He blinked a little, and before Franky’s mental vision rose the aggregation of Government buildings near the _Carrefour des Cascades_, marked "_Magazins et depôts_" on Bædeker’s maps. "He scores a bull’s eye," resumed the speaker. "He has already paid one visit of the requisite duration to an address near the Porte d’Aubervilliers." Franky had a mental vision of the array of big, bloated gasometers pertaining to the Strasbourg Railway Yards. "He has made a similar call at a point indicated between the station of the Batignolles and the station of the Avenue de Clichy"—the well-preserved teeth of the officer showed under the grey moustache as he smiled, and Franky had another vision of the huge _Gare aux Marchandises_ tucked in the angle between the Railway of the Geinture and the Western Railway lines, as the speaker went on suavely "and the target succeeding this will be the last. It is situated on the Champ de Manoeuvres at Issy. The wireless-telegraph operator of my _escadrille_ informs me that two bull’s eyes have already been registered—which for your countryman’s invention presages well." Franky, with British plumpness, queried: "And the invention? Some new bomb-dropping device—planned to get rid of the way the engine always puts on ’em? If the English inventor-fellow has done that, his goods are worth buying, I should say!" Raymond, _Capitaine-Commandant_, answered as the droning song from the sky grew louder: "Of certainty, Monsieur, if his invention prove worth buying, my Government will undoubtedly purchase what has already been unavailingly offered to yours. It is our custom to examine and test, closely and exhaustively, new things that are offered. But what would you? We seek the best for France." "He isn’t flying his aëroplane himself, is he? Or working his own invention, whatever it may be?" "But no, Madame! One of our* Officiers-Aviateurs* is acting as pilot, a skilled mechanic of our Service occupies the observer’s place. Despite the Entente Cordiale—the happy relations prevailing between my country and England—it would hardly be _convenable_ or discreet to permit even an Englishman"—the tone of graceful, subtle irony cannot be conveyed by pen or type—"_even_ an Englishman to fly over Paris, or any other fortified city of France. But see! In the sky to the north-east—above that silvery puff of vapour—arrives now the _avion_ built and christened by your countryman." Margot asked, narrowing her beautiful eyes as she searched out the darkish speck upon the hot blue background: "The plane, you mean. What does he call it?" Raymond answered without removing his eyes from his binoculars: "Madame, he calls it ’The Bird of War.’"