“H’m!” grunted the flying-man as he stood watching her disappear. “Foiled again! She’s left that new silencer of hers at home! That girl is no fool—neither is Ronald Pryor. Though I waited for her in Bury St. Edmunds and followed her up here, I am just about as wise regarding ‘The Hornet’ as I was before I started.”
For a few moments he stood watching the machine as it soared higher and higher against the cloudless summer sky.
“Yes! A very pretty girl—but very clever—devilishly clever!” he muttered to himself. “Just my luck! If only she had had that silencer I would have silenced her, and taken it away with me. However, we are not yet defeated.”
About a week later Ronald Pryor and Beryl were lunching together in the grill-room of a West End hotel, which was one of their favourite meeting-places, when suddenly the girl bent over to her lover and exclaimed:
“I’m sure that’s the man, Ronnie.”
“What man?”
“The nice Flying Corps officer whom I met near Bourne the other day. You’ll see him, sitting in the corner yonder alone—reading the paper,” she replied. “Don’t look for a moment.”
“Don’t you think you’ve made a mistake, dear?”
“No, I feel positive I haven’t,” was the girl’s reply.