"I am not crazy," came in a shrill, cracked voice, "unless it is with
my wrongs."

Malvoise looked up quickly.

He saw an old man with long, flowing gray hair and clothes of the
shabbiest making his way toward him. Close behind followed a young
woman of unusual beauty, who seemed to be endeavoring to stop the aged
man from going further. But he was not to be restrained. In a few
strides he was at the side of the Buzzard, and gazing with piercing
eyes into the French aviator's face.

"Well, what do you want, old man?" asked Malvoise sharply.

"I want the world to know that the Buzzard is my invention, my design,
the child of my brain from her top-plane to her landing wheels;"
shrilled the old man, who seemed beside himself with excitement.

"Father, do be calm, I beg of you," entreated the young woman.

"Calm, child! how can I be calm when I realize that I have been robbed
of the work of years by the craftiness of this old man, Barr?"

"Hush!" exclaimed the Frenchman, as the old man voiced the name of his
employer, "don't talk so loud. I know who you are now. You are Eben
Joyce, the inventor."

"Yes, I am," replied the old man in a lower voice, for he too saw that
the more curious members of the crowd were pressing so close to them
that every word of their conversation must have been audible. "I am