ngton, boy, take care of Isabelle, fortune or
no fortune. Good--"

Someone seized James Langley's arm as he pressed an automatic revolver
to his temple. He reeled like a drunken man and dropped the gun on the
floor with an oath.

"Beaten again," he muttered. "Forgot to move the ratchet from 'safety'
to 'fire.'"

Like a madman he wrenched himself loose from us, sprang through the
door, and darted upstairs. "I'll show you some combustion!" he shouted
back fiercely.

Kennedy was after him like a flash. "The will!" he cried.

We literally tore the door off its hinges and burst into James Langley's
room. He was bending eagerly over the fireplace. Kennedy made a flying
leap at him. Just enough of the will was left unburned to be admitted to
probate.

IX. The Terror In The Air

"There's something queer about these aeroplane accidents at Belmore
Park," mused Kennedy, one evening, as his eye caught a big headline in
the last edition of the Star, which I had brought uptown with me.

"Queer?" I echoed. "Unfortunate, terrible, but hardly queer. Why, it is
a common saying among the aeronauts that if they keep at it long enough
they will all lose their lives."

"Yes, I know that," rejoined Kennedy; "but, Walter, have you noticed
that all these accidents have happened to Norton's new gyroscope
machines?"

"Well, what of that" I replied. "Isn't it just barely possible that
Norton is on the wrong track in applying the gyroscope to an aeroplane?
I can't say I know much about either the gyroscope or the aeroplane, but
from what I hear the fellows at the office say it would seem to me that
the gyroscope is a pretty good thing to keep off an aeroplane, not to
put on it."

"Why?" asked Kennedy blandly.

"Well, it seems to me, from what the experts say, that anything which
tends to keep your machine in one position is just what you don't want
in an aeroplane. What surprises them, they say, is that the thing seems
to work so well up to a certain point--that the accidents don't happen
sooner. Why, our man on the aviation field tells me that when that
poor fellow Browne was killed he had all but succeeded in bringing his
machine to a dead stop in the air. In other words, he would have won the
Brooks Prize for perfect motionlessness in one place. And then Herrick,
the day before, was going about seventy miles an hour when he collapsed.
They said it was heart failure. But to-night another expert says in
the Star--here, I'll