These men in the store made a minute, remote group under this immense canopy of disaster. They turned from one little aspect to another. What chiefly concerned them was defence against Asiatic raiders swooping for petrol or to destroy weapons or communications. Everywhere levies were being formed at that time to defend the plant of the railroads day and night in the hope that communication would speedily be restored. The land war was still far away. A man with a flat voice distinguished himself by a display of knowledge and cunning. He told them all with confidence just what had been wrong with the German drachenflieger and the American aeroplanes, just what advantage the Japanese flyers possessed. He launched out into a romantic description of the Butteridge machine and riveted Bert's attention. “I SEE that,” said Bert, and was smitten silent by a thought. The man with the flat voice talked on, without heeding him, of the strange irony of Butteridge's death. At that Bert had a little twinge of relief--he would never meet Butteridge again. It appeared Butteridge had died suddenly, very suddenly. “And his secret, sir, perished with him! When they came to look for the parts--none could find them. He had hidden them all too well.” “But couldn't he tell?” asked the man in the straw hat. “Did he die so suddenly as that?” “Struck down, sir. Rage and apoplexy. At a place called Dymchurch in England.” “That's right,” said Laurier. “I remember a page about it in the Sunday American. At the time they said it was a German spy had stolen his balloon.” “Well, sir,” said the flat-voiced man, “that fit of apoplexy at Dyrnchurch was the worst thing--absolutely the worst thing that ever happened to the world. For if it had not been for the death of Mr. Butteridge--” “No one knows his secret?” “Not a soul. It's gone. His balloon, it appears, was lost at sea, with all the plans. Down it went, and they went with it.” Pause. “With machines such as he made we could fight these Asiatic fliers on more than equal terms. We could outfly and beat down those scarlet humming-birds wherever they appeared. But it's gone, it's gone, and there's no time to reinvent it now. We got to fight with what we got--and the odds are against us. THAT won't stop us fightin'. No! but just think of it!” Bert was trembling violently. He cleared his throat hoarsely. “I say,” he said, “look here, I--” Nobody regarded him. The man with the flat voice was opening a new branch of the subject. “I allow--” he began. Bert became violently excited. He stood up. He made clawing motions with his hands. “I say!” he exclaimed, “Mr. Laurier. Look 'ere--I want--about that Butteridge machine--.” Mr. Laurier, sitting on an adjacent table, with a magnificent gesture, arrested the discourse of the flat-voiced man. “What's HE saying?” said he. Then the whole company realised that something was happening to Bert; either he was suffocating or going mad. He was spluttering.