THREE months had elapsed, and Mr. Roland C. Jones remained, to all appearances, a well and mentally sound man. Back in New York he quietly resumed the peaceful pursuits of his easy-going, pleasant, bachelor life. Laroux and Martindale adhered strictly and honorably to their promise and never mentioned to any one the singular delusion which had marked the termination of their friend’s illness. Indeed, they themselves had practically forgotten it, thinking of it only as the overheard ravings of a sick man, not to be regarded as indicating mental unbalance since the man had regained his health.
Mr. Jones’s first act on reaching New York had been to consult an eminent specialist in diseases of the brain, and have himself examined for insanity. The report was reassuring. Whatever he might have been in the past, this worthy physician declared him, to be now free from any taint of the disorder he so feared.
Jones went to the theater, danced, golfed and made brief cruises in the early spring, but an invitation to a flying meet was instantly and firmly declined. He never wished to see another aeroplane in his life. In fact, he did all that a man could to banish from his memory that dream which he had dreamed while cast upon the barren beach of an unnamed — absolutely an unnamed — rock in the Pacific.
If in visions of the night man-eating vegetables writhed their flaming tentacles, or strange yet familiar faces smiled or frowned upon him, he at least never spoke of the matter to any one.
So the three months had drifted by, and it was the latter end of March. One morning Jones slept later than usual — he never was an early riser — and when he sat up in bed, yawning, his window was a gray expanse against which sleet drove with a continual desolate rattling.
“Darn!” exclaimed Mr. Jones, at the end of his stretch. “Another day of ‘indoor sports,’ I see. How I hate a sleet storm! Philip!” he called.
Instantly his English man servant, an elderly but intensely efficient individual, appeared bearing coffee, newspapers, and the mail.
“You can get my bath ready. Now, let’s see. Who’s going to be married, and who desires the extreme boredom of my company — hello, I wonder what this can be — ”
“This” was a small flat package, wrapped in white paper and addressed to himself in a small, perfect hand. Unlike a woman, he did not pause to contemplate its exterior, but untied the string immediately. Within the paper was a white pasteboard box, and inside that another box of Morocco leather, unquestionably a jewel case of some sort. He pressed the catch and it snapped open. What-in-the-world — The whole room seemed to reel and sway about him dizzily. It vanished, and before him stretched a little glade all dark save where two white beams of light flashed and danced. Sergius — Miss Weston — the aeroplane — the flying monster! Was this some cruel joke that his friends had perpetrated against him.
For within the box, upon a bed of white velvet, rested an exquisite affair of gold, encrusted with blue-white diamonds. It was a tiny aeroplane, and enmeshed with it, its wings and the plane’s interlocked, was a golden bat, with two tiny rubies for eyes.
Who had sent him this thing? Who had been so cruel as to taunt him with such a reminder of his time of madness? He raised box and jewel in his hand and was about to hurl it across the room when his eyes fell upon one of the letters scattered before him on the counterpane. The writing upon it was in that same small, yet distinctive hand that had appeared on the box-wrapping.
Dropping the leather case Jones hastily seized the letter and ripped it open. He, read:
MY DEAR FRIEND ROLAND:
“Two weeks ago I read in an old newspaper of your rescue and of your return to your native city. Until that moment I— we all — believed you to have been drowned in the sea, as was the enormous bat which carried you thither. We found its body washed up upon the shore, and believe me, my friend, I wept over it for sorrow at your loss and for such an end to such an heroic deed as yours.
“I know, however, that you must have been far more overcome by your terrible experience than the newspaper account indicated. You will not need to explain to me that otherwise you would have taken your yacht back to Joker Island and, if necessary, risked death in the cavern labyrinth seeking to return to aid me, if I needed aid. There are some friendships which spring into being without the need of years to build them up, and though few words were spoken, I know that ours was such a one.”
“Well, the old son-of-a-gun,” murmured Jones, “and he means it, too.” The eyes he raised to Philip, coming to announce the readiness of the bath, were perceptibly wet, to that worthy Briton’s great, though unrevealed, astonishment.
“Get out, Philip,” was Jones’s only reply. “I’ll bath after a while.”
Alone once more he eagerly resumed his reading:
“But enough of that. I am coming to New York soon — this is written from Tokio, where I have caused to be made a small remembrance which I am also mailing you — and then we can talk together.
“After you had so courageously and with incredible presence of mind flung yourself upon the great bat — ”
Jones grinned, remembering the actual state of his feelings in that moment.
“ &md............