. Wynn had told her
that it was quite possible for people to fall out of aeroplanes. Wynn
told her too, that trees were useful things to break an aviator's fall,
but in this case the aviator must have been broken or he would have
moved from his queer position. He seemed helpless except for his
horrible rolling head. On the other hand, she could see a pistol case at
his belt--and Mary loathed pistols. Months ago, after reading certain
Belgian reports together, she and Miss Fowler had had dealings with
one--a huge revolver with flat-nosed bullets, which latter, Wynn said,
were forbidden by the rules of war to be used against civilised
enemies. 'They're good enough for us,' Miss Fowler had replied. 'Show
Mary how it works.' And Wynn, laughing at the mere possibility of any
such need, had led the craven winking Mary into the Rector's disused
quarry, and had shown her how to fire the terrible machine. It lay now
in the top-left-hand drawer of her toilet-table--a memento not included
in the burning. Wynn would be pleased to see how she was not afraid.

She slipped up to the house to get it. When she came through the rain,
the eyes in the head were alive with expectation. The mouth even tried
to smile. But at sight of the revolver its corners went down just like
Edna Gerritt's. A tear trickled from one eye, and the head rolled from
shoulder to shoulder as though trying to point out something.

'Cassee. Tout cassee,' it whimpered.

'What do you say?' said Mary disgustedly, keeping well to one side,
though only the head moved.

'Cassee,' it repeated. 'Che me rends. Le medicin! Toctor!'

'Nein!' said she, bringing all her small German to bear with the big
pistol. 'Ich haben der todt Kinder gesehn.'

The head was still. Mary's hand dropped. She had been careful to keep
her finger off the trigger for fear of accidents. After a few moments'
waiting, she returned to the destructor, where the flames were falling,
and churned up Wynn's charring books with the poker. Again the head
groaned for the doctor.

'Stop that!' said Mary, and stamped her foot. 'Stop that, you bloody
pagan!'

The words came quite smoothly and naturally. They were Wynn's own words,
and Wynn was a gentleman who for no consideration on earth would have
torn little Edna into those vividly coloured strips and strings. But
this thing hunched under the oak-tree had done that thing. It was no
question of reading horrors out of newspapers to Miss Fowler. Mary had