These are few social historians of those days who have not told of the
long and fierce struggle between those two famous bucks, Sir Charles
Tregellis and Lord Barrymore, for the Lordship of the Kingdom of St.
James, a struggle which divided the whole of fashionable London into two
opposing camps. It has been chronicled also how the peer retired
suddenly and the commoner resumed his great career without a rival. Only
here, however, one can read the real and remarkable reason for this
sudden eclipse of a star.
It was one morning in the days of this famous struggle that Sir Charles
Tregellis was performing his very complicated toilet, and Ambrose, his
valet, was helping him to attain that pitch of perfection which had long
gained him the reputation of being the best-dressed man in town. Suddenly
Sir Charles paused, his _coup d'archet_ half-executed, the final beauty
of his neck-cloth half-achieved, while he listened with surprise and
indignation upon his large, comely, fresh-complexioned face. Below, the
decorous hum of Jermyn Street had been broken by the sharp, staccato,
metallic beating of a doorknocker.
"I begin to think that this uproar must be at our door," said Sir
Charles, as one who thinks aloud. "For five minutes it has come and
gone; yet Perkins has his orders."
At a gesture from his master Ambrose stepped out upon the balcony and
craned his discreet head over it. From the street below came a voice,
drawling but clear.
"You would oblige me vastly, fellow, if you would do me the favour to
open this door," said the voice.
"Who is it? What is it?" asked the scandalised Sir Charles, with his
arrested elbow still pointing upwards.
Ambrose had returned with as much surprise upon his dark face as the
etiquette of his position would allow him to show.
"It is a young gentleman, Sir Charles."
"A young gentleman? There is no one in London who is not aware that I do
not show before midday. Do you know the person? Have you seen him
before?"
"I have not seen him, sir, but he is very like some one I could name."
"Like some one? Like whom?"
"With all respect, Sir Charles, I could for a moment have believed that
it was yourself when I looked down. A smaller man, sir, and a youth; but
the voice, the face, the bearing--"
"It must be that young cub Vereker, my brother's ne'er-do-weel," muttered
Sir Charles, continuing his toilet. "I have heard that there are points
in which he resembles me. He wrote from Oxford that he would come, and I
answered that I would not see him. Yet he ventures to insist. The
fellow needs a lesson! Ambrose, ring for Perkins."
A large footman entered with an outraged expression upon his face.
"I cannot have this uproar at the door, Perkins!"
"If you please, the young gentleman won't go away, sir."
"Won't go away? It is your duty to see that he goes away. Have you not
your orders? Didn't you tell him that I am not seen before midday?"
"I said so, sir. He would have pushed his way in, for all I could say,
so I slammed the door in his face."
"Very right, Perkins."
"But now, sir, he is making such a din that all the folk are at the
windows. There is a crowd gathering in the street, sir."
From below came the crack-crack-crack of the knocker, ever rising in
insistence, with a chorus of laughter and encouraging comments from the
spectators. Sir Charles flushed with anger. There must be some limit to
such impertinence.
"My clouded amber cane is in the corner," said he. "Take it with you,
Perkins. I give you a free hand. A stripe or two may bring the young
rascal to reason."
The large Perkins smiled and departed. The door was heard to open below
and the knocker was at rest. A few moments later there followed a
prolonged howl and a noise as of a beaten carpet. Sir Charles listened
with a smile which gradually faded from his good-humoured face.
"The fellow must not overdo it," he muttered. "I would not do the lad an
injury, whatever his deserts may be. Ambrose, run out on the balcony and
call him off. This has gone far enough."
But before the valet could move there came the swift patter of agile feet
upon the stairs, and a handsome youth, dressed in the height of fashion,
was standing framed in the open doorway. The pose, the face, above all
the curious, mischievous, dancing light in the large blue eyes, all spoke
of the famous Tregellis blood. Even such was Sir Charles when, twenty
years before, he had, by virtue of his spirit and audacity, in one short
season taken a place in London from which Brummell himself had afterwards
vainly struggled to depose him. The youth faced the angry features of
his uncle with an air of debonair amusement, and he held towards him,
upon his outstretched palms, the broken fragments of an amber cane.
"I much fear, sir," said he, "that in correcting your fellow I have had
the misfortune to injure what can only have been your property. I am
vastly concerned that it should have occurred."
Sir Charles stared with intolerant eyes at this impertinent apparition.
The other looked back in a laughable parody of his senior's manner. As
Ambrose had remarked after his inspection from the balcony, the two were
very alike, save that the younger was smaller, finer cut, and the more
nervously alive of the two.
"You are my nephew, Vereker Tregellis?" asked Sir Charles.
"Yours to command, sir."
"I hear bad reports of you from Oxford."
"Yes, sir, I understand that the reports _are_ bad."
"Nothing could be worse."
"So I have been told."
"Why are you here, sir?"
"That I might see my famous uncle."
"So you made a tumult in his street, forced his door, and beat his
footman?"
"Yes, sir."
"You had my letter?"
"Yes, sir."
"You were told that I was not receiving?"
"Yes, sir."
"I can remember no such exhibition of impertinence."
The young man smiled and rubbed his hands in satisfaction.
"There is an impertinence which is redeemed by wit," said Sir Charles,
severely. "There is another which is the mere boorishness of the
clodhopper. As you grow older and wiser you may discern the difference."
"You are very right, sir," said the young man, warmly. "The finer shades
of impertinence are infinitely subtle, and only experience and the
society of one who is a recognised master"--here he bowed to his
uncle--"can enable one to excel."
Sir Charles was notoriously touchy in temper for the first hour after his
morning chocolate. He allowed himself to show it.
"I cannot congratulate my brother upon his son," said he. "I had hoped
for something more worthy of our traditions."
"Perhaps, sir, upon a longer acquaintance--"
"The chance is too small to justify the very irksome experience. I must
ask you, sir, to bring to a close a visit which never should have been
made."
The young man smiled affably, but gave no sign of departure.
"May I ask, sir," said he, in an easy conversational fashion, "whether
you can recall Principal Munro, of my college?"
"No, sir, I cannot," his uncle answered, sharply.
"Naturally you would not burden your memory to such an extent, but he
still remembers you. In some conversation with him yesterday he did me
the honour to say that I brought you back to his recollection by what he
was pleased to call the mingled levity and obstinacy of my character. The
levity seems to have already impressed you. I am now reduced to showing
you the obstinacy." He sat down in a chair near the door and folded his
arms, still beaming pleasantly at his uncle.
"Oh, you won't go?" asked Sir Charles, grimly.
"No, sir; I will stay."
"Ambrose, step down and call a couple of chairmen."
"I should not advise it, sir. They will be hurt."
"I will put you out with my own hands."
"That, sir, you can always do. As my uncle, I could scarce resist you.
But, short of throwing me down the stair, I do not see how you can avoid
giving me half an hour of your attention."
Sir Charles smiled. He could not help it. There was so much that was
reminiscent of his own arrogant and eventful youth in the bearing of this
youngster. He was mollified, too, by the defiance of menials and quick
submission to himself. He turned to the glass and signed to Ambrose to
continue his duties.
"I must ask you to await the conclusion of my toilet," said he. "Then we
shall see how far you can justify such an intrusion."
When the valet had at last left the room Sir Charles turned his attention
once more to his scapegrace nephew, who had viewed the details of the
famous buck's toilet with the face of an acolyte assisting at a mystery.
"Now, sir," said the older man, "speak, and speak to the point, for I can
assure you that I have many more important matters which claim my
attention. The Prince is waiting for me at the present instant at
Carlton House. Be as brief as you can. What is it that you want?"
"A thousand pounds."
"Really! Nothing more?" Sir Charles had turned acid again.
"Yes, sir; an introduction to Mr. Brinsley Sheridan, whom I know to be
your friend."
"And why to him?"
"Because I am told that he controls Drury Lane Theatre, and I have a
fancy to be an actor. My friends assure me that I have a pretty talent
that way."
"I can see you clearly, sir, in Charles Surface, or any other part where
a foppish insolence is the essential. The less you acted, the better you
would be. But it is absurd to suppose that I could help you to such a
career. I could not justify it to your father. Return to Oxford at
once, and continue your studies."
"Impossible!"
"And pray, sir, what is the impediment?"
"I think I may have mentioned to you that I had an interview yesterday
with the Principal. He ended it by remarking that the authorities of the
University could tolerate me no more."
"Sent down?"
"Yes, sir."
"And this is the fruit, no doubt, of a long series of rascalities."
"Something of the sort, sir, I admit."
In spite of himself, Sir Charles began once more to relax in his severity
towards this handsome young scapegrace. His absolute frankness disarmed
criticism. It was in a more gracious voice that the older man continued
the conversation.
"Why do you want this large sum of money?" he asked.
"To pay my college debts before I go, sir."
"Your father is not a rich man."
"No, sir. I could not apply to him for that reason."
"So you come to me, who am a stranger!"
"No, sir, no! You are my uncle, and, if I may say so, my ideal and my
model."
"You flatter me, my good Vereker. But if you think you can flatter me
out of a thousand pounds, you mistake your man. I will give you no
money."
"Of course, sir, if you can't--"
"I did not say I can't. I say I won't."
"If you can, sir, I think you will."
Sir Charles smiled, and flicked his sleeve with his lace handkerchief.
"I find you vastly entertaining," said he. "Pray continue your
conversation. Why do you think that I will give you so large a sum of
money?"
"The reason that I think so," continued the younger man, "is that I can
do you a service which will seem to you worth a thousand pounds."
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Is this blackmail?" he inquired.
Vereker Tregellis flushed.
"Sir," said he, with a pleasing sternness, "you surprise me. You should
know the blood of which I come too well to suppose that I would attempt
such a thing."
"I am relieved to hear that there are limits to what you consider to be
justifiable. I must confess that I had seen none in your conduct up to
now. But you say that you can do me a service which will be worth a
thousand pounds to me?"
"Yes, sir."
"And pray, sir, what may this service be?"
"To make Lord Barrymore the laughing-stock of the town."
Sir Charles, in spite of himself, lost for an instant the absolute
serenity of his self-control. He started, and his face expressed his
surprise. By what devilish instinct did this raw undergraduate find the
one chink in his armour? Deep in his heart, unacknowledged to any one,
there was the will to pay many a thousand pounds to the man who would
bring ridicule upon this his most dangerous rival, who was challenging
his supremacy in fashionable London.
"Did you come from Oxford with this precious project?" he asked, after a
pause.
"No, sir. I chanced to see the man himself last night, and I conceived
an ill-will to him, and would do him a mischief."
"Where did you see him?"
"I spent the evening, sir, at the Vauxhall Gardens."
"No doubt you would," interpolated his uncle.
"My Lord Barrymore was there. He was attended by one who was dressed as
a clergyman, but who was, as I am told, none other than Hooper the
Tinman, who acts as his bully and thrashes all who may offend him.
Together they passed down the central path, insulting the women and
browbeating the men. They actually hustled me. I was offended, sir--so
much so that I nearly took the matter in hand then and there."
"It is as well that you did not. The prizefighter would have beaten
you."
"Perhaps so, sir--and also, perhaps not."
"Ah, you add pugilism to your elegant accomplishments?"
The young man laughed pleasantly.
"William Ball is the only professor of my Alma Mater who has ever had
occasion to compliment me, sir. He is better known as the Oxford Pet. I
think, with all modesty, that I could hold him for a dozen rounds. But
last night I suffered the annoyance without protest, for since it is said
that the same scene is enacted every evening, there is always time to
act."
"And how would you act, may I ask?"
"That, sir, I should prefer to keep to myself; but my aim, as I say,
would be to make Lord Barrymore a laughing-stock to all London."
Sir Charles cogitated for a moment.
"Pray, sir," said he, "why did you imagine that any humiliation to Lord
Barrymore would be pleasing to me?"
"Even in the provinces we know something of what passes in polite
circles. Your antagonism to this man is to be found in every column of
fashionable gossip. The town is divided between you. It is impossible
that any public slight upon him should be unpleasing to you."
Sir Charles smiled.
"You are a shrewd reasoner," said he. "We will suppose for the instant
that you are right. Can you give me no hint what means you would adopt
to attain this very desirable end?"
"I would merely make the remark, sir, that many women have been wronged
by this fellow. That is a matter of common knowledge. If one of these
damsels were to upbraid him in public in such a fashion that the sympathy
of the bystanders should be with her, then I can imagine, if she were
sufficiently persistent, that his lordship's position might become an
unenviable one."
"And you know such a woman?"
"I think, sir, that I do."
"Well, my good Vereker, if any such attempt is in your mind, I see no
reason why I should stand between Lord Barrymore and the angry fair. As
to whether the result is worth a thousand pounds, I can make no promise."
"You shall yourself be the judge, sir."
"I will be an exacting judge, nephew."
"Very good, sir; I should not desire otherwise. If things go as I hope,
his lordship will not show face in St. James's Street for a year to come.
I will now, if I may, give you your instructions."
"My instructions! What do you mean? I have nothing to do with the
matter."
"You are the judge, sir, and therefore must be present."
"I can play no part."
"No, sir. I would not ask you to do more than be a witness."
"What, then, are my instructions, as you are pleased to call them?"
"You will come to the Gardens to-night, uncle, at nine o'clock precisely.
You will walk down the centre path, and you will seat yourself upon one
of the rustic seats which are beside the statue of Aphrodite. You will
wait and you will observe."
"Very good; I will do so. I begin to perceive, nephew, that the breed of
Tregellis has not yet lost some of the points which have made it famous."
It was at the stroke of nine that night when Sir Charles, throwing his
reins to the groom, descended from his high yellow phaeton, which
forthwith turned to take its place in the long line of fashionable
carriages waiting for their owners. As he entered the gate of the
Gardens, the centre at that time of the dissipation and revelry of
London, he turned up the collar of his driving-cape and drew his hat over
his eyes, for he had no desire to be personally associated with what
might well prove to be a public scandal. In spite of his attempted
disguise, however, there was that in his walk and his carriage which
caused many an eye to be turned after him as he passed and many a hand to
be raised in salute. Sir Charles walked on, and, seating himself upon
the rustic bench in front of the famous statue, which was in the very
middle of the Gardens, he waited in amused suspense to see the next act
in this comedy.
From the pavilion, whence the paths radiated, there came the strains of
the band of the Foot Guards, and by the many-coloured lamps twinkling
from every tree Sir Charles could see the confused whirl of the dancers.
Suddenly the music stopped. The quadrilles were at an end.
An instant afterwards the central path by which he sat was thronged by
the revellers. In a many-coloured crowd, stocked and cravated with all
the bravery of buff and plum-colour and blue, the bucks of the town
passed and repassed with their high-waisted, straight-skirted,
be-bonneted ladies upon their arms.
It was not a decorous assembly. Many of the men, flushed and noisy, had
come straight from their potations. The women, too, were loud and
aggressive. Now and then, with a rush and a swirl, amid a chorus of
screams from the girls and good-humoured laughter from their escorts,
some band of high-blooded, noisy youths would break their way across the
moving throng. It was no place for the prim or demure, and there was a
spirit of good-nature and merriment among the crowd which condoned the
wildest liberty.
And yet there were some limits to what could be tolerated even by so
Bohemian an assembly. A murmur of anger followed in the wake of two
roisterers who were making their way down the path. It would, perhaps,
be fairer to say one roisterer; for of the two it was only the first who
carried himself with such insolence, although it was the second who
ensured that he could do it with impunity.
The leader was a very tall, hatchet-faced man, dressed in the very height
of fashion, whose evil, handsome features were flushed with wine and
arrogance. He shouldered his way roughly through the crowd, peering with
an abominable smile into the faces of the women, and occasionally, where
the weakness of the escort invited an insult, stretching out his hand and
caressing the cheek or neck of some passing girl, laughing loudly as she
winced away from his touch.
Close at his heels walked his hired attendant, whom, out of insolent
caprice and with a desire to show his contempt for the prejudices of
others, he had dressed as a rough country clergyman. This fellow
slouched along with frowning brows and surly, challenging eyes, like some
faithful, hideous human bulldog, his knotted hands protruding from his
rusty cassock, his great underhung jaw turning slowly from right to left
as he menaced the crowd with his sinister gaze. Already a close observer
might have marked upon his face a heaviness and looseness of feature, the
first signs of that physical decay which in a very few years was to
stretch him, a helpless wreck, too weak to utter his own name, upon the
causeway of the London streets. At present, however, he was still an
unbeaten man, the terror of the Ring, and as his ill-omened face was seen
behind his infamous master many a half-raised cane was lowered and many a
hot word was checked, while the whisper of "Hooper! 'Ware Bully Hooper!"
warned all who were aggrieved that it might be best to pocket their
injuries lest some even worse thing should befall them. Many a maimed
and disfigured man had carried away from Vauxhall the handiwork of the
Tinman and his patron.
Moving in insolent slowness through the crowd, the bully and his master
had just come opposite to the bench upon which sat Sir Charles Tregellis.
At this place the path opened up into a circular space, brilliantly
illuminated and surrounded by rustic seats. From one of these an
elderly, ringleted woman, deeply veiled, rose suddenly and barred the
path of the swaggering nobleman. Her voice sounded clear and strident
above the babel of tongues, which hushed suddenly that their owners might
hear it.
"Marry her, my lord! I entreat you to marry her! Oh, surely you will
marry my poor Amelia!" said the voice.
Lord Barrymore stood aghast. From all sides folk were closing in and
heads were peering over shoulders. He tried to push on, but the lady
barred his way and two palms pressed upon his beruffled front.
"Surely, surely you would not desert her! Take the advice of that good,
kind clergyman behind you!" wailed the voice. "Oh, be a man of honour
and marry her!"
The elderly lady thrust out her hand and drew forward a lumpish-looking
young woman, who sobbed and mopped her eyes with her handkerchief.
"The plague take you!" roared his lordship, in a fury. "Who is the
wench? I vow that I never clapped eyes on either of you in my life!"
"It is my niece Amelia," cried the lady, "your own loving Amelia! Oh, my
lord, can you pretend that you have forgotten poor, trusting Amelia, of
Woodbine Cottage at Lichfield."
"I never set foot in Lichfield in my life!" cried the peer. "You are two
impostors who should be whipped at the cart's tail."
"Oh, wicked! Oh, Amelia!" screamed the lady, in a voice that resounded
through the Gardens. "Oh, my darling, try to soften his hard heart; pray
him that he make an honest woman of you at last."
With a lurch the stout young woman fell forward and embraced Lord
Barrymore with the hug of a bear. He would have raised his cane, but his
arms were pinned to his sides.
"Hooper! Hooper!" screamed the furious peer, craning his neck in horror,
for the girl seemed to be trying to kiss him.
But the bruiser, as he ran forward, found himself entangled with the old
lady.
"Out o' the way, marm!" he cried. "Out o' the way, I say!" and pushed
her violently aside.
"Oh, you rude, rude man!" she shrieked, springing back in front of him.
"He hustled me, good people; you saw him hustle me! A clergyman, but no
gentleman! What! you would treat a lady so--you would do it again? Oh,
I could slap, slap, slap you!"
And with each repetition of the word, with extraordinary swiftness, her
open palm rang upon the prizefighter's cheek.
The crowd buzzed with amazement and delight.
"Hooper! Hooper!" cried Lord Barrymore once more, for he was still
struggling in the ever-closer embrace of the unwieldy and amorous Amelia.
The bully again pushed forward to the aid of his patron, but again the
elderly lady confronted him, her head back, her left arm extended, her
whole attitude, to his amazement, that of an expert boxer.
The prizefighter's brutal nature was roused. Woman or no woman, he would
show the murmuring crowd what it meant to cross the path of the Tinman.
She had struck him. She must take the consequence. No one should square
up to him with impunity. He swung his right with a curse. The bonnet
instantly ducked under his arm, and a line of razor-like knuckles left an
open cut under his eye.
Amid wild cries of delight and encouragement from the dense circle of
spectators, the lady danced round the sham clergyman, dodging his
ponderous blows, slipping under his arms, and smacking back at him most
successfully. Once she tripped and fell over her own skirt, but was up
and at him again in an instant.
"You vulgar fellow!" she shrieked. "Would you strike a helpless woman!
Take that! Oh, you rude and ill-bred man!"
Bully Hooper was cowed for the first time in his life by the
extraordinary thing that he was fighting. The creature was as elusive as
a shadow, and yet the blood was dripping down his chin from the effects
of the blows. He shrank back with an amazed face from so uncanny an
antagonist. And in the moment that he did so his spell was for ever
broken. Only success could hold it. A check was fatal. In all the
crowd there was scarce one who was not nursing some grievance against
master or man, and waiting for that moment of weakness in which to
revenge it.
With a growl of rage the circle closed in. There was an eddy of furious,
struggling men, with Lord Barrymore's thin, flushed face and Hooper's
bulldog jowl in the centre of it. A moment after they were both upon the
ground, and a dozen sticks were rising and falling above them.
"Let me up! You're killing me! For God's sake let me up!" cried a
crackling voice.
Hooper fought mute, like the bulldog he was, till his senses were beaten
out of him.
Bruised, kicked, and mauled, never did their worst victim come so badly
from the Gardens as the bully and his patron that night. But worse than
the ache of wounds for Lord Barrymore was the smart of the mind as he
thought how every club and drawing-room in London would laugh for a week
to come at the tale of his Amelia and her aunt.
Sir Charles had stood, rocking with laughter, upon the bench which
overlooked the scene. When at last he made his way back through the
crowds to his yellow phaeton, he was not entirely surprised to find that
the back seat was already occupied by two giggling females, who were
exchanging most unladylike repartees with the attendant grooms.
"You young rascals!" he remarked, over his shoulder, as he gathered up
his reins.
The two females tittered loudly.
"Uncle Charles!" cried the elder, "may I present Mr. Jack Jarvis, of
Brasenose College? I think, uncle, you should take us somewhere to sup,
for it has been a vastly fatiguing performance. To-morrow I will do
myself the honour to call, at your convenience, and will venture to bring
with me the receipt for one thousand pounds."
V. THE HORROR OF THE HEIGHTS
(WHICH INCLUDES THE MANUSCRIPT KNOWN AS THE JOYCE-ARMSTRONG FRAGMENT)
The idea that the extraordinary narrative which has been called the Joyce-
Armstrong Fragment is an elaborate practical joke evolved by some unknown
person, cursed by a perverted and sinister sense of humour, has now been
abandoned by all who have examined the matter. The most _macabre_ and
imaginative of plotters would hesitate before linking his morbid fancies
with the unquestioned and tragic facts which reinforce the statement.
Though the assertions contained in it are amazing and even monstrous, it
is none the less forcing itself upon the general intelligence that they
are true, and that we must readjust our ideas to the new situation. This
world of ours appears to be separated by a slight and precarious margin
of safety from a most singular and unexpected danger. I will endeavour
in this narrative, which reproduces the original document in its
necessarily somewhat fragmentary form, to lay before the reader the whole
of the facts up to date, prefacing my statement by saying that, if there
be any who doubt the narrative of Joyce-Armstrong, there can be no
question at all as to the facts concerning Lieutenant Myrtle, R.N., and
Mr. Hay Connor, who undoubtedly met their end in the manner described.
The Joyce-Armstrong Fragment was found in the field which is called Lower
Haycock, lying one mile to the westward of the village of Withyham, upon
the Kent and Sussex border. It was on the fifteenth of September last
that an agricultural labourer, James Flynn, in the employment of Mathew
Dodd, farmer, of the Chauntry Farm, Withyham, perceived a briar pipe
lying near the footpath which skirts the hedge in Lower Haycock. A few
paces farther on he picked up a pair of broken binocular glasses.
Finally, among some nettles in the ditch, he caught sight of a flat,
canvas-backed book, which proved to be a note-book with detachable
leaves, some of which had come loose and were fluttering along the base
of the hedge. These he collected, but some, including the first, were
never recovered, and leave a deplorable hiatus in this all-important
statement. The notebook was taken by the labourer to his master, who in
turn showed it to Dr. J. H. Atherton, of Hartfield. This gentleman at
once recognised the need for an expert examination, and the manuscript
was forwarded to the Aero Club in London, where it now lies.
The first two pages of the manuscript are missing. There is also one
torn away at the end of the narrative, though none of these affect the
general coherence of the story. It is conjectured that the missing
opening is concerned with the record of Mr. Joyce-Armstrong's
qualifications as an aeronaut, which can be gathered from other sources
and are admitted to be unsurpassed among the air-pilots of England. For
many years he has been looked upon as among the most daring and the most
intellectual of flying men, a combination which has enabled him to both
invent and test several new devices, including the common gyroscopic
attachment which is known by his name. The main body of the manuscript
is written neatly in ink, but the last few lines are in pencil and are so
ragged as to be hardly legible--exactly, in fact, as they might be
expected to appear if they were scribbled off hurriedly from the seat of
a moving aeroplane. There are, it may be added, several stains, both on
the last page and on the outside cover, which have been pronounced by the
Home Office experts to be blood--probably human and certainly mammalian.
The fact that something closely resembling the organism of malaria was
discovered in this blood, and that Joyce-Armstrong is known to have
suffered from intermittent fever, is a remarkable example of the new
weapons which modern science has placed in the hands of our detectives.
And now a word as to the personality of the author of this epoch-making
statement. Joyce-Armstrong, according to the few friends who really knew
something of the man, was a poet and a dreamer, as well as a mechanic and
an inventor. He was a man of considerable wealth, much of which he had
spent in the pursuit of his aeronautical hobby. He had four private
aeroplanes in his hangars near Devizes, and is said to have made no fewer
than one hundred and seventy ascents in the course of last year. He was
a retiring man with dark moods, in which he would avoid the society of
his fellows. Captain Dangerfield, who knew him better than any one, says
that there were times when his eccentricity threatened to develop into
something more serious. His habit of carrying a shot-gun with him in his
aeroplane was one manifestation of it.
Another was the morbid effect which the fall of Lieutenant Myrtle had
upon his mind. Myrtle, who was attempting the height record, fell from
an altitude of something over thirty thousand feet. Horrible to narrate,
his head was entirely obliterated, though his body and limbs preserved
their configuration. At every gathering of airmen, Joyce-Armstrong,
according to Dangerfield, would ask, with an enigmatic smile: "And where,
pray, is Myrtle's head?"
On another occasion after dinner, at the mess of the Flying School on
Salisbury Plain, he started a debate as to what will be the most
permanent danger which airmen will have to encounter. Having listened to
successive opinions as to air-pockets, faulty construction, and
over-banking, he ended by shrugging his shoulders and refusing to put
forward his own views, though he gave the impression that they differed
from any advanced by his companions.
It is worth remarking that after his own complete disappearance it was
found that his private affairs were arranged with a precision which may
show that he had a strong premonition of disaster. With these essential
explanations I will now give the narrative exactly as it stands,
beginning at page three of the blood-soaked note-book:--
"Nevertheless, when I dined at Rheims with Coselli and Gustav Raymond I
found that neither of them was aware of any particular danger in the
higher layers of the atmosphere. I did not actually say what was in my
thoughts, but I got so near to it that if they had any corresponding idea
they could not have failed to express it. But then they are two empty,
vainglorious fellows with no thought beyond seeing their silly names in
the newspaper. It is interesting to note that neither of them had ever
been much beyond the twenty-thousand-foot level. Of course, men have
been higher than this both in balloons and in the ascent of mountains. It
must be well above that point that the aeroplane enters the danger
zone--always presuming that my premonitions are correct.
"Aeroplaning has been with us now for more than twenty years, and one
might well ask: Why should this peril be only revealing itself in our
day? The answer is obvious. In the old days of weak engines, when a
hundred horse-power Gnome or Green was considered ample for every need,
the flights were very restricted. Now that three hundred horse-power is
the rule rather than the exception, visits to the upper layers have
become easier and more common. Some of us can remember how, in our
youth, Garros made a world-wide reputation by attaining nineteen thousand
feet, and it was considered a remarkable achievement to fly over the
Alps. Our standard now has been immeasurably raised, and there are
twenty high flights for one in former years. Many of them have been
undertaken with impunity. The thirty-thousand-foot level has been
reached time after time with no discomfort beyond cold and asthma. What
does this prove? A visitor might descend upon this planet a thousand
times and never see a tiger. Yet tigers exist, and if he chanced to come
down into a jungle he might be devoured. There are jungles of the upper
air, and there are worse things than tigers which inhabit them. I
believe in time they will map these jungles accurately out. Even at the
present moment I could name two of them. One of them lies over the Pau-
Biarritz district of France. Another is just over my head as I write
here in my house in Wiltshire. I rather think there is a third in the
Homburg-Wiesbaden district.
"It was the disappearance of the airmen that first set me thinking. Of
course, every one said that they had fallen into the sea, but that did
not satisfy me at all. First, there was Verrier in France; his machine
was found near Bayonne, but they never got his body. There was the case
of Baxter also, who vanished, though his engine and some of the iron
fixings were found in a wood in Leicestershire. In that case, Dr.
Middleton, of Amesbury, who was watching the flight with a telescope,
declares that just before the clouds obscured the view he saw the
machine, which was at an enormous height, 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 to-morrow.
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 to-
morrow--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 about accidents or mysteries, if _you_ please.
"I chose my Paul Veroner monoplane for the job. There's nothing like a
monoplane when real work is to be done. Beaumont found that out in very
early days. For one thing, it doesn't mind damp, and the weather looks
as if we should be in the clouds all the time. It's a bonny little model
and answers my hand like a tender-mouthed horse. The engine is a ten-
cylinder rotary Robur working up to one hundred and seventy-five. It has
all the modern improvements--enclosed fuselage, high-curved landing
skids, brakes, gyroscopic steadiers, and three speeds, worked by an
alteration of the angle of the planes upon the Venetian-blind principle.
I took a shot-gun with me and a dozen cartridges filled with buck-shot.
You should have seen the face of Perkins, my old mechanic, when I
directed him to put them in. I was dressed like an Arctic explorer, with
two jerseys under my overalls, thick socks inside my padded boots, a
storm-cap with flaps, and my talc goggles. It was stifling outside the
hangars, but I was going for the summit of the Himalayas, and had to
dress for the part. Perkins knew there was something on and implored me
to take him with me. Perhaps I should if I were using the biplane, but a
monoplane is a one-man show--if you want to get the last foot of lift out
of it. Of course, I took an oxygen bag; the man who goes for the
altitude record without one will either be frozen or smothered--or both.
"I had a good look at the planes, the rudder-bar, and the elevating lever
before I got in. Everything was in order so far as I could see. Then I
switched on my engine and found that she was running sweetly. When they
let her go she rose almost at once upon the lowest speed. I circled my
home field once or twice just to warm her up, and then, with a wave to
Perkins and the others, I flattened out my planes and put her on her
highest. She skimmed like a swallow down wind for eight or ten miles
until I turned her nose up a little and she began to climb in a great
spiral for the cloud-bank above me. It's all-important to rise slowly
and adapt yourself to the pressure as you go.
"It was a close, warm day for an English September, and there was the
hush and heaviness of impending rain. Now and then there came sudden
puffs of wind from the south-west--one of them so gusty and unexpected
that it caught me napping and turned me half-round for an instant. I
remember the time when gusts and whirls and air-pockets used to be things
of danger--before we learned to put an overmastering power into our
engines. Just as I reached the cloud-banks, with the altimeter marking
three thousand, down came the rain. My word, how it poured! It drummed
upon my wings and lashed against my face, blurring my glasses so that I
could hardly see. I got down on to a low speed, for it was painful to
travel against it. As I got higher it became hail, and I had to turn
tail to it. One of my cylinders was out of action--a dirty plug, I
should imagine, but still I was rising steadily with plenty of power.
After a bit the trouble passed, whatever it was, and I heard the full,
deep-throated purr--the ten singing as one. That's where the beauty of
our modern silencers comes in. We can at last control our engines by
ear. How they squeal and squeak and sob when they are in trouble! All
those cries for help were wasted in the old days, when every sound was
swallowed up by the monstrous racket of the machine. If only the early
aviators could come back to see the beauty and perfection of the
mechanism which have been bought at the cost of their lives!
"About nine-thirty I was nearing the clouds. Down below me, all blurred
and shadowed with rain, lay the vast expanse of Salisbury Plain. Half-a-
dozen flying machines were doing hackwork at the thousand-foot level,
looking like little black swallows against the green background. I dare
say they were wondering what I was doing up in cloud-land. Suddenly a
grey curtain drew across beneath me and the wet folds of vapour were
swirling round my face. It was clammily cold and miserable. But I was
above the hail-storm, and that was something gained. The cloud was as
dark and thick as a London fog. In my anxiety to get clear, I cocked her
nose up until the automatic alarm-bell rang, and I actually began to
slide backwards. My sopped and dripping wings had made me heavier than I
thought, but presently I was in lighter cloud, and soon had cleared the
first layer. There was a second--opal-coloured and fleecy--at a great
height above my head, a white unbroken ceiling above, and a dark unbroken
floor below, with the monoplane labouring upwards upon a vast spiral
between them. It is deadly lonely in these cloud-spaces. Once a great
flight of some small water-birds went past me, flying very fast to the
westwards. The quick whirr of their wings and their musical cry were
cheery to my ear. I fancy that they were teal, but I am a wretched
zoologist. Now that we humans have become birds we must really learn to
know our brethren by sight.
"The wind down beneath me whirled and swayed the broad cloud-plain. Once
a great eddy formed in it, a whirlpool of vapour, and through it, as down
a funnel, I caught sight of the distant world. A large white biplane was
passing at a vast depth beneath me. I fancy it was the morning mail
service betwixt Bristol and London. Then the drift swirled inwards again
and the great solitude was unbroken.
"Just after ten I touched the lower edge of the upper cloud-stratum. It
consisted of fine diaphanous vapour drifting swiftly from the westward.
The wind had been steadily rising all this time and it was now blowing a
sharp breeze--twenty-eight an hour by my gauge. Already it was very
cold, though my altimeter only marked nine thousand. The engines were
working beautifully, and we went droning steadily upwards. The cloud-
bank was thicker than I had expected, but at last it thinned out into a
golden mist before me, and then in an instant I had shot out from it, and
there was an unclouded sky and a brilliant sun above my head--all blue
and gold above, all shining silver below, one vast glimmering plain as
far as my eyes could reach. It was a quarter past ten o'clock, and the
barograph needle pointed to twelve thousand eight hundred. Up I went and
up, my ears concentrated upon the deep purring of my motor, my eyes busy
always with the watch, the revolution indicator, the petrol lever, and
the oil pump. No wonder aviators are said to be a fearless race. With
so many things to think of there is no time to trouble about oneself.
About this time I noted how unreliable is the compass when above a
certain height from earth. At fifteen thousand feet mine was pointing
east and a point south. The sun and the wind gave me my true bearings.
"I had hoped to reach an eternal stillness in these high altitudes, but
with every thousand feet of ascent the gale grew stronger. My machine
groaned and trembled in every joint and rivet as she faced it, and swept
away like a sheet of paper when I banked her on the turn, skimming down
wind at a greater pace, perhaps, than ever mortal man has moved. Yet I
had always to turn again and tack up in the wind's eye, for it was not
merely a height record that I was after. By all my calculations it was
above little Wiltshire that my air-jungle lay, and all my labour might be
lost if I struck the outer layers at some farther point.
"When I reached the nineteen-thousand-foot level, which was about midday,
the wind was so severe that I looked with some anxiety to the stays of my
wings, expecting momentarily to see them snap or slacken. I even cast
loose the parachute behind me, and fastened its hook into the ring of my
leathern belt, so as to be ready for the worst. Now was the time when a
bit of scamped work by the mechanic is paid for by the life of the
aeronaut. But she held together bravely. Every cord and strut was
humming and vibrating like so many harp-strings, but it was glorious to
see how, for all the beating and the buffeting, she was still the
conqueror of Nature and the mistress of the sky. There is surely
something divine in man himself that he should rise so superior to the
limitations which Creation seemed to impose--rise, too, by such
unselfish, heroic devotion as this air-conquest has shown. Talk of human
degeneration! When has such a story as this been written in the annals
of our race?
"These were the thoughts in my head as I climbed that monstrous inclined
plane with the wind sometimes beating in my face and sometimes whistling
behind my ears, while the cloud-land beneath me fell away to such a
distance that the folds and hummocks of silver had all smoothed out into
one flat, shining plain. But suddenly I had a horrible and unprecedented
experience. I have known before what it is to be in what our neighbours
have called a _tourbillon_, but never on such a scale as this. That
huge, sweeping river of wind of which I have spoken had, as it appears,
whirlpools within it which were as monstrous as itself. Without a
moment's warning I was dragged suddenly into the heart of one. I spun
round for a minute or two with such velocity that I almost lost my
senses, and then fell suddenly, left wing foremost, down the vacuum
funnel in the centre. I dropped like a stone, and lost nearly a thousand
feet. It was only my belt that kept me in my seat, and the shock and
breathlessness left me hanging half-insensible over the side of the
fuselage. But I am always capable of a supreme effort--it is my one
great merit as an aviator. I was conscious that the descent was slower.
The whirlpool was a cone rather than a funnel, and I had come to the
apex. With a terrific wrench, throwing my weight all to one side, I
levelled my planes and brought her head away from the wind. In an
instant I had shot out of the eddies and was skimming down the sky. Then,
shaken but victorious, I turned her nose up and began once more my steady
grind on the upward spiral. I took a large sweep to avoid the danger-
spot of the whirlpool, and soon I was safely above it. Just after one
o'clock I was twenty-one thousand feet above the sea-level. To my great
joy I had topped the gale, and with every hundred feet of ascent the air
grew stiller. On the other hand, it was very cold, and I was conscious
of that peculiar nausea which goes with rarefaction of the air. For the
first time I unscrewed the mouth of my oxygen bag and took an occasional
whiff of the glorious gas. I could feel it running like a cordial
through my veins, and I was exhilarated almost to the point of
drunkenness. I shouted and sang as I soared upwards into the cold, still
outer world.
"It is very clear to me that the insensibility which came upon Glaisher,
and in a lesser degree upon Coxwell, when, in 1862, they ascended in a
balloon to the height of thirty thousand feet, was due to the extreme
speed with which a perpendicular ascent is made. Doing it at an easy
gradient and accustoming oneself to the lessened barometric pressure by
slow degrees, there are no such dreadful symptoms. At the same great
height I found that even without my oxygen inhaler I could breathe
without undue distress. It was bitterly cold, however, and my
thermometer was at zero Fahrenheit. At one-thirty I was nearly seven
miles above the surface of the earth, and still ascending steadily. I
found, however, that the rarefied air was giving markedly less support to
my planes, and that my angle of ascent had to be considerably lowered in
consequence. It was already clear that even with my light weight and
strong engine-power there was a point in front of me where I should be
held. To make matters worse, one of my sparking-plugs was in trouble
again and there was intermittent missfiring in the engine. My heart was
heavy with the fear of failure.
"It was about that time that I had a most extraordinary experience.
Something whizzed past me in a trail of smoke and exploded with a loud,
hissing sound, sending forth a cloud of steam. For the instant I could
not imagine what had happened. Then I remembered that the earth is for
ever being bombarded by meteor stones, and would be hardly inhabitable
were they not in nearly every case turned to vapour in the outer layers
of the atmosphere. Here is a new danger for the high-altitude man, for
two others passed me when I was nearing the forty-thousand-foot mark. I
cannot doubt that at the edge of the earth's envelope the risk would be a
very real one.
"My barograph needle marked forty-one thousand three hundred when I
became aware that I could go no farther. Physically, the strain was not
as yet greater than I could bear, but my machine had reached its limit.
The attenuated air gave no firm support to the wings, and the least tilt
developed into side-slip, while she seemed sluggish on her controls.
Possibly, had the engine been at its best, another thousand feet might
have been within our capacity, but it was still missfiring, and two out
of the ten cylinders appeared to be out of action. If I had not already
reached the zone for which I was searching then I should never see it
upon this journey. But was it not possible that I had attained it?
Soaring in circles like a monstrous hawk upon the forty-thousand-foot
level I let the monoplane guide herself, and with my Mannheim glass I
made a careful observation of my surroundings. The heavens were
perfectly clear; there was no indication of those dangers which I had
imagined.
"I have said that I was soaring in circles. It struck me suddenly that I
would do well to take a wider sweep and open up a new air-tract. If the
hunter entered an earth-jungle he would drive through it if he wished to
find his game. My reasoning had led me to believe that the air-jungle
which I had imagined lay somewhere over Wiltshire. This should be to the
south and west of me. I took my bearings from the sun, for the compass
was hopeless and no trace of earth was to be seen--nothing but the
distant silver cloud-plain. However, I got my direction as best I might
and kept her head straight to the mark. I reckoned that my petrol supply
would not last for more than another hour or so, but I could afford to
use it to the last drop, since a single magnificent vol-plane could at
any time take me to the earth.
"Suddenly I was aware of something new. The air in front of me had lost
its crystal clearness. It was full of long, ragged wisps of something
which I can only compare to very fine cigarette-smoke. It hung about in
wreaths and coils, turning and twisting slowly in the sunlight. As the
monoplane shot through it, I was aware of a faint taste of oil upon my
lips, and there was a greasy scum upon the woodwork of the machine. Some
infinitely fine organic matter appeared to be suspended in the
atmosphere. There was no life there. It was inchoate and diffuse,
extending for many square acres and then fringing off into the void. No,
it was not life. But might it not be the remains of life? Above all,
might it not be the food of life, of monstrous life, even as the humble
grease of the ocean is the food for the mighty whale? The thought was in
my mind when my eyes looked upwards and I saw the most wonderful vision
that ever man has seen. Can I hope to convey it to you even as I saw it
myself last Thursday?
"Conceive a jelly-fish such as sails in our summer seas, bell-shaped and
of enormous size--far larger, I should judge, than the dome of St.
Paul's. It was of a light pink colour veined with a delicate green, but
the whole huge fabric so tenuous that it was but a fairy outline against
the dark blue sky. It pulsated with a delicate and regular rhythm. From
it there depended two long, drooping green tentacles, which swayed slowly
backwards and forwards. This gorgeous vision passed gently with
noiseless dignity over my head, as light and fragile as a soap-bubble,
and drifted upon its stately way.
"I had half-turned my monoplane, that I might look after this beautiful
creature, when, in a moment, I found myself amidst a perfect fleet of
them, of all sizes, but none so large as the first. Some were quite
small, but the majority about as big as an average balloon, and with much
the same curvature at the top. There was in them a delicacy of texture
and colouring which reminded me of the finest Venetian glass. Pale
shades of pink and green were the prevailing tints, but all had a lovely
iridescence where the sun shimmered through their dainty forms. Some
hundreds of them drifted past me, a wonderful fairy squadron of strange,
unknown argosies of the sky--creatures whose forms and substance were so
attuned to these pure heights that one could not conceive anything so
delicate within actual sight or sound of earth.
"But soon my attention was drawn to a new phenomenon--the serpents of the
outer air. These were long, thin, fantastic coils of vapour-like
material, which turned and twisted with great speed, flying round and
round at such a pace that the eyes could hardly follow them. Some of
these ghost-like creatures were twenty or thirty feet long, but it was
difficult to tell their girth, for their outline was so hazy that it
seemed to fade away into the air around them. These air-snakes were of a
very light grey or smoke colour, with some darker lines within, which
gave the impression of a definite organism. One of them whisked past my
very face, and I was conscious of a cold, clammy contact, but their
composition was so unsubstantial that I could not connect them with any
thought of physical danger, any more than the beautiful bell-like
creatures which had preceded them. There was no more solidity in their
frames than in the floating spume from a broken wave.
"But a more terrible experience was in store for me. Floating downwards
from a great height there came a purplish patch of vapour, small as I saw
it first, but rapidly enlarging as it approached me, until it appeared to
be hundreds of square feet in size. Though fashioned of some
transparent, jelly-like substance, it was none the less of much more
definite outline and solid consistence than anything which I had seen
before. There were more traces, too, of a physical organization,
especially two vast shadowy, circular plates upon either side, which may
have been eyes, and a perfectly solid white projection between them which
was as curved and cruel as the beak of a vulture.
"The whole aspect of this monster was formidable and threatening, and it
kept changing its colour from a very light mauve to a dark, angry purple
so thick that it cast a shadow as it drifted between my monoplane and the
sun. On the upper curve of its huge body there were three great
projections which I can only describe as enormous bubbles, and I was
convinced as I looked at them that they were charged with some extremely
light gas which served to buoy-up the misshapen and semi-solid mass in
the rarefied air. The creature moved swiftly along, keeping pace easily
with the monoplane, and for twenty miles or more it formed my horrible
escort, hovering over me like a bird of prey which is waiting to pounce.
Its method of progression--done so swiftly that it was not easy to
follow--was to throw out a long, glutinous streamer in front of it, which
in turn seemed to draw forward the rest of the writhing body. So elastic
and gelatinous was it that never for two successive minutes was it the
same shape, and yet each change made it more threatening and loathsome
than the last.
"I knew that it meant mischief. Every purple flush of its hideous body
told me so. The vague, goggling eyes which were turned always upon me
were cold and merciless in their viscid hatred. I dipped the nose of my
monoplane downwards to escape it. As I did so, as quick as a flash there
shot out a long tentacle from this mass of floating blubber, and it fell
as light and sinuous as a whip-lash across the front of my machine. There
was a loud hiss as it lay for a moment across the hot engine, and it
whisked itself into the air again, while the huge flat body drew itself
together as if in sudden pain. I dipped to a vol-pique, but again a
tentacle fell over the monoplane and was shorn off by the propeller as
easily as it might have cut through a smoke wreath. A long, gliding,
sticky, serpent-like coil came from behind and caught me round the waist,
dragging me out of the fuselage. I tore at it, my fingers sinking into
the smooth, glue-like surface, and for an instant I disengaged myself,
but only to be caught round the boot by another coil, which gave me a
jerk that tilted me almost on to my back.
"As I fell over I blazed off both barrels of my gun, though, indeed, it
was like attacking an elephant with a pea-shooter to imagine that any
human weapon could cripple that mighty bulk. And yet I aimed better than
I knew, for, with a loud report, one of the great blisters upon the
creature's back exploded with the puncture of the buck-shot. It was very
clear that my conjecture was right, and that these vast clear bladders
were distended with some lifting gas, for in an instant the huge cloud-
like body turned sideways, writhing desperately to find its balance,
while the white beak snapped and gaped in horrible fury. But already I
had shot away on the steepest glide that I dared to attempt, my engine
still full on, the flying propeller and the force of gravity shooting me
downwards like an aerolite. Far behind me I saw a dull, purplish smudge
growing swiftly smaller and merging into the blue sky behind it. I was
safe out of the deadly jungle of the outer air.
"Once out of danger I throttled my engine, for nothing tears a machine to
pieces quicker than running on full power from a height. It was a
glorious spiral vol-plane from nearly eight miles of altitude--first, to
the level of the silver cloud-bank, then to that of the storm-cloud
beneath it, and finally, in beating rain, to the surface of the earth. I
saw the Bristol Channel beneath me as I broke from the clouds, but,
having still some petrol in my tank, I got twenty miles inland before I
found myself stranded in a field half a mile from the village of
Ashcombe. There I got three tins of petrol from a passing motor-car, and
at ten minutes past six that evening I alighted gently in my own home
meadow at Devizes, after such a journey as no mortal upon earth has ever
yet taken and lived to tell the tale. I have seen the beauty and I have
seen the horror of the heights--and greater beauty or greater horror than
that is not within the ken of man.
"And now it is my plan to go once again before I give my results to the
world. My reason for this is that I must surely have something to show
by way of proof before I lay such a tale before my fellow-men. It is
true that others will soon follow and will confirm what I have said, and
yet I should wish to carry conviction from the first. Those lovely
iridescent bubbles of the air should not be hard to capture. They drift
slowly upon their way, and the swift monoplane could intercept their
leisurely course. It is likely enough that they would dissolve in the
heavier layers of the atmosphere, and that some small heap of amorphous
jelly might be all that I should bring to earth with me. And yet
something there would surely be by which I could substantiate my story.
Yes, I will go, even if I run a risk by doing so. These purple horrors
would not seem to be numerous. It is probable that I shall not see one.
If I do I shall dive at once. At the worst there is always the shot-gun
and my knowledge of . . ."
Here a page of the manuscript is unfortunately missing. On the next page
is written, in large, straggling writing:--
"Forty-three thousand feet. I shall never see earth again. They are
beneath me, three of them. God help me; it is a dreadful death to die!"
Such in its entirety is the Joyce-Armstrong Statement. Of the man
nothing has since been seen. Pieces of his shattered monoplane have been
picked up in the preserves of Mr. Budd-Lushington upon the borders of
Kent and Sussex, within a few miles of the spot where the note-book was
discovered. If the unfortunate aviator's theory is correct that this air-
jungle, as he called it, existed only over the south-west of England,
then it would seem that he had fled from it at the full speed of his
monoplane, but had been overtaken and devoured by these horrible
creatures at some spot in the outer atmosphere above the place where the
grim relics were found. The picture of that monoplane skimming down the
sky, with the nameless terrors flying as swiftly beneath it and cutting
it off always from the earth while they gradually closed in upon their
victim, is one upon which a man who valued his sanity would prefer not to
dwell. There are many, as I am aware, who still jeer at the facts which
I have here set down, but even they must admit that Joyce-Armstrong has
disappeared, and I would commend to them his own words: "This note-book
may explain what I am trying to do, and how I lost my life in doing it.
But no drivel about accidents or mysteries, if _you_ please."