There are some men who went regularly to "exhibitions of flying" before the war who could tell strange tales--of pretty women held in the clutches of blackguards, and of good, innocent boys who fell, were blackmailed, and were "squeezed" to their death. But it is ever so in sport. The racecourse and the _tapis vert_ have both been the cause of the downfall of a good many excellent fellows, therefore the organisers of the aerodromes are not to be blamed for the exploits of those pestilent undesirables who as at Epsom, Newmarket or Sandown, having paid the admission fee, passed through its gates. Ah! I recall--and many will recall with me--those summer afternoons upon the lawn where the little tea-tables were set, and where some of the worst girls in the smartest and most daring of costumes sat with some of the best girls in the neatest to sip the innocuous beverage and to nibble cakes with the best and bravest young fellows in all England. That strange, daring little world of flying-men--knew it, but they were level-headed and, keeping themselves to themselves, gave the cold shoulder to the unknown ones who drifted in from nowhere to display their brilliant raiment, and to watch, in a bored way, such feats as looping the loop, and other exercises which have proved such splendid training for our flying-boys to-day. I did not trust Eastwell. Both his actions and his attitude puzzled me. An intimate friend of Sir Herbert, he was often at Cadogan Gardens, telling his host and Lady Lethmere that he firmly believed that Roseye was still ill, and still unidentified. Purposely I avoided him. Teddy and I were in full agreement over this. A man who had been ill in bed and in pain, with no prospect of getting about for some days, and yet could go and dine merrily at Hatchett's that same evening, was, I argued, not to be trusted further. All that Captain Pollock and Inspector Barton had told me served to increase the amazing puzzle. They said that Roseye was a spy of Germany, but I defied them. I declared that they had lied. "My own opinion, Munro, is that my poor girl is dead," Sir Herbert declared one afternoon when I called. "I know," he went on sympathetically. "I know how deeply devoted you were to her. But alas! we must be brave and face facts in this critical situation in which we all find ourselves to-day." For a moment I did not reply. I had frankly told him of that mysterious message found in Roseye's card-case, and he had followed every channel of my inquiries with eager interest, paying most of the out-of-pocket expenses and having one or two confidential interviews with Inspector Barton. Like myself, and like Teddy also, he would not hear of any allegation against his daughter. That cryptic message he regarded as the work of the Invisible Hand which, since August 1914, had been raised against our dear beloved country.