But she had no string or cord. Finally she said, “Wait a moment.” Little waited. This time her face did not appear. The barometer came slowly down at the end of—a stay-lace. The barometer showed a frightful elevation. Little looked up at the valve and said nothing. Presently he heard a sigh. Then a sob. Then, rather sharply,— “Why don’t you do something?” CHAPTER VIII Little came up the rope hand over hand. Lady Caroline crouched in the farther side of the car. Fido, the poodle, whined. “Poor thing,” said Lady Caroline, “it’s hungry.” “Do you wish to save the dog?” said Little. “Yes.” “Give me your parasol.” She handed Little a good-sized affair of lace and silk and whalebone. (None of your “sunshades.”) Little examined its ribs carefully. “Give me the dog.” Lady Caroline hurriedly slipped a note under the dog’s collar, and passed over her pet. Little tied the dog to the handle of the parasol and launched them both into space. The next moment they were slowly, but tranquilly, sailing to the earth. “A parasol and a parachute are distinct, but not different. Be not alarmed, he will get his dinner at some farmhouse.” “Where are we now?” “That opaque spot you see is London fog. Those twin clouds are North and South America. Jerusalem and Madagascar are those specks to the right.” Lady Caroline moved nearer; she was becoming interested. Then she recalled herself, and said freezingly, “How are we going to descend?” “By opening the valve.” “Why don’t you open it then?” “BECAUSE THE VALVE-STRING IS BROKEN!” CHAPTER IX Lady Caroline fainted. When she revived it was dark. They were apparently cleaving their way through a solid block of black marble. She moaned and shuddered. “I wish we had a light.” “I have no lucifers,” said Little. “I observe, however, that you wear a necklace of amber. Amber under certain conditions becomes highly electrical. Permit me.” He took the amber necklace and rubbed it briskly. Then he asked her to present her knuckle to the gem. A bright spark was the result. This was repeated for some hours. The light was not brilliant, but it was enough for the purposes of propriety, and satisfied the delicately minded girl. Suddenly there was a tearing, hissing noise and a smell of gas. Little looked up and turned pale. The balloon, at what I shall call the pointed end of the Bologna sausage, was evidently bursting from increased pressure. The gas was escaping, and already they were beginning to descend. Little was resigned but firm. “If the silk gives way, then we are lost. Unfortunately I have no rope nor material for binding it.” The woman’s instinct had arrived at the same conclusion sooner than the man’s reason. But she was hesitating over a detail. “Will you go down the rope for a moment?” she said, with a sweet smile.