showed accelerated speed. It fairly cut through the air. Both the
occupants were glad to lower their goggles to protect their eyes from the
sharp, cutting sensation of the atmosphere, as they rushed against
it--into its teeth, as it were.

Peggy glanced at the indicator. The black pointer on the white dial was
creeping up--fifty, sixty, sixty-two--she would show this officer what the
Prescott monoplane could do.

"Sixty-four! Great Christmas!"

The exclamation came from the officer. He had leaned forward and scanned
the indicator eagerly.

"We'll do better when we have our new type of motor installed," said
Peggy, with a confident nod. The young fellow gasped.

"This is the twentieth century with a vengeance," he murmured, sinking
back in his rear seat, which was as comfortably upholstered as the
luxurious tonneau of a five-thousand-dollar automobile.

Like a darting, pouncing swallow, seeking its food in mid-air, the _Golden
Butterfly_ swooped, soared and dived in long, graceful gradients above the
Mortlake plant. Once Peggy brought the aeroplane so close to the ground in
a long, swinging sweep, that it seemed as if it could never recover enough
"way" to rise again. Even the officer, trained in a strict school to
repress his emotions, tightened his lips, and then opened them to emit a
relieved gasp.

So close to the gaping machinists and the anger-crimsoned Mortlake did the