Breakfast was over, and we men had gone into the studio again. Mrs. Cunningham was helping Mollie to clear away, and Joan Merrow had joined the children in the garden, and with them was looking up at an aeroplane, the soft organ-like note of which had suddenly ceased. We were having Hubbard's views on Art again. "But that submarine sketch of yours is the pick of all you've done to my mind, Esdaile," he was saying. "Old Horne at the periscope, eh? You caught him to a hair; a snapshot couldn't have been better! And we bagged that beggar ten minutes later, Norwegian flag and all," he added with professional satisfaction. Philip Esdaile gave a quick exclamation. "By Jove, that just reminds me! The orange curaçao, of course! The very thing after all that fruit--corrects the acidity, as the doctors say. We'll have some." The Commander gave him a sharp look. On the face of it there was no very evident reason why the torpedoing of a German ship flying the Norwegian flag should remind Esdaile of orange curaçao, but no doubt there was a story behind that we others knew nothing of. If ships have to be put down there is no sense in sending bottles of delectable liqueur to the bottom of the sea also. "What!" cried Commander Hubbard, R.N. "You don't mean to say that _you_ had the infernal neck to take your whack----" A mere wretched wavy-ringed fellow to loot bottle for bottle with his betters like that! But Esdaile, with a wink, demanded the key of the cellar from Monty Rooke, told him to get the liqueur glasses out, and was off. It was at that moment that the crash came that seemed to bring the whole of Chelsea running out of doors. The shrill cry of "The aeroplane! The aeroplane!" was hardly out of the children's mouths before it was upon us--I don't mean the aeroplane, but the other thing. Judging from the harsh but muffled roar, the first installment of the crash, so to speak, which was the plane itself, must have been a quarter of a mile away; but between that and the second one there was hardly time to take breath. Simultaneously, as it seemed, there came a rushing of air, a loud cracking, and a nauseating thud on the studio roof; and Joan Merrow ran in with the children, one under either arm and her head down. The street outside was a sudden clatter of running feet and short spasmodic cries. "Good God, right on our heads!" the Commander muttered, his eyes aloft. The next moment he was at the studio door looking for Esdaile. Had he found him I should not be writing this story. Not finding him, he assumed command. "All right. All over now, little fellows. There won't be any more. Mrs. Esdaile, you ladies will stay just where you are, please. Get on to the telephone, Mackwith. You other fellows come with me." He thought it better that somebody should investigate before the women began to move about too freely. IV