Page:Flying Death.pdf/29

 I thought, and kept staring at it, not thinking about it but about something else.

"That yours?" demanded Pete.

She looked at Pete, at me, and at Pete again with her lovely, puzzled eyes. "It's my size and I lost a pair," she said. Suddenly she claimed it. "Yes; it's mine. How did you get it?"

"I found it here yesterday, about this time."

"Here?"

"The neighborhood was furnished a little differently yesterday," said Pete. "Kent's plane—the wreck of it—was floating over there just about as mine lies this morning; but yesterday there was a pilot under it. Over there was a wing of Kent's plane—which hadn't broken off from structural defects. The third item of interest was the glove which we found floating half way between. It's yours, you say?"

Her grey eyes, gazing at Pete, were less puzzled; they were more something else. More frightened, it seemed. She seemed, at that second, to have caught some idea which frightened her. Her jacket collapsed with the