"We've just got to wait," he said to Jack, late that afternoon, when their search of the hospitals and morgues had ended fruitlessly.
Meanwhile the French airmen had been scouring the sky for a sight of the German craft that might have released the death-dealing bombs on the city. But their success had been nil. Not a Hun had been sighted, and one aviator went up nearly four miles in an endeavor to locate a hostile craft.
Of course it was possible that a super-machine of the Huns had flown higher, but this did not seem feasible.
"There is some other explanation of the bombardment of Paris, I'm sure," said Tom, as he and Jack went to their lodgings. "It will be a surprise, too, I'm thinking, and we'll have to make over some of our old ideas and accept new ones."
"I believe you're right, Tom. But say, do you remember that fellow we saw in the train—the one I thought was a German spy?"
"To be sure I remember him and his metzel suppe. What about him? Do you see him again?" and Tom looked out into the street from the window of their lodging.
"No. I don't see him. But he may have had something to do with shelling the city."
"You don't mean he carried a long-range
