e flat voice talked on,
without heeding him, of the strange irony of Butteridge's death. At
that Bert had a little twinge of relief--he would never meet Butteridge
again. It appeared Butteridge had died suddenly, very suddenly.

"And his secret, sir, perished with him! When they came to look for the
parts--none could find them. He had hidden them all too well."

"But couldn't he tell?" asked the man in the straw hat. "Did he die so
suddenly as that?"

"Struck down, sir. Rage and apoplexy. At a place called Dymchurch in
England."

"That's right," said Laurier. "I remember a page about it in the Sunday
American. At the time they said it was a German spy had stolen his
balloon."

"Well, sir," said the flat-voiced man, "that fit of apoplexy at
Dyrnchurch was the worst thing--absolutely the worst thing that ever
happened to the world. For if it had not been for the death of Mr.
Butteridge--"

"No one knows his secret?"

"Not a soul. It's gone. His balloon, it appears, was lost at sea, with
all the plans. Down it went, and they went with it."

Pause.

"With machines such as he made we could fight these Asiatic fliers
on more than equal terms. We could outfly and beat down those scarlet
humming-birds wherever they appeared. But it's gone, it's gone, and
there's no time to reinvent it now. We got to fight with what we
got--and the odds are against us. THAT won't stop us fightin'. No! but
just think of it!"

Bert was trembling violently. He cleared his throat hoarsely.

"I say," he said, "look here, I--"

Nobody regarded him. The man with the flat voice was opening a new
branch of the subject.

"I allow--" he began.

Bert became violently excited. He stood up.

He made clawing motions with his hands. "I say!" he exclaimed, "Mr.
Laurier. Look 'ere--I want--about that Butteridge machine--."

Mr. Laurier, sitting on an adjacent table, with a magnificent gesture,
arrested the discourse of the flat-voiced man. "What's HE saying?" said
he.

Then the whole company realised that something was happening to Bert;
either he was suffocating or going mad. He was spluttering.

"Look 'ere! I say! 'Old on a bit!" and trembling and eagerly unbuttoning
himself.

He tore open his collar and opened vest and shirt. He plunged into his
interior and for an instant it seemed he was plucking forth his liver.
Then as he struggled with buttons on his shoulder they perceived this
flattened horror was in fact a terribly dirty flan