course, if we should be passing through D. C. I sure would drop in to see the colonel. But it was just one of those things I'd probably do while on leave."

"But Group Captain Bainsworth seemed to think that was just what we were going to do," Freddy argued. "And right after we reached New York."

"Yeah," Dawson grunted, and looked at his English pal. "Or else it was a left-handed order, and we're just catching on now."

"And that's a possibility, too," Freddy Farmer said with a grave nod. "But—blast it!—we're supposed to be going on leave, and to forget the confounded war for a spell—if we can. Which we won't, of course. But there should be a law against filling up a chap going on leave with mystery. There really should!"

Dave opened his mouth to speak. Instead, though, he bent his head and faked a cough while he wiped the grin from his face. When next he looked at Freddy, his eyes were bright and eager.

"Know what, Freddy?" he said. "I just thought up a way to find out all the answers. Yes sir! And it's foolproof. We can't miss!"

"Really, Dave?" the English youth echoed excitedly, and leaned forward a little. "How?"

Dawson winked very confidentially, and started to slip a hand inside his tunic.

"A cinch way!" he said in a stage whisper. "And are we dumb not to have thought of it until now! Tell you what, pal! We'll rip open the envelope and see for ourselves. I bet you all the stored up coffee in Brazil that it will be mighty interesting, too!"

Freddy Farmer sat up straight. The blood drained from his face, his jaw sagged, and a look of utter horrified amazement came into his eyes.

"Good grief, Dave!" he gasped out. "Are you mad? Are you absolutely balmy? Open that envelope? When it's addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull? Good grief, Dave! Why—why—why, they could shoot you for a thing like that. And besides, it was entrusted to us. For Heaven's sake, Dave, don't you dare open—"

The English youth