leaf.

“How did you know that I knew Barakoff?” he asked.

Instantly Dick was keenly on the alert. He had no idea that Fedoroff had been associated with the notorious criminal; his appeal to Fedoroff had been a chance shot. Evidently he had stumbled on a matter of importance. But he was quick to take advantage of his good luck.

“Never mind how,” he said. “I do know, and that’s enough. You have got to tell me. I believe Barakoff is at the bottom of the trouble in England. I know he is there, and I want to know where he is and how he got there.”

The Russian’s agitation increased.

“You must not ask me; I cannot tell you,” he gasped.

“Then a few words from me in a certain quarter—not the police,” Dick suggested.

The Russian collapsed.

“No, no, I will tell you,” he moaned. “He is in England, but I don’t know where. He flew over.”

“Flew over!” echoed Dick in utter amazement. “Nonsense, he couldn’t have got in that way. Every aerodrome in England has been watched for months.”

“But he did,” the Russian asserted. “He has his own aeroplane. It makes no noise, and it goes straight up and down.”

Here was a surprise indeed! The secret of the helicopter with its almost unlimited power for evil was also in the hands of one of the most desperate ruffians in the world! There was indeed no time to be lost.

Fedoroff could tell Dick little more. What the secret of Barakoff’s influence over him was Dick could not fathom. He would say nothing, but evidently was in deadly fear.

One little item Dick did indeed extract and it was to prove valuable. Fedoroff knew that Barakoff had associates in Soho. And that was the only clue they could gain to his possible whereabouts.

That evening Dick, Yvette, and Jules crossed to England, and with official introductions from Regnier, Dick lost no time in getting into communication with Detective Inspector Buckhurst, one of the ablest men of Scotland Yard’s famous “Special Department,” a man whose knowledge of the alien scum which infested London was 

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