Grace Palmer, Curlie Carson learned at once, was the daughter of Professor Palmer, and sister to the child whose life he had done much to save.  
“You brought her medicine. You saved her life. She is my only sister.” The young eyes were filled with honest tears of gratitude.
 
Curlie hated tears. They made him feel awkward and out of place.
 
But Grace Palmer was not one to spill them needlessly. She was a girl of purpose and strength. Grace Palmer, Curlie would discover soon enough, was not the average type of girl. Reared beneath the shadows of stately university buildings, she had unconsciously acquired something of their quiet dignity. At this moment she wore a hand-tailored suit of dark blue broadcloth. The suit made her appear a good deal older than she really was.
 
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Yes, Grace Palmer was a dignified person. She was possessed of a good mind, and her father had seen to it that her mind was trained in the art of thinking. For all that, beneath the almost severe broadcloth coat there was a heart that was capable of beating very fast at the thought of mystery and adventure. She was not sorry to be on her present mission.
 
“Father has classes,” she explained. “He teaches. I am studying, but my periods are all in the afternoon. He asked me to drive out here and thank you. He—he also wanted me to ask you if the—the way you delivered our package got you into any trouble.”
 
“It has,” Curlie said, rather bluntly. “Plenty.” He was tired; wanted to clean up and rest. Anyway, what could a girl do?
 
“My troubles,” he said, taking a step toward the door, “don’t matter.”
 
“Oh, but they do!” Impulsively her hand gripped his arm. “We—we owe you so much. We can help, I am sure. Won’t you let us? Won’t you tell me about it?”
 
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Curlie could not resist this appeal.
 
“Oh, all right,” he said. “I’ll tell you.
 
“But,” he added, as a ghost of a smile flitted across his face, “if I fall asleep, you must waken me.”
 
He led the way to the fresh outdoor air. There he dropped upon a bench.
 
He told his story briefly. But to his own surprise, led on by the girl’s expressions of sympathy, excitement and consternation, he told it well.
 
“And,” she exclaimed as he finished, “you say the man went east from the museum? Perhaps he went over to the island.”
 
“Island?” Curlie stared. “There is no island off that shore.”
 
“Oh, but there is one, a mile and a half long. There are to be others. Men make them with dredges and dump trucks.
 
“It’s really quite an old island,” she continued. “Trees on it twenty feet tall and some shacks where men live; three or four shacks.”
 
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“Shacks? Men?” Curlie’s voice was full of suppressed excitement. “Perhaps the man who stole that package lives there. Perhaps the package is there still.”
 
“Yes,” she agreed, “that may be true. Shall we go and see?”
 
Curlie paused for thought. A film seemed to close over his eyes.
 
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. Not now. I’ve reached my limit. I’m no good.”
 
“You need rest,” she said quickly. “But can’t I come back for you later? It’s really considerable of an island. I go there often. And truly I think it’s worth looking into.”
 
“Yes,” Curlie acquiesced, “you come. Any time after six.”
 
Ten minutes later in the airport bunkroom he lay quite still, lost in deep sleep.
 
He was awakened in mid-afternoon by a newsboy calling his papers. As he listened, still half asleep, he thought he caught words that sounded like “Air Mail.”
 
He was out of his bunk at once. Had it appeared in the papers—his story?
 
He threw up his window and sent a coin rattling to the pavement below.
 
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“Bring one up,” he shouted. The boy pocketed the coin, waved and disappeared.
 
He reappeared almost at once by the bunkroom door, with a cheerful:
 
“Here y’are, mister. All about the Air Mail robbery.”
 
Curlie dropped down on his bunk and stared in amazement. There it was, on the front page of the afternoon scream-sheet. Two planes in mid-air; this drawn by a staff artist. His own plane on the ground; a real photograph. And his picture in the oval inset.
 
He read the story breathlessly. There was much there that he did not know. His plane, so the story ran, had been rescued and brought into port. No damage had been done. The number of mailsacks taken was not yet known.
 
The story made him out quite a hero. He flushed when he thought how he had bungled mat............