One afternoon a week later, when out at Hendon, I heard accidentally from a man I knew—one of the instructors at the Grahame-White Aviation School—that Eastwell was very queer, and in bed.

The weather proved bad for flying, therefore I sent Theed off and returned to town. Teddy had gone down to the naval air-station at Yarmouth to see the test of a new seaplane, so I went along to look up Lionel at his rooms in Albemarle Street.

His man, a thin-faced, dark-haired fellow named Edwards, who admitted me, said that his master had had a bad attack of something, the true import of which the doctor had failed to diagnose.

I found him lying in bed in his narrow but artistic bachelor bedroom, looking very wan and pale.

'Hulloa, Claude!' he cried with sudden joy, as I entered. 'Awfully good of you to come in, old chap! I've been horribly queer these last three days, but