"Sufferin' hurricanes, what a blow!" remarked Joe McGlory. "What good's a flying machine, pard, when a spell of weather puts it down and out? The Comet's a back number in a hatful of wind."

"Hatful!" repeated Motor Matt. "If this breeze isn't doing fifty miles an hour I'm no hand at guessing."

The two motor boys were in their old rendezvous, the calliope tent, sitting on a couple of overturned buckets and listening to the roar and boom of bellying canvas, the flutter and snap of banners, and the whistle of violently disturbed air around the tent poles.

The big card played by Burton was the a?roplane flights, two of which were given every day, before the afternoon and the evening performance—wind and weather permitting. Since the motor boys' engagement with Burton, Matt had not failed to take the a?roplane aloft on an average of more than two days a week. This violent wind made the morning flight at Reid's Lake one of the "off" days. There was a chance, however, that the wind would go down with the sun, and that it would be possible to do a little flying before the evening show.

It was Saturday, and the "Big Consolidated" was to remain at Reid's Lake over Sunday and give two performances Monday. On Monday, therefore, it was quite possible the Comet would be able to carry out her part of the circus programme.

"Up in North Dakota," observed Joe McGlory, "where it blows like sin when it does blow, you've capered around in the sky in the face of a breeze every bit as strong as this, Matt."

"There it was different," answered the young motorist. "I didn't have to manipulate the machine over the show grounds, and there were not thousands of people[Pg 5] directly underneath to suffer if the a?roplane didn't come down in the place from which it started. I don't want any more accidents like the one we had at Jackson."

"Where a snake short-circuited the engine, and you had all kinds of hair-raising experiences," breathed McGlory. "Speak to me about that! By gorry, I wouldn't even look on while you pulled off another such performance, pard, for a million in yellow boys!"

Before the king of the motor boys could make any reply, Landers, the man who had charge of the calliope, showed himself in the tent door. Behind him trailed a smooth-faced man of forty, in a cap and gray tweeds.

"That's Motor Matt," said Landers, pointing to the young motorist. "This gentleman wants a word with you, Matt," he added, "and I volunteered to show him where you could be found."

Landers ducked away again, and the stranger pushed into the tent.

"Fancy!" he exclaimed, staring at Matt, then at McGlory, and then letting his eyes wander around the tent. "So this is Motor Matt. Ah, by Jove!"

McGlory picked up a bucket, emptied the water out of it, and turned it upside down.

"Sit down, pilgrim," said the cowboy, "and make yourself comfortable."

The other pulled up his trousers at the knees and deposited himself carefully on the bucket. He laughed a little, lifted a round piece of glass from his coat and tucked it into his right eye, and then took another look at Matt and McGlory.

"Only fancy!" he murmured.

"If you want to join the show," said McGlory, with a wink at Matt, "you'll have to see Burton."

"Join the show?" returned the other. "Why, I don't want to join the blooming circus. I'm just looking for Motor Matt, don't you know."

"You're not looking for him, neighbor, but at him. It's your move."

"Deuced odd, that. My move. In other words, I'm to tell my business, eh? It's private, very. I want to talk with Motor Matt alone."

McGlory started to get up, but Matt stopped him with a gesture.

"This is my chum, Joe McGlory," said he. "I have no secrets from him. Fire away, sir."

"Aw," drawled the other. "Well, if that's the way of it, then here goes."

Drawing a morocco case from his pocket, the stranger extracted a card and handed it to Matt.

"Reginald Pierce Twomley," ran the legend on the card; then, down in the lower left-hand corner were the words: "Attaché British Embassy, Washington."

Matt passed the card to McGlory.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Twomley," said Matt. "What can we do for you?"

Reginald Pierce Twomley lighted a cigarette. It was a pretty cigarette, with a gilt monogram on one side. He offered the case to the boys, but they respectfully declined.

"Aw, let us approach our business with method," said Mr. Twomley. "I have come from Washington—aw—on very important business. Allow me to prove my right to act as agent for his excellency the Ambassador by recapitulating a few facts with which you must be familiar.

"At one time, my dear sir, there was with this circus a Hindoo mahout who called himself Ben Ali. That was not his real name, but it will serve. With Ben Ali was a young lady who was called Haidee. Ben Ali was a rotter—the worst case of thug that ever came out of the Bombay presidency—and he had a powerful rajah for a brother. Ben Ali took care of the rajah's elephant herd. The rajah's sister married one Lionel Manners. Manners died, his wife perished by the infernal practice of suttee—even now secretly practised in spite of the English government—and Ben Ali left India with Manners' only daughter, Margaret. The girl known as Haidee was in reality Margaret Manners. Am I correct?"

Matt nodded.

"Ben Ali was an adept in the hypnotic line," proceeded Twomley, looking thoughtfully into the smoke of his cigarette, "and Miss Manners was in this country and with the show against her will. Her uncle, the rascally Ben Ali, kept her under his evil influence, and was gradually causing her to forget even her own identity. The mahout bore a grudge against his powerful brother, the rajah, and he had stolen the girl in a spirit of revenge. Eventually, he hoped to force the rajah to pay many rupees for Miss Manners before Ben Ali released her. But this is beside the mark. I don't care a hap'orth about that part of it. The point that concerns the British Ambassador, Sir Roger Morse-Edwards, is this:

"You and your friends, Motor Matt, discovered who Haidee really was. You rescued her from the evil spell of the mahout, and she was left in Lafayette, Indiana, in charge of a worthy English lady, pending advices from her uncle, the rajah, in India. We have received advices, not from the rajah, but direct from our foreign office. I was sent forthwith to Lafayette to get Miss Manners, take her to New York, and, with a suitable maid as companion, send her by first steamer to Liverpool, and so to London."

"Good!" exclaimed Matt, with visible satisfaction. "Miss Manners is a very fine girl, and I suppose her future will make up for the many hardships she has undergone while in this country."

"Exactly," answered Twomley, "if we could find her. But we can't. She has disappeared."

"Disappeared?" gasped Matt.

"That is the way of it. I went to this English lady in Lafayette, and she received me with astonishment. Several days before a man, professing to be from the ambassador, had called and taken Miss Manners away. We are done, done as brown as a kipper, and a telegram to Washington brought an answer requesting me to hunt up this show and have a talk with you."

Motor Matt was astounded. And so was McGlory.

"Have you any idea who the man was that called on the English woman in Lafayette and took Miss Manners away?"

"No. The Lafayette police are looking for him."

"Have you any idea that Ben Ali is mixed up in the affair?"

"I have, Motor Matt, and a very clear idea. I was ten years in India, and learned the natives there, and their ways. It was for that, I fancy, that Sir Roger asked me to come for Miss Manners. While I was about taking the train at Lafayette, yesterday, I received another message from the ambassador. That message informed me that a telegram had been received from Ben Ali, informing Sir Roger that he again had the girl in his possession, and that she would be delivered to any agent[Pg 6] Sir Roger might send after her on payment of ten thousand pounds."

"Fifty thousand dollars!" exclaimed Matt. Then he whistled.

"Old Ben Ali is out for the stuff," muttered McGlory grimly.

"He's a crafty beggar!" commented Twomley. "I left all the telegrams with the police, and Sir Roger is taking the whole matter up with the United States state department. The Secret Service of the government will presently be at work on this case, for it is of international importance. Can you give any information, Motor Matt, that will help us find Ben Ali, or Miss Manners?"

Matt shook his head.

"Why doesn't the ambassador agree to send some one to meet Ben Ali? Then the rascal could be caught."

"He's too clever to let himself be caught. He——"

Just here Boss Burton strode into the tent, followed by Carl.

"Shut up about that, Carl," the showman was growling. "You haven't any right to that letter, and I'm going to keep it."

"I'm in der tedectif pitzness," returned Carl, "und I need dot ledder, py shinks, to helup unrafel der case. Modor Matt," and Carl appealed to his pard, "make Purton gif me der ledder."

"What letter?" demanded Matt.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Burton to Carl; "we'll leave the letter with Matt. If Wily can prove it's his, then Matt can turn the thing over to him."

Burton handed a folded sheet to Matt. The latter, entirely in the dark, opened the sheet and laid it on his knee.

"What sort of writing is this?" he asked.

"That's too many for me. It isn't Chinese—Carl said Ping told him that—and it isn't Dutch. Of course, it's not English. And who it belongs to, or where it came from, or what's the good of it, is more than I know. But it appears to have caused a lot of bother."

"It's Hindoostanee," spoke up Twomley, staring at the open sheet. "I can read the language. If you wish, I'll translate it."

Then, for the first time, Burton and Carl turned on the Englishman and took his measure.