"Ah, poor chap," he said; "poor chap! So nearly back! So nearly broke the record! Such a sport!"
"What is that thing in the water?" inquired the Professor.
The man turned and looked at him.
"An aeroplane," he said, slowly, speaking with a sort of stolid deliberation. "A wrecked aeroplane. Caught in a cross-current, worse luck! Just accomplished one of the finest flights on record. Started from up here; skimmed over the Channel to Boulogne; circled round the cathedral—such a clear day; we could watch the whole flight with field-glasses—came gaily back without a stop; was making for the cliff again, when a cross-current caught him; something went wrong with the steering-gear; and down it goes, with a plunge, head first into the sea."
"And the—er—occupant?" inquired the Professor.
"The aeronaut? Ah, he didn't fall clear, worse luck, or they could soon have fished him out. He stuck to his seat and his wheel, and fell smash in among his wires. They are trying to extricate him now. Bad luck, poor chap! Such a sport."
"Do you know his name?" asked the Professor, peering down at the waiting crowd which lined the beach.
"Guy Chelsea," said the man. "And I give you my word, he was the finest, pluckiest young amateur we had among the airmen."
Then Christobel's heart began to beat again, and her limbs seemed to regain the power to move.
"He is mine," she said. "I must go to him. He is my own Little Boy Blue." And she began to run along the Leas toward the stone steps which zigzag down to the shore.