eight, suddenly rise perpendicularly
upwards in a succession of jerks in a manner that he would have thought
to be impossible. That was the last seen of Baxter. There was a
correspondence in the papers, but it never led to anything. There were
several other similar cases, and then there was the death of Hay
Connor. What a cackle there was about an unsolved mystery of the air,
and what columns in the halfpenny papers, and yet how little was ever
done to get to the bottom of the business! He came down in a
tremendous vol-plane from an unknown height. He never got off his
machine and died in his pilot's seat. Died of what? 'Heart disease,'
said the doctors. Rubbish! Hay Connor's heart was as sound as mine
is. What did Venables say? Venables was the only man who was at his
side when he died. He said that he was shivering and looked like a man
who had been badly scared. 'Died of fright,' said Venables, but could
not imagine what he was frightened about. Only said one word to
Venables, which sounded like 'Monstrous.' They could make nothing of
that at the inquest. But I could make something of it. Monsters! That
was the last word of poor Harry Hay Connor. And he DID die of fright,
just as Venables thought.

"And then there was Myrtle's head. Do you really believe--does anybody
really believe--that a man's head could be driven clean into his body
by the force of a fall? Well, perhaps it may be possible, but I, for
one, have never believed that it was so with Myrtle. And the grease
upon his clothes--'all slimy with grease,' said somebody at the
inquest. Queer that nobody got thinking after that! I did--but, then,
I had been thinking for a good long time. I've made three ascents--how
Dangerfield used to chaff me about my shot-gun--but I've never been
high enough. Now, with this new, light Paul Veroner machine and its
one hundred and seventy-five Robur, I should easily touch the thirty
thousand tomorrow. I'll have a shot at the record. Maybe I shall have
a shot at something else as well. Of course, it's dangerous. If a
fellow wants to avoid danger he had best keep out of flying altogether
and subside finally into flannel slippers and a dressing-gown. But
I'll visit the air-jungle tomorrow--and if there's anything there I
shall know it. If I return, I'll find myself a bit of a celebrity. If
I don't this note-book may explain what I am trying to do, and how I
lost my life in doing it. But no drivel a