confess, set me thinking. The papers had been full of the Fokker aeroplane, of its great superiority over anything we possessed, and of it as a real peril to our pilots in Flanders.

“The real fact is,” declared Teddy, in the intervals of a deal of hammering, “that there’s nothing extraordinary about the Fokker except that it is built sensibly for a definite job and does it, while our own ‘experts’ have tangled themselves and the British aircraft industry in a web of pseudo-science and political scheming which has resulted in our lack of the proper machines and engines to fight the Zeppelins.”

“Yes,” I answered with a sigh. “You’re quite right, Teddy. But something must be done. We must find some means by which to fight the enemy’s dirigibles. We have a few good aeroplanes, I admit, but, as you say, those are not the product of the Government factories, but have been produced by private firms. Why? Because airmen have been so badly let down by their experts.”

At that moment a shadow was cast before the door of the shed, and a bright musical feminine voice cried:

“Hulloa, Claude! I followed you hard, right from Hertford.”

It was Roseye—“Rosie” of the aerodrome! Roseye Lethmere, daughter of Sir Herbert Lethmere, was my own well-beloved, whom I had taught to fly, and who was at that moment perhaps the most notable airwoman in England.

“Really,” I exclaimed, as I advanced to meet her.

“Why, I hadn’t any idea you were here. Nobody told me.”

“Miss Lethmere is always elusive,” Teddy laughed, bowing to her. “Have you been up on your own bus, or on Eastwell’s?”

“On Mr Eastwell’s. My engine did not run well, so Barnes, his mechanic, lent me his machine,” was her reply. Then, turning to me, she said: “I went up only five minutes after you. I wonder you didn’t look back when you banked over the railway line at Wheathampstead. I was just behind you then, though I could not overtake you, as my engine seemed a little sluggish.”

“That doesn’t occur very often in Eastwell’s bus,” remarked Teddy. “I flew it last Thursday, and found the 150 Gnome ran perfectly.”

“Well, Claude, you outdistanced me altogether,” declared my well-beloved. “From Hertford, with the wind behind you, you absolutely shot back. I thought that Mr Eastwell’s machine 

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