invisible behind his rounded shoulders. One of the wheels was
half-destroyed. However, the aeroplane did not appear to have suffered
very greatly. But what was this man doing, that he never moved?

They shouted. He did not reply, nor did he turn round; and, when they
reached him, they saw that his breast was leaning against the
steering-wheel, while his arms hung down on either side. Drops of
blood were trickling from under the seat.

Simon climbed on board and almost immediately declared:

"He's dead. Mazzani's bullet caught him sideways behind the head.
. . . A slight wound, of which he was not conscious for some time, to
judge by the quantity of blood which he lost, probably without
knowing. . . . Then he succeeded in touching earth. And then . . .
then I don't know . . . a more violent hemorrhage, a clot on the
brain. . . ."

Dolores joined Simon. Together they lifted the body. No foot-pads had
passed that way, for they found the dead man's papers, watch and
pocket-book untouched.

His papers, on examination, were of no special interest. But the
route-map fixed to the steering-wheel representing the Channel and the
old coast-lines, was marked with a dot in red pencil and the words:

"Rain of gold."

"He was going there too," Simon murmured. "They already know of it in
France. And here's the exact place . . . twenty-five miles from where
we are . . . between Boulogne and Hastings . . . not far from the Banc
de Bassurelle. . . ."

And, quivering with hope, he added:

"If I can get the thing to fly, I'll be there myself in half an hour.
. . . And I shall rescue Isabel. . . ."

Simon set to work with a zest which nothing could discourage. The
aeroplane's injuries were not serious: a wheel was buckled, the
steering-rod bent, the feed-pipe twisted. The sole difficulty arose
from the fact that Simon found only inadequate tools in the tool-box
and no spare parts whatever. But this did not deter him; he contrived
some provisional splices and other repairs, not troubling about their
strength provided that the machine could fly for the time required:

"After all," he said to Dolores, who was doing what she could to help
him, "after all, it is only a question of forty minutes' flight, no
more. If I can manage to take off, I'm sure to hold out. Bless my
soul, I've done more difficult things than that!"

His joy once more bubbled over in vivacious talk. He sang, laughed,
jeered at Rolleston and pictured the r