Strange stories had come through the French Secret Service of a new and wonderful type of aircraft which was being tested with the utmost secrecy somewhere in the neighbourhood of Spandau, the great military town near Berlin. Of its precise character little was known or could be ascertained, and even Regnier, the astute and energetic head of the French Secret Service, had at length to confess himself utterly beaten. His cleverest agents had been baffled; more than one was in a German prison, with little hope of an early release. In the meantime the mysterious machine flitted about the neighbourhood of the great garrison, always at night, appearing and disappearing under circumstances which proved conclusively that it must be of a type which differed widely from any yet known to the public.

“We must go, Dick,” said Yvette, “and Regnier is extremely anxious that you should help us. His trouble is that while he has dozens of capable men at his command none of them has a really expert knowledge of aviation. He thinks that if you once got a good look at the machine you could form a complete idea of what it really is.”

“Very well,” said Dick, “we will look upon it as settled. We must work out a plan.”

For many months Dick Manton had been working steadily and secretly at Veneux Nadon under the auspices, though not actually in the employ, of the French Secret Service. He had offered the plans of the Mohawk to the British War Office, only to be met with a reception so chilly as effectually to discourage him from proceeding further in the matter. Regnier, however, was a man of a different stamp from the British bureaucrat—keen as mustard and with the saving touch of imagination which is characteristic of the best type of Frenchman. He had unbounded faith in Yvette, who had for some time been one of his most trusted lieutenants, and when, angry at the attitude of the British War Office, she had given him a hint of what the Mohawk could really do, he had offered Dick the fullest facilities for continuing his work. Under the circumstances Dick had felt that to refuse would have been absurd.

Veneux Nadon was a lonely little spot. Here Dick, though only thirty miles from Paris, found himself in complete seclusion, with a well-equipped workshop in large grounds completely buried in the lovely forest, and thoroughly screened from prying eyes. Regnier had put the matter to him quite plainly.

“You are an Englishman, Monsieur Manton,” he had said, “and I will not ask you to sell your secret to France. But we are willing to bear the 

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