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England, George Allan, 1877-1936

"The Flying Legion"

Leclair began:
"As for you, monsieur, I already know you, of course. You are--"
The Master raised a palm of protest.
"Who I am does not matter," said he. "I am not a man, but an idea. My
personality does not count. All that counts is the program, the plan I
stand for.
"Many here do not even know my name. No man speaks it. I am quite
anonymous; quite so. Therefore I pray you, keep silent on that matter.
What, after all, is the significance of a name? You are an ace, an
officer. So am I."
"True, very true. Therefore I more keenly regret the fact that I must
place you under arrest, and that charges of piracy in the high air
must be lodged against you."
"Thank you for the regret, indeed," answered the Master dryly. Save
for the fact that this strange man never laughed and seldom smiled,
one would have thought the odd twinkle in his eye prefaced merriment.
"Well, what now?"
The Frenchman produced a silver cigarette-case, opened it and extended
it toward the man now technically his prisoner. As yet he had said no
word concerning the tremendous execution done the air police forces.
His offer of the cigarettes was as calm, as courteous as if they two
had met under circumstances of the most casual amity.


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