windows gave it a homelike air. At first glance, one would have
thought oneself in a rather luxurious private house; but second
inspection showed all possible construction and furnishings were
of aluminum alloy, of patterns designed to cut weight to the lowest
minimum.

The walls bore lightly framed photographs of men famous in the
annals of flying, from Santos-Dumont and the Wrights to Gruynemer
and Nosworthy; also pictures of famous machines--the Spad, Bristol
Fighter, Sopwith Pup, 120-135, and others. More conspicuous than
any of these was a framed copy of the International Air Commission's
latest condensed rules.

Signs of recent occupancy were not wanting. An extinct cigar lay on
the carpet, where it had fallen from the mouth of some airman swiftly
overtaken by sleep. The table bore an open cigar-box, several packs
of cigarettes with loose "fags" scattered round, and a number of
champagne bottles.

Two of these were opened; one had been emptied. The other had lost
part of its contents. Several champagne glasses stood on the table,
and one lay on its side, where perhaps a falling hand had overset it.
In one of the glasses, a few last, vagrant little bubbles were still
rising from the tall, hollow stem.

"Hm!" grunted the Master contemptuously. "Fools! Well--there'll be no
alcohol aboard this craft!" He loosened the buckles of his rucksack,
and cast the burden on one of the sofa-lockers. The others did as
much.