him in an unpleasantly contemptuous manner. In some curious fashion, without doing anything to merit it, he had apparently become an object of contempt and derision to the party.
"All right then, I will," he said, suddenly.
"Easy enough to talk," said Albert.
Roland strode with a pale face to the spot where M. Feriaud, beaming politely, was signing a picture-postcard.
Some feeling of compunction appeared to come to Muriel at the eleventh hour.
"Don't let him," she cried.
But brother Frank was made of sterner stuff. This was precisely the sort of thing which, in his opinion, made for a jolly afternoon. For years he had been waiting for something of this kind. He was experiencing that pleasant thrill which comes to a certain type of person when the victim of a murder in the morning paper is an acquaintance of theirs.
"What are you talking about?" he said. "There's no danger—at least, not much. He might easily come down all right. Besides, he wants to. What do you want to go interfering for?"
Roland returned. The negotiations with the bird-man had lasted a little longer than one would have expected. But then, of course, M. Feriaud was a foreigner, and Roland's French was not fluent.
He took Muriel's hand.
"Good-bye," he said.
He shook hands with the rest of the party, even with Albert Potter. It struck Frank that he was making too much fuss over a trifle, and, worse, delaying the start of the proceedings.
"What's it all about?" he demanded. "You go on as if we were never going to see you again."
"You never know."
"It's as safe as being in bed."
"But still, in case we never meet again"
"Oh, well," said brother Frank, and took the outstretched hand.
The little party stood and watched as the aeroplane moved swiftly along the ground, rose, and soared into the air. Higher and higher it rose, till the occupants were invisible.
"Now," said brother Frank. "Now watch. Now he's going to loop the loop."
But the wheels of the aeroplane still pointed to the ground. It grew smaller and smaller. It was a mere speck.
"What the dickens?"
Far away to the west something showed up against the blue of the sky—something that might have been a bird, a toy kite, or an aeroplane travelling rapidly into the sunset.
Four pairs of eyes followed it in rapt silence.
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(The sequel to this escape of Mr. Roland Bleke, and the surprising adventures which next befell him, will be described in the May number.)
