One bright crisp afternoon in mid-December, Roseye, wrapped warmly in
her furs, sat beside me in the car as we sped through Leatherhead on our
way out to Burford Bridge, where we had decided to have tea.
In the grey wintry light the landscape had become gloomy and depressing.
Yet my love chatted merrily as we sped along.
Since that well-remembered evening at my rooms when she had made her
sudden reappearance on my threshold from nowhere, the days had been very
dark and terribly anxious ones.
After her refusal to tell me anything, I had taken her home, where her
sudden arrival had been as a thunderbolt to her parents. But alas! her
overstrained brain had then given way, and for three weeks she had
remained in bed under the care of Sir Charles Needham, one of the
greatest mental specialists in Harley Street.
Thanks to his skill, she had slowly recovered--very slowly it seemed to
me.
A dozen times I had chatted with Sir Charles, and he had admitted to me
that the case was not only most unusual, but almost unique. He could
not obtain from her any lucid account of what had occurred after she had
left home on that fatal morning. She had contradicted herself so many
times.
Any reference to inventions, to electricity, to trains, to Zeppelins, or
to women, sent her into fierce paroxysms of anger. Her attitude was
most mysterious. In fact her adventures during the time she had been
missing were enveloped in a dark cloud of mystery which, even Barton
himself, was unable to penetrate.
Captain Pollock, of course, had been informed and had repeated his
red-taped suspicions. But, having no reliable or actual evidence upon
which to base his assertions, Barton seemed inclined to disregard them.
I noticed this, putting it down to the usual disagreement which exists
in officialdom the world over. No one official has ever been known to
be in actual accord with another in another Department. That's why the
clock of State creaks on so rustily in every civilised community.
Arrived at that motoring rendezvous, the Burford Bridge Hotel, we took a
stroll in its picturesque grounds on the slope of Box Hill, leafless and
deserted on that December afternoon.
Having walked some distance along the gravelled paths, we sat together
upon a seat, when her sudden silence caused me to ponder. Since we had
been walking she had scarcely uttered a word, and had appeared utterly
absorbed.
At last she exclaimed:
"I shall be so very glad when they let me fly again, Claude. I feel
ever so much better now--quite my old self again."
"I'm delighted to hear that," was my reply. "But you must wait another
week or two before you take out your machine. Your man is overhauling
it thoroughly. When I was at Hendon yesterday I saw that he had taken
down the engine."
"Yes. I'm most anxious to help you, dear, with your great invention.
How is it getting on?"
"Famously," I replied. "Teddy and I have been working hard for the last
four days, and have made progress in both lightening the weight of the
outfit, and increasing its power. I've ordered a big new dynamo to be
constructed on such lines that it can be placed on my machine with a
second engine. This engine will either run the dynamo, or the
propeller."
"Of course, I quite see," she exclaimed. "You must have a second engine
for night-flying. How long will it be, do you think, before you can
make a trial flight?" she asked anxiously.
"Early in January I hope, darling."
"And you will let me come with you--won't you? Now promise me. Do,"
she urged, placing her gloved hand upon my arm, and looking earnestly
into my face.
"Yes. I promise," I answered laughing. "Teddy will, no doubt, be very
anxious to come, but you shall make the first flight, darling. It is
your privilege."
"May I come out to Gunnersbury and help you?" she asked. "I'm quite all
right again, I assure you."
"When Sir Charles gives his consent, then you may come," I replied.
"I'll ask him to-morrow," she cried gladly. "I'm so horribly tired of
leading an idle life at home. Lionel lunched with us yesterday, and
took me out to a _matinee_. It was quite jolly to have such a change.
We had tea at the Piccadilly afterwards."
"Lionel!" I exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes. Why? Are you jealous--you dear old thing?"