"You didn't mention your name when we were discussing how you lost your glove."
"Oh, I'm Helen Lacey."
I liked the sound of that. She was not Bane's wife; she was not wholly Bane's yet.
I saw Pete lift his head a little. He liked the sound of it, too, whatever might be his opinion of Helen Lacey. Her eyes rested solicitously upon Pete. Bane saw it and did not like that.
"You must be still soaked through," she said.
"Oh, no," said Pete. "I'm dryer. I've had quite a ride in the wind."
"I'll send you other clothes," offered Bane brusquely and interrupted words between them by beckoning down and introducing a short, wiry, black-haired, black-moustached youth whom he called Boggs and a pallid pilot of twenty-five designated as Donley.
They had accompanied Bane, I thought, from the other side of the lake; and I picked Donley as the probable pilot of the third monoplane and Boggs as the man who had
