“A bundle of papers I dropped,” panted Mortlake.  “Didn’t you find them.”

“Naw!” grunted the red-eyed tramp.

“Naw!” echoed the other.

“Be careful what you say.  If you are lying, it will go hard with you.”

The warning came from old Mr. Harding.

“We know that, guv’ner.  But we ain’t got ’em.  Search us, if yer like.”

The knights of the road spread their arms to signify their willingness to be searched.  Mortlake groaned.  It was evident that neither of the tatterdermalions had the papers.  But what had become of them?  In his distress and chagrin, Mortlake gave an audible groan.

This the tramps seemed to construe as a favorable sign.  One winked to the other, and the red-eyed one spoke.

“Wots it worth if we tell yer where them papers are, guv’ners both?”

“What, you know!” cried Mortlake, while old Mr. Harding spluttered: 

“Eh, eh?  Hey, what’s all this?  What’s all this?”

“I didn’t say we knew,” was the cunning reply.  “I said what’s it worth if we did know.”

Mortlake drew out a yellow-backed bill.

“Is this enough?” he asked.

The tramps’ eyes rounded as they gazed at the figure.

“Perfec’ly satisfactory, guv’ner,” said red eyes.

“Well, where are those papers, then?” snapped Mortlake impatiently.

“Thet thar purty gal wot jest went by in an autermobubble has ’em.”

“What!”

“Yes.  We saw her pick them up out of the road.  We tried to convince her it was dishonest to keep ’em, but she wouldn’t listen to us.”

“You’ve done well, and seem to be bright fellows,” said Mortlake, handing over the bill to red eyes, who seemed to be the leader of the two, “by the way, you don’t belong about here, do you?”

“Oh, no, guv’ner.  Our homes is whar we hangs our hats.  My permanent address is care of the ‘dicky birds.’”

“Well, I may have some work for you to do——­”

“Work, guv’ner?  Work’s only for the workmen.”

“I know all that, but this work is on your own line.  I’ll pay well, too.  If you want to talk it over, come to the Mortlake Aeroplane Factory, outside Sandy Beach at ten o’clock to-night.  I’ll be there to meet you.”

“All right, guv’ner; we’ll be, thar.  Till then we’ll bid yer ‘oliver oil,’ as ther French say.  Come on, Joey.”

The worthy pair shuffled off up the road, while Mortlake turned to Harding with a shrug.

“There are two tools made to our hand.  We may find them very useful.”

“I agree with you,” was the dry and rasping reply; “at least, they have put us in possession of one valuable bit of knowledge, hey?”

CHAPTER IX.

THE FLIGHT OF THE “SILVER COBWEB.”

A week rolled slowly by.  A week of suspense, during which they had one or two calls from Lieut.  Bradbury, who had been busy down at the Mortlake plant.  But the officer was naturally noncommittal concerning his opinion of the comparative merits of the two types of aeroplanes.  Equally naturally, of course, the young Prescotts had not questioned him concerning them.