



Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online
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BERYL OF THE BIPLANE




NOVELS BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX

“_THE MASTER OF MYSTERY._”


  THE FOUR FACES            Cloth, 1/- net.
  DONOVAN OF WHITEHALL      Cloth, 1/- net.
  THE SPY HUNTER            Paper, 1/- net.
  THE TICKENCOTE TREASURE   Paper, 6d.
  THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN     Paper, 6d.
  THE DEATH DOCTOR          Paper, 6d.
  LYING LIPS                Paper, 6d.
  AT THE SIGN OF THE SWORD  Paper, 6d.


C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LTD.




  BERYL OF THE
  BIPLANE

  _Being the Romance of an Air-woman of To-day_


  BY
  WILLIAM LE QUEUX


  LONDON
  C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LIMITED
  HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.
  1917




[_Copyright in the United States of America by William Le Queux, 1917.
Cinema rights reserved._]




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                             PAGE

   I. THE MYSTERIOUS NUMBER SEVEN      1

   II. MR. MARK MARX                  21

  III. THE SHABBY STRANGER            43

   IV. THE THURSDAY RENDEZVOUS        63

    V. CONCERNS THE HIDDEN HAND       82

   VI. THE PRICE OF VICTORY          101




BERYL OF THE BIPLANE




CHAPTER I.

THE MYSTERIOUS NUMBER SEVEN.


“Are you flying ‘The Hornet’ to-night?”

“I expect so.”

“You were up last night, weren’t you? Mac told me so at Brooklands this
morning.”

“Yes--Zepp-hunting. I was up three hours, but, alas! had no luck. Two
came in over Essex but were scared by the anti-aircraft boys, and
turned tail. Better luck to-night, I hope,” and Ronald Pryor, the tall,
dark, good-looking young man in grey flannels, laughed merrily as, with
a quick movement, he flicked the ash from his after-luncheon cigarette.

His companion, George Bellingham, who was in the uniform of the Royal
Flying Corps, wearing the silver wings of the pilot, was perhaps three
years his senior, fair-haired, grey-eyed, with a small sandy moustache
trimmed to the most correct cut.

Passers-by in Pall Mall on that June afternoon no doubt wondered why
Ronald Pryor was not in khaki. As a matter of fact, the handsome,
athletic young fellow had already done his bit--and done it with very
great honour and distinction.

Before the war he had been of little good to society, it is true. He
had been one of those modern dandies whose accomplishments include an
elegant taste in socks--with ties to match--and a critical eye for an
ill-cut pair of trousers. Eldest son of a wealthy bank-director, Ronnie
Pryor had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.
After his career at Oxford, his father, Henry Pryor, who lived mostly
at his beautiful old place, Urchfont Hall, a few miles out of Norwich,
had given him an ample allowance. He had lived in a bachelor flat in
Duke Street, St. James’s, and spent several gay years about town with
kindred souls of both sexes, becoming a familiar object each night at
the supper-tables of the Savoy, the Carlton, or the Ritz.

This wild oat sowing had, however, been brought to an abrupt conclusion
in a rather curious manner.

One Saturday afternoon he had driven in a friend’s car over to the
Aerodrome at Hendon, and had there witnessed some graceful flying. He
had instantly become “bitten” by the sport, and from that moment had
devoted himself assiduously to it.

Four months later he had taken his “ticket” as a pilot, and then,
assisted by capital from his indulgent father, had entered business
by establishing the well-known Pryor Aeroplane Factory at Weybridge,
with a branch at Hendon, a business in which his companion,
Flight-Lieutenant George Bellingham, of the Royal Flying Corps, had
been, and was still, financially interested.

That Ronnie Pryor--as everyone called him--was a handsome fellow could
not be denied. His was a strongly marked personality, clean-limbed,
with close-cut dark hair, a refined aquiline face, and that