"I don't want to catch it, I want to follow it. Where's the first stop?"

"Summerville."

"How long will it take us to get there?"

"About an hour."

Perry Mason said, "That's our first stop. We may not go any farther. Again we may."

The pilot opened the door of the small cabin.

"Get in and sit down," he said. "You've been up before?"

Mason nodded.

"Don't get worried over air bumps," the pilot told him. "They don't amount to anything. The novice gets worried over them."

He made a circle about the plane, as Mason adjusted himself in the seat, then climbed in at the controls, pulled shut the door of the cabin, locked it into position, waved a hand to the mechanics. They pulled away the blocks of wood. The pilot opened the throttle, and the plane roared into motion.

During the ensuing hour, Perry Mason sat almost without motion, his eyes staring at the scenery with the same abstract speculative interest with which he sometimes regarded the smoke which curled upward from his cigarette.

Once or twice the aviator stole a puzzled glance at his preoccupied passenger, but it was not until the plane was over Summerville that he spoke.

"That's Summerville below," he said.

Perry Mason regarded the airport without interest, and only nodded his head slightly.

The pilot nosed the plane forward. It lost altitude rapidly. When the wheels were jolting on the ground, Perry Mason shouted to the pilot:

"Don't stop too close to the hangar."

The pilot cut the throttle down, and the plane droned into a stop. Two men came walking down the hard surface of the packed ground which served as a runway.

Perry Mason got out of the plane, strode to meet the men, looked them over with a swift glance, and said abruptly, "Was either of you men on duty when the mail plane got in—the one that arrives around one o'clock in the morning?"

"I was," said the taller of the two.

Mason motioned him to one side, and lowered his voice.

"I'm looking for a young woman," Perry Mason said, "who was a passenger on that plane. She's in the early twenties. Has very blue eyes, a slender, wellformed figure, and —"

"There wasn't any girl on the plane at all," the man said positively. "There were just two men. One of them got off, and one of them went straight through."

Perry Mason stared at the man with a frown creasing his forehead. His eyes contained a hard glitter which caused the mechanic to shift his own eyes momentarily.

"Describe those men, can you?" he asked.

"One of them was a fat fellow with a bald head. He was about fifty, I guess, and he was pretty well crocked. He had fishy eyes, and I don't remember much about him. He went on through. The fellow that got off was a young chap, wearing a blue serge suit. He had dark hair and black eyes. He asked if there was another plane that was due to arrive before morning. I told him there wasn't. He seemed a little undecided, and then he asked me how he could get to the Riverview Hotel."

Perry Mason's eyes shifted past the mechanic, focused themselves upon distance. He stood for a few seconds absorbed in thought. Then he pulled a five dollar bill from his pocket.

"I wonder," he said, "if you can get me a taxicab."

"There's one right this way," the man said.

Mason turned to the aviator.

"Check your plane over," he said, "get ready to go on from here."

"In which direction?" asked the aviator.

"I don't know," Mason told him. "Wait until I get back and I'll tell you."

He followed the mechanic to the taxicab.

"Riverview Hotel," Mason told the driver.

During the ride the lawyer sat back against the cushions, his eyes patient, steady and unseeing, paying no attention whatever to the buildings which flowed past on either side of the cab windows. When the cab drew up in front of the Riverview Hotel, Perry Mason paid the driver, entered the lobby and approached the clerk.

"I'm in rather a peculiar position," he told the clerk. "I was to meet a man here for a business conference. The man came in from the city on the plane that gets in at one twenty in the morning. I never was very much of a hand at remembering names, and I forgot to bring the correspondence concerning the deal. The sales manager will can me if he finds out about it. I wonder if you could help me out."

The clerk turned to the register.

"I think so," he said. "We rented a room about one thirty to a Mr. Charles B. Duncan."

"What's the room?" asked Perry Mason.

"The room," the clerk told him smilingly, "is the bridal suite–601."

Perry Mason stared steadily and unsmilingly at the clerk for a matter of a second or two, his eyes calm and patient, boring straight into those of the man behind the counter.

"The hell it is," said Perry Mason, and turned toward the elevator.

He got off at the sixth floor, asked the direction of 601, walked down the corridor, started to pound imperatively upon the panels of the door, then suddenly arrested his hand in midmotion. He unclenched the fist, and tapped gently upon the door with the tips of his fingers, making the knock sound like the timid knock which would have been given by a woman.

There was the sound of quick steps thudding the floor back of the door. A bolt clicked, the door flung open, and Perry Mason gazed into Dr. Doray's eager eyes.

The face ran through a gamut of emotions—disappointment, fear, anger.

Perry Mason pushed his way into the room, kicked the door shut.

Doray took two or three backward steps, his eyes fastened upon Perry Mason's face.

"Bridal suite, eh?" said Perry Mason.

Dr. Doray sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, as though his knees had refused to carry his weight.

"Well?" said Perry Mason.

The man on the bed said nothing.

Perry Mason's tone was edged with impatience.

"Come on," he said, "start talking."

"About what?" asked Dr. Doray.

"I want the whole story," Perry Mason said.

Dr. Doray took a deep breath, stared up at the lawyer.

"I haven't any story to tell," he said.

"What are you doing here?" Mason asked.

"Just running away. I thought things were getting pretty hot for me. You gave me that message, and so I came here."

"What message?"

"The message that your secretary gave me, telling me to get out and keep under cover."

"And so," said Perry Mason sarcastically, "you took the midnight plane out of the city, came here and registered in the bridal suite."

Doray said stubbornly, "That's right. I registered in the bridal suite."

"Why didn't Marjorie Clune join you?" Perry Mason asked.

Dr. Doray jumped up from the edge of the bed.

"You can't talk that way," he said. "That's an insult to Marjorie. She's not that kind of a girl. She wouldn't think of any such thing."

"Oh," said Perry Mason, "you weren't going to be married then. I though perhaps you were going to be married and spend your honeymoon here."

Dr. Doray blushed.

"I'll tell you I don't know anything about Marjorie Clune. I came down here because I thought things were getting too hot for me. She wasn't going to join me at all."

"I tapped on the door," said Perry Mason slowly, "with the tips of my fingers, making the same kind of a noise a woman might make if she was very certain of who was on the other side of the door. You rushed to the door with an expression of eagerness on your face; saw me, and then acted as though some one had slapped you in the face with a wet towel."

"It was a shock to me," Doray said. "I didn't know any one knew I was here."

Perry Mason hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, thrust his head slightly forward and started pacing the floor.

"I'm telling you," began Dr. Doray, "that you're all wet. You have the wrong idea about —"