silver goblets were lifted, touched in a musical clinking of edges, and the aromatic breath of juleps filled the library as the drinkers, in true Southern fashion, buried noses in the fragrant mint. Then, as the cups were lowered, from the recess of the curtained windows at one end of the room came a quiet voice:
"I thank you, gentlemen! But I must remind you, Maillard, that there was not a time limit set in the note."
With a simultaneous gasp everyone turned. Maillard staggered; his face went livid. Uncle Neb, who had been advancing to refill the cups, dropped his silver tray with a crash that went unheeded, indeed unheard. Every eye was fastened upon that amazing figure now advancing from the shadows of the recess.
It was the figure of an aviator, clad in leather from top to toe, the goggles and helmet shield completely masking his head and features from recognition. In his hand he held an automatic pistol, which covered the group of men before him with its threatening mouth.
"Not a sound, if you please," he warned, his voice thin and nasal—obviously disguised.
