Von Herrnung’s private, personal sun was setting somewhat after the same fashion, amidst sable clouds of Imperial wrath. It was to sink below the horizon in deepest disfavour, rise again in The Day’s gory dawning, and fall, its evil fires quenched in a drenching rain of blood. *CHAPTER XXXVI* *HUE AND CRY* Even as petrol and air mingled in the Bird’s cylinders, and Davis rotated the tractor and nimbly leaped out of the way of sudden death, the buff broadsheets of the _Evening Wire_ edged the kerbs of Fleet Street and ran up Kingsway to High Holborn. And from Ludgate Hill to Charing Cross, Pall Mall, and Piccadilly Circus, the raucous voices of newsboys yelled through a pelting hail of pence: AMAZING THEFT OF A FAMILY SECRET. STOLEN FROM GWYLL CASTLE THE CLANRONALD WAR-PLAN. AN ECHO OF CRIMEAN DAYS. THIEF KNOWN. POLICE SANGUINE. "COMMON CRACKSMAN’S ENTERPRISE OR DIPLOMATIC STROKE?" Strings of news-carts laden with bundles of papers were rattling east, north, south, and west. Trains were taking in the story by bales of thousands and disgorging it at every stoppage, as Von Herrnung opened the throttle, and the Bird raced a hundred yards or so, bumping like a taxi going over a bad road, then rose into the air, as gracefully as a mallard, and launched upon the first wide spirals of the aërial ascent. The small audience interested in the aëroplane, her freight, and her behaviour, watched her as she dwindled in the sight and died upon the ear. The spectators in the enclosure had departed in dribbles, the last three-seater air-bus had rounded the aërodrome, landed and deposited the last passengers. Two or three over-enthusiastic students lingered, but the rest had shed their grimy overalls and betaken themselves home. The mellow light of late afternoon lay sweetly on the wide expanse of treeless greensward and on the woods that tufted the horizon-line. Rooks and starlings were wheeling over distant tree-clumps, the bands no longer brayed or tootled, the mechanics were leaving the sheds and hangars, the waitresses were hastening to other employments, such as programme-vending at suburban music-halls and picture-theatres, the selling of stale _boutonnières_ about the entrances of restaurants, the serving of drinks and suppers at night-clubs and so on. On the verge of the white-marked oval from which the Bird had taken her departure, Saxham was standing with Patrine. Their faces were lifted to the sky as they talked together, and Sherbrand’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to them, so heroic in mould, and so curiously alike.