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 aeroplane, of its great superiority over anything we possessed, and of it as a real peril to our pilots in Flanders.

'The real fact is,' declared Teddy, in the intervals of a deal of hammering, 'that there's nothing extraordinary about the Fokker except that it is built sensibly for a definite job and does it, while our own "experts" have tangled themselves and the British aircraft industry in a web of pseudo-science and political scheming which has resulted in our lack of the proper machines and engines to fight the Zeppelins.'

'Yes,' I answered with a sigh. 'You're quite right, Teddy. But something must be done. We must find some means by which to fight the enemy's dirigibles. We have a few good aeroplanes, I admit, but, as you say, those are not the product of the Government factories, but have been produced by private firms. Why? Because air-men have been so badly let down by their experts.'

At that moment a shadow was cast before the door of the shed, and a bright musical feminine voice cried:

'Hulloa, Claude! I followed you hard, right from Hertford.'

It was Roseye—'Rosie' of the aerodrome! Roseye Lethmere, daughter of Sir Herbert Lethmere, was my own well-beloved, whom I had taught to fly, and who was at that moment perhaps the most notable airwoman in England.

'Really,' I exclaimed, as I advanced to meet her. 'Why, I hadn't any idea you were here. Nobody told me.'