Nothing had Dolores seen of the dirigibles of Earth, save far-up glimpses of those which occasionally passed over her New York. Now, with amaze, she noted the proportions of the air-liner which had intruded into the reflection of dawn at sea. In the wan light, it looked to surpass the largest ocean steamship she had seen and held its course steadily, as though its blunt nose were cleaving waves of water, rather than of atmosphere. Through the slow rise of the sun an idea of its speed was given. Silver-jacketed it was, cigar-shaped and massively concrete on its atmospheric track. Her credulity was taxed, however, to realize that this at which she gazed was no vision, such as that dreamed by Kipling in “The Night Mail,” but a scene of the moment in the mortal world. Actual as though she were watching from some anchored ship nearby were the colors of the wingless beetle and the very vaguest tints of water and sky. As the aluminum-painted envelope seemed about to pass from sight across the rim of the prismatic pool, some shift of the reflecting machinery refound it and gave a closer view. The deck was shown, studded with cabins and protected by shields of glass. Although lacking the width of the modern ocean vessel, it was comfortably roomy, to judge by the steamer chairs being placed about for late-sleeping passengers. As an assurance that this was no cinematograph picture, the sailor figures engaged did not move about with the artificial speed which so often discounts the realism of the film, but with that deliberation and casualness peculiar to the life which is realer than “reel.” “Some jump from the day when they flew wooden kites over oil engines, isn’t it?” At Sin’s question, the girl-shade glanced around into that map of malignity, his face. “Too wonderful almost to believe. In the air, truly, a man must feel like the monarch of all he surveys.” “Untruly, he _thinks_ he is.” The interruption came from behind. Turning, they saw that His Majesty had entered the box. His frown suggested nerve tension, rather than ill temper. His voice was oiled with triumph over the demonstration of his most unique invention. Nevertheless the accented word of his comment aroused in Dolores the uneasiness which had kept pace with them through his personally-conducted tour of Greater Gehenna. Directly on seating himself, he reached for the telephone. “Don’t waste all day on scenics. This is no travelogue. Get to the interiors!” Tapping the box-rail so impatiently that sulphurous spots glowed from the points of contact, he watched the pool. Dolores and the iniquitous escort on her other side awaited with interest the result of his command. Soon they were viewing a luxuriously appointed stateroom. The full-length brass bedstead was occupied by a sleeping man. His up-thrown, silk-clad arm concealed the lower part of his face, but his forehead and back-tossed hair showed clearly.