It was a beastly night, raining in torrents, and nearly dark. The lamp which was lighted at starting went out from some cause or other (he may have extinguished it on purpose before we had ascended many hundred feet), and an attempt made to kindle it did not succeed.
The sensations of the ascent were certainly novel, if not pleasant. We hung over London for some time, and then, after rising to a considerable height, drifted towards Brighton, where I was fortunate enough to be landed safely. But when you hear the particulars of the trip you will say that it was long odds against my ever reaching the earth alive.
It was an anonymous letter that first aroused his mad and groundless jealousy, and he had watched my interviews with his wife—arranged for his good—and believed that we were deceiving him. I repeat that we were both innocent of any such intention, although appearances may have been against us.
The man or woman who penned that ill-natured epistle was as near as possible being the cause of a murder. Green had provided himself with a cook's knife, a nasty weapon to look at, and it was by the merest chance he did not thrust it in my heart. Scientific experiments are all very well in their way, but I prefer not pursuing such studies in mid-air in the company of a maniac.
One of the first things he said to me was—
"Life is not worth much up here."
I agreed with him that we were running some extra risk, and added that I hoped the construction of the balloon was not deficient.
"The balloon is right enough," he hissed in my ear, as we rushed through the air at the rate of forty miles an hour; "there are other things to dread."
There was a peculiarity about the tone of his reply which I did not like. I enquired what was the nature of the other risks, but he gave me no answer, and busied himself for a few minutes with the mechanism of our ærial car.