10
e 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