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 lay the straight key of Long Beach; there was Atlantic City. We had whirled to the north, as well as landward, in our manœuvering.

The pilot, with the effigy on its long, invisible leash, led to the right—to the north—of Atlantic City. No other airplane was in sight at this moment. The blue monoplane of the girl who was the original of the effigy, had vanished.

I realized that I had had no glimpse of her since she had flown into the ceiling at the moment before the effigy was discharged at me through the same clouds. Having played her part in the plan of this morning, she had gone home, I supposed. The control pilot, with his mechanical slave, must be headed for home. Whether or not he would have chosen to remain, stabbing at me with his mechanical slave, he could not. He had to have fuel.

My fuel gage was bobbing altogether too near "empty". And I had rested on the sea with engine stopped, for several minutes since I had left shore. The blue monoplanes must have left their station before Pete and I flew